3 #3
“I never overreact, Alicia; I simply work every day with star forwards who think they’re immortal until they get injured,” he replies with a rather weary half-smile. “A description that, by the way, fits you like a glove given the current circumstances—let’s be honest.”
He ignores me with utter professional disdain and continues speaking, addressing the physical therapist again:
“Starting today, Alicia is going to undergo a mandatory daily rehabilitation program under your direct supervision, Clara—on the treatment table and in the gym.”
I whip my head around, my eyes wide as saucers.
“Excuse me? What do you mean, mandatory and daily?”
“You heard me perfectly well, Alicia. I don’t have a speech impediment.”
“I’m perfectly fine to train with the group!” I insist, raising my voice.
Clara lets out a short sigh beside me, a sound that suggests her divine patience is wearing thin by the minute with my childish behavior.
Hugo continues talking to Clara as if I were a ghost or a piece of gym furniture:
“Strict control of workloads, daily and immediate medical monitoring, and a partial reduction in the intensity of field training until further notice. And I don’t want to hear a single word of argument from you about this, Alicia.”
“But that’s completely ridiculous and an overreaction!” I protest vigorously, planting my foot on the floor like a little girl in the middle of a monumental tantrum.
“Not a chance,” Clara interjects suddenly, turning to face me with overwhelming authority.
“The only ridiculous thing here would be to sit back and wait for that knee to give out in the middle of an official game before we take action. I won’t let you do something that crazy, Alicia.
Not as the head of this club’s medical team, nor…
” She pauses for a millisecond, as if she’d been about to say something forbidden, “…nor as the professional that I am.”
I glare at her, trying to convey all my resentment. She doesn’t even blink.
“I don’t need you to assign me a babysitter twenty-four hours a day.”
“Excellent,” Hugo interjects sarcastically, “because I can assure you that Clara has absolutely no maternal instincts, and I have even fewer. This isn’t a suggestion, and it’s non-negotiable, Alicia.
You either actively cooperate with the medical staff or you’ll be sitting in the stands watching Premier League games for much longer than you’d like. It’s up to you.”
Even I have to bite my tongue to hold back a smile at the old man’s blunt comment.
“Fine, damn it, I accept,” I finally grumble, crossing my arms listlessly. “Mandatory daily sessions. Intensive rehab. It all sounds really, really exciting, honestly.”
Hugo nods, visibly satisfied at having won the round.
“I’m absolutely delighted to see this wonderful spirit of cooperation in our star signing. That’s the way to go.”
“Don’t let your overactive imagination run wild, Coach,” I mutter under my breath.
As soon as the coach leaves the gym, closing the door behind him, absolute silence returns to the room, becoming much denser, thicker, and heavier than before.
Clara and I are alone again. Too alone, to be exact.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.
She’s holding the leather folder tightly against her chest, her expression far more serious and distant than usual.
There’s tension in the air—a palpable tension, yes—but there’s also something else floating between us. Something addictive.
I let a smile spread very slowly across my lips. Because if I’m going to be contractually obligated to see that beautiful face every single blessed day of the week, I at least plan to find incredibly interesting and fun ways to survive the torture.
“Well, well… Daily, private sessions with you,” I say, bending down to pick up my gym bag from the floor with the utmost care. “With all this insistence, I’m going to start suspecting that you’re a little bit obsessed with me and my physique.”
For the first time since I’ve known her, I see a genuine smile—one of those authentic, mischievous ones—threatening to break through her ironclad professional composure. It’s a small, dangerous, mischievous, and absolutely beautiful smile.
“And I’m starting to suspect very seriously,” she replies, taking a slow step toward me, “that getting your knee back in shape is going to require a lot more patience from me than I have available under my contract. But look, it just so happens that I’m passionate about difficult challenges, and I’m totally willing to give it a try with you. ”
I sling my backpack over my shoulder, walk purposefully toward the exit, and turn around just one last time to look at her, feeling my heart pounding in my chest like a runaway horse.
“Then I sincerely hope you’re very well prepared for everything that’s coming your way, Doctor… even for ending up falling in love with me.”
I dash out into the hallway before she has time to come up with any sharp retort.
But as I stride through the club’s hallways, my left knee protesting with every step and my heart acting like a complete and utter idiot, I know full well that this has just gone from being a simple medical discussion about an injury to something far more personal, fun, and dangerous.