5
High-Risk Contact
Alicia
It’s quite ironic to discover that one of the people who gets my pulse racing the most and gets on my nerves the most in this blessed country isn’t an aggressive rival on the field, nor a coach obsessed with controlling what I eat, nor even some pesky journalist determined to turn my nightlife into a tabloid headline.
No, sir. It’s a damn physical therapist.
A woman with dark, bottomless eyes, rather limited patience with me, and a dangerous, thrilling tendency to look me up and down as if I were a complex puzzle she could take apart piece by piece with just a snap of her fingers.
Honestly, all of this strikes me as a grave lack of respect on fate’s part and a direct mockery of my single status.
This morning I arrived at the Ravenhill FC training complex much earlier than I usually do.
My body is still feeling the fatigue from yesterday’s rehab exercises, and my left knee protests relentlessly with every step I take.
The sky is completely covered by a blanket of clouds—a clean, silent gray that threatens to break into a heavy downpour in a matter of minutes.
The club’s training complex is waking up at this hour with that unique energy found in elite environments where the demands never sleep: maintenance staff rush through the hallways, the distant, muffled sound of balls bouncing off the damp grass can be heard, along with the shouts of the coaching staff organizing the field schedules, and that constant electricity in the air—as if everyone present were breathing to the frenetic rhythm of high-level competition.
I walk straight into the club’s medical area, holding a bottle of cold water in my right hand and my gym bag slung listlessly over my shoulder.
To my surprise, the coach steps out of the main rehabilitation room at that very moment and stares at me, dumbfounded.
“What on earth is this? Are we witnessing a divine miracle?” he says sarcastically, glancing at his wristwatch with obvious curiosity. “You’re right on time, Alicia.”
“Don’t get used to it, Hugo. I got here early because I woke up in a great mood,” I reply, giving him a mischievous half-smile as I drop my backpack onto the floor with a sharp thud.
He shakes his head resignedly, though I know he likes me because he can’t help but flash a knowing smile.
“Clara’s waiting for you in there. And before you come at me with one of your comebacks, yes, I came in person to check on how things are going with your treatment because, unlike you, I do care about making sure you’re available and 100 percent ready for the first day of the league.”
“Wow, I’m so lucky. So much love and concern, but how poorly distributed it is in this locker room.”
The coach gives me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, takes a step toward me, and speaks with narrowed eyes, adopting a much more serious expression than usual.
“Do exactly what she asks of you, Alicia. I mean this very seriously. Don’t piss her off any more than is strictly necessary—that woman is incredibly dangerous when she gets angry.”
I glance surreptitiously over his shoulder into the room.
There’s Clara, intently reviewing some data on her touchscreen tablet, standing next to the treatment table.
Even from a distance, she has that unbearably elegant way of imposing order and perfection around her without lifting a finger.
She’s wearing the club’s black uniform, which looks amazing on her, her dark hair pulled back today into a casual bun at the nape of her neck, and that serious expression that suggests she’s not exactly having the best of days.
“Hey, Coach, what you’re saying sounds like a threat,” I remark, crossing my arms cockily.
“It is, striker, it is,” he confirms, giving me one last smile before turning around and disappearing at a brisk pace down the hallway.
I take a deep breath, adjust my jersey, and stride confidently into the treatment room. Clara looks up from the screen for just a second when she hears my footsteps, though her dark eyes lock directly onto mine in a gaze that strikes me as utterly delightful.
“Well, what a surprise. I thought at this hour you might be fleeing the country on a private jet to get out of here,” she says in a completely neutral tone.
I set the water bottle down on the aluminum side table, shrug nonchalantly, and walk slowly toward her.
“I’m not going to lie to you—I seriously considered it last night. But at the airport, they told me that restraining orders for medical harassment take too long to process.”
The corner of her mouth twitches upward by barely a millimeter. It’s not quite a full smile, but I know her reactions well enough to recognize a clear crack in her strict self-control.
“Sit down already,” she says, pointing toward the high treatment table.
“My goodness… Always so sweet, so thoughtful, and so romantic with me.”
“And you’re so incredibly exhausting at all hours,” she retorts instantly, without wasting a single second in our exchange of barbs.
I climb up and sit on the edge of the exam table without uttering a word, and that docile behavior immediately strikes her as far too suspicious. Clara is as sharp as a lynx and notices absolutely everything.
“I don’t like it one bit when you obey me on the first try and don’t argue with what I ask,” she mutters under her breath as she slides her finger across the tablet screen, reviewing my charts. “It makes me think that little head of yours is hatching some kind of trick.”
“Hey, what you’re saying really hurts my feelings, Clara. I’m an open book—completely transparent.”
She lets out a brief exhale through her nose that sounds all too much like stifled laughter, and seeing that hint of amusement is unbearably attractive to me.
Because I love throwing her off her game.
I love making her smile way too much. And I, who’m usually a free spirit, don’t usually allow myself this kind of nonsense with just anyone.
I’m not into slow games of seduction, or that kind of uncomfortable intimacy that stirs you up inside, or people who push you to fix the flawed parts of your personality.
I always handle things the fast way—with impact, fun sex, and running away if the situation gets too serious.
But Clara Valle won’t let me use any of those options.
She positions herself right in front of me, between my spread legs as I sit on the edge of the table, and begins to carefully check the mobility and range of motion in my left knee with her usual pinpoint precision.
Her hands are firm, confident, warm, and utterly professional against my bare skin.
Yet, even though she’s so incredibly professional, every touch from her feels like a full-blown provocation to me.
Her palm firmly holds my leg from below.
Her fingers press with astonishing precision on the exact points of the joint.
The closeness is total. The clean, fresh, subtle scent emanating from her skin reaches me directly.
I observe the absolute concentration etched on her perfect face, just a few centimeters from mine.
“Bend it a little more,” she instructs me gently, applying light pressure.
I obey instantly. A tremendous sharp pain shoots through me, making me see stars, but I grit my teeth and hide the pain as best I can by widening my smile.
She picks up on it right away, of course. She’s not fooled by me.
“Do it again. Without faking it.”
“You’re such a persistent woman, really,” I whisper, staring intently at her lips.
“And you’re a pretty bad and predictable liar,” she retorts on the spot, without taking her eyes off my knee for even a second.
I watch her with unabashed attention, letting my gaze wander down her neck.
“Hey, that insult actually came off as kind of affectionate, Doctor.”
“Never confuse a clinical diagnosis with words of affection, Alicia,” she replies with enviable quickness, though I detect a slight tremor and a subtle shift in her tone of voice.
“Too late to warn me—I’ve already gotten my hopes up,” I murmur, lowering my voice.
Her dark eyes suddenly rise to meet mine.
And there it is again. That blessed moment suspended in space.
That absurd, dense, and deliciously sexual tension floating between the two of us in this treatment room, as if every conversation we have were always walking along the sharp edge of a cliff we’re dying to jump off.
She keeps working in silence for a few seconds, trying to focus on the ligaments. I decide that this is the perfect moment to make things worse, naturally. That’s just my style.
“Hey, Clara… are you seeing anyone?” I ask her point-blank.
A deathly silence immediately falls over the room. Clara keeps moving my knee, but I can clearly feel her shoulders stiffen completely.
“That detail isn’t relevant to your physical rehabilitation,” she finally replies, in an overly controlled voice that even she doesn’t believe.
“Well, what you just told me isn’t a ‘no.’”
“It’s not a yes either.”
“Then it’s clear to me that there’s hope for me,” I insist, giving her a mischievous, playful smile full of meaning.
Now she really stops, takes her hands off my leg, and looks me straight in the eyes. She does so with that exact mix of serious warning and weariness that—God forgive me—I find indecently attractive and provocative.
“Alicia.”
“Tell me, Clara.”
“No.”
“No what? Please elaborate.”
“All of this,” she says, making a vague gesture with her hand to indicate the small space left between our bodies.
I make exactly the same gesture, playfully mimicking her hand.
“You’re going to have to be a lot more specific with me. I have a hard time picking up on hints.”
She shakes her head, closing her eyes for a second as if she were internally debating whether to strangle me right there with a towel or beg the entire universe for a dose of patience.
“You’re perfectly aware that you’re doing all this on purpose to throw me off balance, right?”