7 #2
The door slams shut behind her, and the laughter in the locker room dies down abruptly. I stare at that empty space for far too long, a strange feeling in my chest. You’ve really screwed up, Alicia. You’re an idiot.
Sonia is the first to break the awkward silence.
“Oh my God… I think we just summoned the devil in all her glory. She stormed out of here as if the devil herself were chasing her with a trident.”
“I firmly believe that Alba deserves to be expelled from Ravenhill FC for life for inciting a riot and harassing the medical staff,” I add, trying to regain my usual mocking tone.
“And I think,” Alba says suddenly, coming over to sit right next to me on the wooden bench and confidently draping an arm over my shoulders, “that a certain star forward is way more into Dr. Valle than she’s willing to admit in public.
Come on, Alicia, tell us the truth. What the hell is really going on between you and Clara?
Because the tension between you two is thick enough to cut with a knife… ”
I glare at her, feigning indignation, though I can’t help but let an involuntary half-smile slip out as I remember the showers.
“Don’t make such a big deal out of it, Alba. She’s just… a complicated woman to deal with, that’s all.”
“Oh, Alicia, sweetie, you know me: I live for drama and thrive on it. And this is major drama with a capital D,” she insists, giving me an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.
“You get as nervous as a fifteen-year-old the moment she peeks through the door. And she goes stiff as a board the moment you open your mouth to blurt out one of your silly remarks. It’s adorable and worrisome at the same time. ”
I sigh resignedly and run a hand through my brown hair, which is still damp from exertion.
“There’s nothing going on between us. You’re just imagining things.”
“Look, Alicia, that exact phrase always means the exact opposite in the language of women,” Sonia replies from her locker, looking at me with serious intensity. “If you need to vent or talk about anything, we’re here for you. No judgment. Well, hardly any—we know each other.”
I hate it with every fiber of my being when the people around me are absolutely right. I jump to my feet to change the subject drastically before these two decide to give me an unsolicited emotional counseling session right in the middle of the locker room.
“So what? Do you guys really think Northbridge is going to crash and burn in the league this year, or are we going to keep letting Alba fail spectacularly as the team’s sports analyst?”
And, fortunately, the trick works. In less than a minute, we’re back to talking about the usual stuff: soccer, tactics, the latest rumors from the summer transfer market, Easton’s star forward who’s probably going to switch clubs in the coming weeks, and the absurd pressure that the Ravenhill FC board is putting on our shoulders this season.
Expectations of winning, titles, and results.
The old, boring, safe language of professional sports.
I answer everything, offer my opinions with ease, and smile at the right moments in the conversation so no one suspects a thing.
But a huge part of my mind remains completely detached from that locker room chat, trapped by the exit door, thinking about Clara hurrying away down the hallway and the exact way her expression hardened because of me.
Because what happened between us in those showers has irreversibly changed the rules of the game, and that change is no longer a private—and delightful—secret between her and me.
Now there’s a real possibility that someone else might stick their nose in and notice.
And I don’t find that idea funny at all.
· · ·
When I leave the locker room building, having changed my clothes, the club’s main hallway is much quieter and more deserted.
There are still a couple of long hours left before the mandatory afternoon practice, and the facilities are experiencing that brief, idyllic interval of deathly silence between training sessions.
I walk slowly, shuffling my feet with my gym bag slung over my shoulder, going over the same thoughts a thousand times in my head about how the hell I feel about Clara.
Until I suddenly see her as I round the corner.
Clara is standing right at the end of the hallway, very close to the large glass-enclosed side exit that leads directly to the secondary training field.
But she’s not alone. She’s chatting animatedly with Lara Montes.
The great Lara Montes: the club’s legendary former player, a brilliant midfielder who had to retire prematurely because of a damn knee injury and who now works as an occasional sports commentator on television.
She’s also a regular and highly sought-after presence at all of Ravenhill FC’s official events.
She’s a beautiful, elegant woman, outrageously self-assured, and possesses that kind of overwhelming charisma that draws everyone’s attention without even trying.