7 #3
And I see them laughing. Really laughing together, roaring with laughter.
It’s not that faint, forced, restrained smile Clara grants me in the locker room after I’ve insisted long enough.
No, sir. What I see between them is pure familiarity.
Blind trust. A shared history stretching back many years.
Lara touches her arm completely naturally as she whispers something in her ear, and Clara doesn’t move a millimeter.
She stays right there, still, comfortable, relaxed, and natural, as if she knows exactly where she belongs in the world when she’s next to that woman.
I suddenly feel something extremely unpleasant, sharp, and ridiculous settle firmly right under my ribs, preventing me from breathing properly.
Jealousy? No, man, no. No way. That can’t be it.
I have absolutely no right to feel this way.
We’ve crossed a very big physical line, yes, okay, but that doesn’t officially make Clara mine in any way.
We’re not some movie-style love story. We’re not even a good idea for our respective careers at the club.
And, honestly, if there’s anyone on this planet with absolutely no right to feel jealous of anyone, it’s me—the star striker who flees commitment like the plague.
So, of course—and because I’m an idiot—I feel absolutely dreadful jealousy anyway. Absurd, unnecessary, painful, and very revealing.
I stand completely still in the middle of the hallway for far too long, watching them from a distance.
Long enough to start hating myself a little.
Long enough to suddenly realize that the real problem here isn’t that Clara is hanging out or laughing with another woman.
The damn real problem is that I care. I care so much that she’s doing it.
And that’s infinitely worse for my mental health.
I spin on my heel in a hurry before either of them happens to look down the hallway and catch me spying, and I stride directly toward the outdoor training field. I need to run until I drop.
The damp grass still holds all the dew from the morning fog, and the cold air of the English countryside hits my face with a brutal honesty that, deep down, I’m grateful for.
I reluctantly drop my backpack on the bench, tighten the laces on my cleats, and start jogging at a brisk pace along the sideline without stopping to warm up for even a minute, as if the physical exertion could magically resolve what my mind flatly refuses to admit.
First lap around the field. Take a deep breath, Alicia. Second lap. Don’t be pathetic or ridiculous. Third lap. You can’t be jealous of Lara Montes, for fuck’s sake. Fourth lap. You’re completely jealous—just admit it.
Fantastic. A flawless plan.
I start running much faster, sprinting along the white line.
My left knee gives me a serious warning and protests with a sharp twinge, but I decide to ignore the pain.
I always do that when I play. But this time, it’s not the physical pain in my ligaments that I’m trying to drown out with the thud of my footsteps against the ground.
It’s this discomfort that’s totally new to me, this unsettling and terrifying certainty that Clara is becoming someone much more important in my daily life—something far more intense, dangerous, real, and close than I’m willing to admit out loud.
And I’ve never in my whole fucking life been good at dealing with feelings.
Because carnal desire is simple and straightforward: you talk about it, you indulge in it eagerly, you enjoy it, and you forget about it the next day without looking back.
But this… this other thing is a direct threat to my single status.
I come to a sudden halt at the sideline, my chest heaving violently and my breathing completely ragged from the effort.
The British sky remains just as gray and leaden, Ravenhill FC continues to operate at full capacity all around me, and everyone’s life goes on exactly as it did an hour ago.
Except for me. I’m not the same anymore.
Because something inside me changed completely and irreversibly in that shower.
I run a sweaty hand across my face, trying to catch my breath and, in the process, regain a shred of self-respect.
Throughout my career, I’ve survived unbearable coaches with gigantic egos, hostile management that wanted to bring me down, and serious injuries that should have derailed my career far more than they actually did.
And now, here I am, running alone like a madwoman in the drizzling rain, all because of a dark-eyed physical therapist and a former soccer player who’s far too attractive for my taste.
I glance sideways toward the club’s main building, toward the large glass window where Clara is probably still talking, laughing, and sharing secrets with Lara like a perfectly normal, mature person, while I’m out here having a hard time and acting like a teenager with raging hormones.
I smile to myself, with an extremely uncomfortable and painful truth lodged right in the center of my chest. Maybe the real problem with all this has never been that Clara Valle has the power to ruin my life.
Maybe the real fucking problem is that it’s starting to matter to me that she’s decided not to do it with me.
Because just to have those hands and that mouth between my legs again, I’d be willing to give away everything I have.