Anatomy of Desire
Alicia
It’s humiliating and pathetic to realize that I’m capable of overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles on the international stage, surviving hostile press conferences full of vultures, and handling coaches with massive dictator complexes…
but I’m totally incapable of getting through a simple conversation in the rain with Clara. But that’s just how it is.
After the run-in we had, I find myself officially defeated, dressed in my oldest tracksuit and sprawled out on the couch in my new apartment like a true heroine suffering from terrible emotional management.
I’ve got the game controller firmly clenched in my hands as I try, without the slightest success, to focus on a ridiculous virtual soccer match on the screen.
I’ve been getting crushed for over twenty minutes.
It’s laughable: even in the realm of video games, my ability to make good decisions is conspicuously absent today.
The living room remains shrouded in silence, broken only by the sound effects from the TV and the incessant, soft patter of rain against the windows.
I’ve left Clara’s official jacket—the one that smells like her—draped over the back of a dining chair, like a trophy or a visual torment.
There’s also a half-finished cup of coffee on the coffee table, and above all, I’m haunted by that nagging, persistent feeling that I’m avoiding something I know, with absolute certainty, won’t disappear from my life no matter how hard I try to look the other way.
I left her with her words hanging in the air right in the middle of the field and ran off.
I refused to go to the medical checkup she’d scheduled for me that afternoon and even deliberately ignored it as if it didn’t exist or didn’t matter to me in the slightest. But after what happened—and after my brilliant and pathetic moment of unintentionally confessing my jealousy right to her face—I have no intention of meeting with her alone in a closed room for anything in the world.
Yes, I got jealous of Lara Montes, and I still get this crazy urge to open the window and throw myself headfirst into the void every time my brain brings it back to me.
It’s been an absolute disaster. And not because of what came out of my mouth, but because of what it implies on a deeper level.
It’s one thing to hook up with someone in a fit of passion in the showers and enjoy the moment; it’s quite another—and infinitely more complicated—to start feeling real emotions that you can’t resolve by pacing around the field like a madwoman or treating yourself to a quick solo session in bed.
That’s already well into forbidden territory.
On the screen, my virtual striker misses another sure goal into an empty net.
“Perfect…” I murmur sarcastically, letting my head fall back against the sofa cushion and letting out a sigh of frustration. “Everything’s under control. Excellent crisis management, Alicia. Congratulations on your maturity.”
At that very moment, my cell phone starts vibrating furiously on the wooden table. I glance at it out of the corner of my eye with the absurd and desperate hope that it’s anyone on this planet except the person I know for certain is on the other end. Spoiler: I’m having absolutely no luck today.
It’s Bruno. My agent. My very own Jiminy Cricket, my legal conscience in outrageously expensive suits, with infinite patience for putting up with my wild escapades. I sigh deeply, let go of the game controller, and swipe my finger across the screen to answer.
“Look, Bruno, if this call is to lecture me about my wonderful and wise life decisions today, I’m warning you now—I’m too busy ruining my own life in private.”
“Well, good evening to you too, Alicia,” he replies from the other end of the line with that unflappable calm of a man seasoned by a thousand battles who’s already survived far too many chaotic versions of me.
“May I ask why on earth the Ravenhill coach just texted me saying you didn’t show up for the physical evaluation you had scheduled for this afternoon? ”
“Well, because the coach cares a great deal that his star forward is diving headfirst into yet another monumental mess she doesn’t know how to get out of,” I reply, sitting up on the couch and crossing my legs.
“Alicia. Don’t do that to me, please.”
“What? Breathe?”
“You know perfectly well that rebellious, misunderstood-teenager tone doesn’t work on me, so you’d better change your tune.”
An involuntary smile escapes me even though I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Bruno has the irritating and incredible ability to know me all too well. He’s been managing my athletic career, my million-dollar contracts, and my public and private scandals down to the last detail for years.
“I’m sorry I didn’t go, really,” I lie shamelessly as I finally get up from the couch and walk barefoot toward the kitchenette in search of something to drink. “I wasn’t feeling well. In fact, I told Clara that. So…”
“Look, listen to me carefully. I’m not calling to lecture you about your defiance, but do me a favor and be a little more sensible about the decisions you make. I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow is the club’s official season-opening dinner.”
I close my eyes tightly, gently tapping my forehead with the palm of my hand.
“I’m not going to any party, Bruno. I don’t feel like putting up with small talk in the least.”
“But it’s not a nightclub party, Alicia. It’s a formal dinner, and it’s mandatory under your contract.”
“Well, that makes it a thousand times worse,” I retort sarcastically, opening the fridge door only to slam it shut immediately.
“You’re the star signing of the summer, Alicia, for heaven’s sake. Everyone on the board and all the sponsors are expecting you to be there at the head table. They’re going to want you to go up onstage, grab the microphone, and say a few words to the press…”
“Well, then let someone else who’s more eager to show off say them. I’m not anyone’s circus clown, livening up the club’s social and political events.”
A deathly silence falls on the other end of the line. That very specific, dangerous silence that means Bruno is mentally counting to ten so he doesn’t tell me to fuck off in an elegant, professional way.
“You’re in a really lousy mood today, aren’t you?” he finally blurts out with a heavy sigh. “Can you tell me what the hell’s wrong with you?”
I lean my back against the granite countertop and pinch the bridge of my nose with my eyes closed, feeling a headache coming on.
“Just preseason stress, that’s all.”
“Look, do whatever you want with your mood, but I’m not going to repeat myself again.
You’re mature enough—and you make enough money—to know what the right decision is for your public image.
Dinner is at nine-thirty at Bravío. The dress code is smart casual.
Everyone will be waiting for you, including the media. ”
The media. Fantastic. Even worse. A total showcase.
I’m firmly resolved to flat-out refuse for the second time.
I already have the cutting retort fully formed on the tip of my tongue: I’m not going, Bruno.
I’m not interested. They’ll survive dinner just fine without me.
But then, in a flash of pure malice, I think of Lara Montes.
I think of Clara. I think about the easy familiarity in the conversation they had.
And, what’s far worse for my pride, I think about the very real possibility that they’ll both be there tomorrow night, laughing together, while I rot away alone in this apartment, throwing away matches like a total emotional idiot.
No. No way. Under no circumstances can I let Clara think I’m avoiding her because of some silly jealousy. Nor can I let it seem like I’m the sensitive, weak one of the two. And certainly—over my dead body—will I allow Lara Montes to get any closer to her than she should.
So, proving once again that I’m a sensible person with a fascinating self-destructive streak, I make a decision that’s objectively terrible and wonderful.
“Hey, can I bring a date with me to dinner?” I ask, flashing a slow, roguish smile that Bruno, fortunately, can’t see over the phone.
It takes him a full couple of seconds to answer my question. A couple of seconds that reek of utter suspicion and professional panic.
“Let’s see… As long as you show up there dressed appropriately and make the club look good, I couldn’t care less who you bring along to hold your glass.”
My smile widens even more, filling me with a delicious rush of adrenaline.
“Perfect. Count me in.”
“Alicia… I tremble every time you suddenly get so docile.”
“Trust me, man of little faith.”
“Please, I’m begging you for the sake of whatever you hold dearest: try not to put on one of your usual shows with the press. At least not before dessert is served.”
I hang up with a quick tap before he has time to keep lecturing me.
I stand completely still for a few seconds in the middle of the kitchen, watching my blurry, disheveled reflection in the dark windowpane.
Outside, the rain falls with the most depressing persistence.
I’m an impulsive person with terrible, dangerous defense mechanisms.
I take a deep breath, rub my hands together, and open my phone’s contact list. I swipe my finger up and down the screen, scrolling through the names of women who represent different versions of myself. Some better, others clearly best forgotten. Until my finger stops right on the right name.
Irina.