Without a Uniform #2
Alicia is sitting just a few meters away, flirting shamelessly and without the slightest hint of modesty with Irina.
She brushes her forearm with her fingers as she talks, leans physically toward her, exuding familiarity in spades, and smiles at her with that slow, roguish, dangerous smile that, unfortunately, I know down to the last detail.
Every damn gesture she makes with her hands, every little giggle, feels like a poisonous provocation aimed solely and exclusively at me. A full-blown declaration of war.
I keep telling myself I have absolutely no right to feel this fire burning beneath my ribs.
We’re nothing to each other; there’s no commitment between us.
We crossed a red line in the showers—yes, that’s undeniable—but that doesn’t make my jealousy legitimate or mature.
It just makes it deeply ridiculous and awkward to deal with.
And yet, there it is, lodged between my lungs, preventing me from breathing normally.
“Clara. Hey, Clara.”
I blink a couple of times, forcing myself out of my bubble of self-pity. Next to me is Lorraine, one of the regular sports reporters who covers Ravenhill FC.
“Sorry, I called you three times in a row and you were completely somewhere else,” she insists, giving me a friendly smile laced with journalistic insight.
“I’m sorry, really. I was a little distracted by some things.”
It takes her less than half a second to follow the exact path of my gaze: Alicia and Irina sharing an intimate moment across the table. All my ridiculous heartbreak is laid bare before the eyes of the press. Lorraine smiles with an elegance that strikes me as almost offensive.
“Ah. I see. I get where this is going.”
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’m sure you’re way off the mark,” I retort too quickly and in a tone that’s far too defensive.
“Are you absolutely sure? Working with Alicia Puertas, one of the most problematic soccer players on the scene, can’t be easy.”
I’m starting to hate perceptive people with all my might.
“The hard part is dealing with people who think they know it all,” I reply, getting up from my seat to go to the restroom.
After that brief confrontation, dinner unfolds amid toasts, speeches by the club president, and that false lightheartedness typical of social events where everyone knows they’re being watched by a camera.
Alicia continues to play her own particular game of chess with mastery.
I, on the other hand, keep losing ground—and my composure—with every minute that ticks by.
Until, at some indeterminate moment between dessert and the total exhaustion of my last reserve of patience, Alicia disappears from the communal table.
I seize the opportunity to get up and dash out onto the outdoor terrace with the flimsy excuse that I need to get some fresh air.
A rotten, obvious lie. What I desperately need is physical distance.
Silence. A divine miracle to get me out of here, perhaps.
The night is humid, cool, and overcast. The distant murmur of activity at the harbor blends into the background with the gentle lapping of water against the pier, and the lights of the boats are reflected in the distance on the dark surface of the sea as if they were stars fallen from the sky.
I lean against the railing, closing my eyes, breathing very slowly, racing against the clock to piece back together that version of myself who firmly believes in self-control and the ethical boundaries of work.
“You’re running away in a rather pitiful way…” says a voice—all too familiar and irritating—behind me.
I turn around slowly to face her. Alicia is standing there, alone. No awkward witnesses to this sudden encounter.
“I’m not running away from anything or anyone,” I reply in my most indifferent tone.
“Of course not, Doctor. And I’m such a calm, non-confrontational person,” she retorts with overflowing irony as she closes the distance between us.
“Your spectacular companion is going to end up thinking you’ve gotten lost in the restaurant’s hallways if you take too long to get back to the table.”
“Irina knows perfectly well how to take care of herself; don’t worry about her. She’s a very independent and mature woman.”
Alicia fixes me with that intensity that always, without exception, throws my defenses into disarray.
“You don’t like her, do you?”
“I don’t know her well enough to judge her.”
“Come on, Clara, admit it. You can’t stand her.”
“I assure you it’s nothing personal, Alicia,” I lie brazenly, clenching my fists inside my pockets.
“Oh, so it’s purely professional. Hey, that really puts my mind at ease, of course it does,” she says, a half-smile playing on her lips.
I stare her straight in the eyes, losing my temper for the first time tonight.
“Can you tell me what the hell you’re trying to do tonight?”
Her mocking smile slowly fades from her lips. That drastic change in her body language alarms me more than any of her previous provocations. Because behind her usual facade of a tough, cocky woman, something infinitely more serious, raw, and honest suddenly emerges.
“The truth is, the only thing I’m interested in knowing is why it bothers you so much to see me with someone else when you yourself have made it clear to me that what happened between us was a mistake,” she confesses in a low, direct whisper, seeking my gaze.
“It’s just that I don’t care what you do with your private life.”
“Clara, please…” She says my name so softly and slowly that it feels like an intimate caress and a death threat all at once.
“Alicia, don’t do this here.”
“Do what? Have the nerve to ask you if I matter to you?”
“It’s just that you have no right to demand explanations from me about anything,” I reply, though my voice trembles slightly, betraying my feigned strength.
“Oh, really? And you, on the other hand, have every right in the world to decide unilaterally for both of us that what happened meant absolutely nothing to either of us?”
A thick, deathly silence suddenly falls between us, drowning out the noise around us. The air on the terrace becomes unbreathable. The physical distance separating us shrinks to mere inches. The truth of the matter is impossible to ignore in the moonlight.
“I never said it meant nothing…”
“You didn’t need to, Clara. Your silence these past few days said it all for you.”
Her tone of voice has dropped three octaves all at once. There’s no trace left of the playful woman who used to liven up the table; she’s not playing games with me anymore.