The Price of Discretion
Alicia
After the storm we unleashed in the restaurant bathroom, pretending to be normal at the Ravenhill FC facilities becomes the most unbearable ordeal of my entire athletic career.
And let’s be honest, I know a thing or two about pretending, having done it for years.
I’ve smiled and pretended that my left knee is perfectly fine when, in reality, the pain is capable of numbing my entire leg in the middle of a game.
I’ve pretended at press conferences that I don’t give a damn about the malicious rumors circulating in locker rooms and on social media about my private life or my personality.
I’ve pretended to be a lone wolf who doesn’t need anyone by her side, that my scoring instinct and stubbornness are more than enough to keep me at the top of my game.
But with Clara… it’s completely different.
Because this isn’t about hiding a muscle strain or maintaining my reputation as a star forward in front of everyone; it’s about walking through the gates of the training facility every damn morning, seeing her appear at the end of the hallway, and acting as if my brain doesn’t clearly remember exactly what her skin tastes like, as if I no longer feel the burning trail of her tongue seared into my memory, and as if I don’t wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, moaning her name between the sheets.
It’s only been two days since the club’s official dinner and that disastrously perfect decision to vent our frustration and jealousy against the marble of the sink.
Two whole days of glances exchanged in the hallways that last far too long and are charged with high voltage—of electric sparks as I brush past her, of thick silences that lock away everything we’d want to do to each other right there if we didn’t have everyone watching us.
It’s a completely new kind of tension that no longer stems solely from professional rivalry or sexual curiosity; it’s something far more complicated.
Something that—let’s not kid ourselves—scares the hell out of me.
Because desire is so easy to identify and satisfy. What’s really messed up is everything else: the uncertainty of who we are, the vulnerability of exposing yourself, and the real risk of losing control of a life and a career that I’ve worked so hard to fortify.
At this hour of the morning, I find myself in Clara’s sanctuary—the rehabilitation area at the sports complex—lying on my back on a blue mat that I’m beginning to loathe with every fiber of my being.
I’m working through what feels like an endless set of stability exercises to strengthen my quadriceps while she reviews my metrics from her desk.
Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail that reveals the smooth line of her nape; she’s wearing that black club sportswear that hugs every curve of her body.
She maintains that stern drill-sergeant expression which, for some reason I can’t quite grasp, strikes me today as a thousand times more attractive than intimidating.
She holds the medical team’s tablet in her hands while keeping her brow slightly furrowed.
I, stretched out on the floor and barely managing to lift my left leg against the resistance of a damn resistance band, decide that gazing at her lips is an infinitely more productive and fun activity than doing my rehab.
“If you’re going to keep devouring me with your eyes like that, Alicia, I’m going to have to assume that your only goal today is to deliberately distract me,” Clara remarks, without bothering to look up from the screen, though I can clearly sense her posture tensing.
I let a slow, mischievous smile spread across my face, loosening the band’s tension for a second.
“What if I told you that’s exactly what I intend to do? What are you going to do about it?”
Then she does look up abruptly and fixes me with that cold, ultra-controlled calm that only she has mastered and wields as if it were her best weapon in the game. I notice a stifled sigh escape through her nose.
“If what you’re saying is true, I’ll assume you have a lot of energy to spare and that you’re eager to repeat the entire series of exercises from the beginning,” she replies with a professional serenity that drives me crazy.
“You can be so cruel when you set your mind to it…” I murmur, complaining halfheartedly as I stretch my leg again.
“Not at all. I’m not cruel; I’m simply an excellent professional who takes your health very seriously,” she retorts, setting the tablet aside and crossing her arms smugly.
“Come on, even you don’t believe that,” I blurt out, winking at her.
For a split second, the corner of her mouth threatens to curve into a small, knowing smile.
And that, for my emotional stability, is a catastrophe of biblical proportions.
Because seeing Clara smile in such an intimate way—even if only by a millimeter—is the most dangerous form of sabotage to my concentration.
I’m about to fire off another one of my witty retorts when the door to the recovery gym swings wide open and Hugo, the coach, appears, radiating that inexhaustible energy he always carries with him—the kind that infects the entire Ravenhill coaching staff.
“So, girls, how are things going over in the miracle department?” the coach asks in his usual direct, down-to-earth tone, striding toward us with a firm step.
I immediately prop myself up on my elbows, tightening my abs and trying to look much more put-together and recovered than I actually feel right now.
“Surviving as best I can through this medieval torture that Clara calls ‘rehab,’ Coach,” I say jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.
Hugo lets out a hearty laugh and stands in front of the mat with his hands on his hips.
“Well, Alicia, coming from you, that complaint is usually irrefutable proof that Clara is doing an impeccable job with your physique.”
Clara takes a step forward and sets the tablet down on the table, regaining her head-of-the-medical-team demeanor in the blink of an eye.
“I always do my job well, Coach,” she asserts with a conviction that brooks no argument.
“Wow, and modest to boot—she really has it all,” I add under my breath, with a roguish smile, enjoying the game.
Clara glares at me with a stare that screams, If you open your mouth to screw this up, I’ll destroy you. Of course, seeing her so riled up only gives me more courage to keep pushing my luck.
Hugo, oblivious to the electric current flowing between us, examines my left knee with meticulous attention, focusing on the athletic tape and the progress charts Clara has written on the whiteboard on the wall.
“All right, Alicia. Look me in the eyes and be honest. Do you feel confident and strong enough to try a full workout this afternoon with the rest of your teammates?”
I feel the wave of tension emanating from Clara’s body even before I turn to look at her.
I can tell by the sharp catch in her breath, the way she stands frozen beside the table, and the instant stiffness that settles over her shoulders.
I don’t need to be a mind reader to know exactly what she thinks about this. Her internal verdict is set in stone.
And that’s precisely why—out of pure pride as a forward and an almost obsessive need to break out of this isolation—I fire off my reply before she has a chance to speak up.
“I’m 100 percent ready and dying to play, Coach. I need to get back into the flow of the team right now. I’m climbing the walls in this gym, and I’m dying to touch the ball on the field.”
Hugo claps his hands together, visibly satisfied and relieved to have his star player back.
“That’s the attitude I wanted to hear! Excellent, Alicia. Well, I want to see you in your uniform on Field Three at four o’clock sharp. And don’t even think about being late.”
“I’ll be the first one there, Coach—you can count on it,” I confirm firmly.
As soon as the door closes behind Hugo, the silence that settles over the rehab room becomes so thick, heavy, and laden with reproach that I can barely breathe.
I remain seated on the mat, feigning complete calm as I adjust my elastic bandage with exasperating slowness, trying to ignore the fact that Clara’s eyes are piercing the back of my neck.
She’s the first to break the silence, and she does so in a tone that exudes a lethal mix of concern and frustration.
“You shouldn’t have said yes. You know perfectly well that you haven’t been medically cleared to train at full intensity,” she murmurs, taking a step toward me with her fists clenched at her sides.
“Well, wouldn’t you know it, that’s exactly what I did, and the coach is already counting on me,” I reply, meeting her retort with practiced calm.
“Alicia… I’m being completely serious. Don’t turn your health into another one of your stupid games of provocation. This isn’t the time to test your limits against me,” she scolds me, and I can hear her voice trembling slightly with rage.
I jump to my feet, ignoring the faint warning twinge in my knee, and stand just a few centimeters away from her, looking her straight in the eyes.
“This has nothing to do with you, Clara. I need to be with my team on the field. I can’t stay cooped up within these four walls for even one more day, feeling like a useless burden.”
Clara crosses her arms tightly over her chest, shielding herself behind her rigid posture, while her expression hardens.
“What you call feeling useless, I call the biological healing process. You need to let your knee heal and not push that damn left leg just to satisfy your stupid ego and prove to the world that you’re made of iron.”
“But I need to play, Clara!” I insist, raising my voice, feeling the desperation burn inside me. “If I’m not out on the field scoring goals, what’s the point of me being here at this club? What’s the point of anything else?”