Below Zero
Alicia
The worst part about having your heart shattered into a thousand pieces isn’t the stabbing pain.
It’s the humiliation. It’s that invisible sense of ridicule that turns you into a clown when you realize you’ve let down all your defenses for someone who’s still weighing risks, measuring consequences, and setting boundaries.
Meanwhile, you’re already in way over your head, too deeply involved to pretend this is just a meaningless game.
I hate feeling this way. I detest it with an almost physical intensity, as if a giant fist were mercilessly crushing my ribs, leaving me gasping for air.
For years, I’ve built an armored bunker around a ridiculously simple idea: not needing anyone.
Zero strings attached, zero drama. But then Dr. Clara Valle came along, and I—who’ve always been the type to run away before things got complicated—did the exact opposite: I fell in love like a teenager.
Maybe it would be best to stop before this destroys everything.
That damn phrase has been echoing in my head since yesterday morning.
Everything. What a curious word—so elastic and so utterly cruel.
For Clara, that “everything” means her job, her reputation, and the perfect balance she’s spent years building so she’d never lose control of her life again.
But for me… for me, that “everything” had started to become her.
And that’s exactly what’s twisting my insides.
I can’t sleep a wink all night. I don’t even try, to be honest. I spend the long, dead hours sprawled on the couch in my apartment, with the TV on in the background and the volume turned down, a can of beer that’s gone warm on the table, and my left knee throbbing at a satanic pace.
It’s as if my own joint wants to remind me every second that my body is tired of fighting against itself.
Physical pain is easy to bear; I’ll admit that.
The other kind—the one that’s settled right in the middle of my chest and is robbing me of oxygen—that’s a hell of a lot harder to deal with.
Because Clara has doubts about us, and the worst part is that I understand her. I, too, would run away at lightning speed from someone with my track record.
I let out a bitter laugh and sit up abruptly from the couch, running my hands roughly over my face as if I could wipe away these thoughts with a slap.
No, I can’t let that happen. If Clara wants some distance, she’s going to have to learn something about me: the word “retreat” has never existed in my vocabulary.
And certainly not when my body is still steeped in her scent and the memory of her fingers burns my skin in places no one else has ever known how to touch that way.
· · ·
The next morning, I show up at the Ravenhill FC training complex well before most of my teammates arrive.
The morning air smells of freshly cut grass, and the gray sky hints that it might rain at any moment.
I stride across the parking lot, the hood of my club sweatshirt pulled low over my eyebrows, an electric tension coursing through every muscle.
I’m carrying an explosive mix of rage, wounded pride, and pain pumping through my blood—a rush of adrenaline that propels me toward the field as if I were about to play in the Champions League final.
As soon as I walk into the locker room, the couple of teammates who are already there look up from their phones, their eyes wide as saucers, completely blown away.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Alicia Puertas herself, up early. Now that’s a historic milestone for the club,” Marta jokes from her bench, adjusting her shin guards with a smile that tries to lighten the tension in the room.
“Mark the date on your calendar, come on,” I reply as I toss the official backpack into my locker with a sharp thud that echoes throughout the locker room—much louder than necessary. “Maybe a meteorite will fall tomorrow and wipe us all out.”
A couple of soft laughs can be heard among the lockers. I force a wry smile too, though the gesture comes out so automatic, fake, and stiff that it’s painful to watch. Inside, I’m an open wound oozing frustration with every heartbeat.
I start to change slowly, completely ignoring the sharp twinge in my knee every time I bend it to slip my leg into my shorts.
The swelling has gotten worse overnight.
But I couldn’t care less. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself as I pull my socks up to my thighs and angrily tighten the laces on my cleats.
Of course I care—it’s just that I’m too pissed off at the world to hold back.
And playing with fire when you’re angry is a lethal combination.
When I step onto the field, the coach is already rearranging the cones for the warm-up rondo alongside the rest of the coaching staff. He sees me coming down the sideline and raises his eyebrows instantly, stopping dead in his tracks with the whistle between his fingers.
“Alicia,” he calls out, stopping me with that paternal, warning tone I know all too well.
I keep walking straight toward him, digging my cleats into the damp grass without slowing down even a fraction.
“Coach.”
He sizes me up from head to toe, scrutinizing my posture and body language with far too much attention for my liking.
“May I ask what you’re doing dressed like that? As far as I know, you haven’t been medically cleared or authorized to join the group for training today.”
“Well, you’re in luck today. You should take advantage of the offer,” I reply cockily, holding his gaze without blinking.
Hugo lets out a long, weary sigh—the kind that practically blows your bangs out of your eyes—and runs a hand over his stubble as if he’s making a superhuman effort not to tell me to get lost.
“Look, Alicia, I’m really not in the mood to put up with your little stunts this morning, honestly. Please just turn around, go home, and rest. Your knee will thank you endlessly.”
“Yeah, well, it just so happens that I’m not in the mood to put up with lectures either. But I am in an excellent mood to smash the ball into the net, and no one’s getting me off this field today.”
Hugo fixes his full attention on me, narrowing his eyes as if trying to decipher from my expression what the hell is really going on.
And I suspect that, deep down, part of him already knows.
Old-school coaches like him can tell from a mile away when a player is willing to tear herself to pieces on the field because of some personal drama that has absolutely nothing to do with the ball.
“Clara hasn’t come down to the field yet,” he blurts out suddenly, lowering his voice so the others won’t hear. “And I seriously doubt she’ll give the green light to this madness.”
I let out a slow smile, laced with a coldness that chills even me.
“Don’t worry about that, Coach. If I get completely wrecked, she’s a fantastic professional and will work her medical magic as soon as she arrives with her medical bag, just like she always does.”
Hugo’s face hardens.
“This isn’t fucking funny, Alicia. Don’t play games with your health.”
“Who’s laughing? It’s not a joke,” I reply with a seriousness that kills the mood. “I just want to train. I need to burn off some adrenaline and move my legs before my head explodes.”
Silence settles between us for a few endless seconds that weigh as heavily as a dead body.
Behind us, the rest of the team continues with their warm-up exercises while the gusty wind rattles the nets of the Ravenhill FC goals.
Hugo takes a step closer to me, and his voice drops to an almost inaudible whisper.
“What the hell happened between the two of you? I’ve been putting up with watching you two devour each other with your eyes at every practice for weeks, and today you show up looking like you want to declare World War III on the first living soul who crosses your path.”
My jaw tenses so hard that my teeth grind together.
“That’s a private matter that’s nobody’s business. Just know that things are much better this way, and the entire club board is going to sleep soundly because of it.”
“It’s very much my business. Especially if my star forward wants to tear her knee ligaments on purpose just because she needs to vent over a romantic setback.”
I look away toward the empty stands because, if I keep listening to him speak in that sympathetic tone, I’m going to end up breaking down and bursting into tears right in the middle of the field. And I’d rather die than show weakness in front of the staff.
“I’m going to practice,” I insist, putting my hands on my hips.
“Alicia…”
“I’m. Going. To. Train,” I repeat, enunciating each syllable with a firmness that brooks no argument.
There’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to wait for his answer. I turn around and take off at a lousy jog toward the group before he has time to grab my arm and pull me out of practice. Finally, I hear him let out a curse and give in.
The practice starts off easy: continuous running around the perimeter, joint mobility exercises, and a round of one-touch passing drills.
For the first fifteen minutes, it’s pretty bearable.
My knee protests and sends me warning signals with every step, sure, but the body of an elite athlete has an incredible ability to fool itself and block out pain when you’re seething with rage.
And I’ve been perfecting that self-destructive talent for as long as I can remember.
I run. I pivot. I pick up speed. With every stride, my body seems to scream at me on a loop: Stop, stop, slow down already, you fool.
But I keep pushing myself because the physical pain, at least, is real, concrete, and makes sense.
Not like the other kind. Not like the kick in the gut that comes from discovering that the woman of your life would rather let go of your hand the moment those in power bare their fangs.