No Right of Reply
Alicia
Ravenhill FC’s famous preseason training camp is, basically, a form of torture designed exclusively to test every last bit of my resilience, my nerves, and my hormones.
From the outside, if you ask anyone in management, everything seems idyllic, simple, and highly professional: a secluded four-star hotel on the outskirts of the city, double sessions of intensive training, tactical briefings, group dinners, and a strict schedule packed with activities to keep us focused before the league kicks off.
The coach is excited. He says the team has finally found its stability and that the city’s sports press has gone from talking about an internal crisis to running front-page stories about a possible historic comeback.
They’re touting us as the heavy favorites for this year’s title, and—let’s not kid ourselves—a large part of that future success rests in my hands.
But the truth is, I can barely pay attention to the front pages or the journalists’ praise.
I’ve got my hands full just surviving twenty-four hours of forced coexistence with Clara and mentally juggling ways to control the wild urge to cover her with kisses at every turn.
The pain, of course, is still there—constant, persistent, and nagging at me, reminding me that I’ve really screwed up.
Every time I bend my leg to pedal a little faster, a sharp, electric jolt shoots through that damn joint and races up my thigh like a spark.
But hey, at the end of the day, you get used to living with physical pain just the same way the rest of us mortals live with insomnia, bills, or anxiety: by ignoring it until it becomes physically impossible to keep pretending it isn’t there.
I look up from the handlebars just as the glass door slides open and Clara walks into the gym.
And, for a change, something short-circuits inside my pants.
My whole body reacts before my brain has time to slam on the damn emergency brake.
She’s wearing the club’s official uniform, but it looks absolutely stunning on her: a fairly tight gray sweatshirt that highlights her jaw-dropping shoulders, and her dark hair pulled back into a high, tight ponytail that fully exposes the line of her neck.
She walks without looking up from a tablet, reviewing data while murmuring something to one of the fitness trainers in a tone that’s thoroughly professional, focused, and unapproachable.
At least, that’s what she’s trying to project.
But then, as if she had radar for my eyes, she looks up and catches me red-handed, staring at her.
It’s only two seconds. A measly two seconds on the clock, but they’re more than enough to make every last muscle in my body tense up.
Clara catches my gaze before looking away.
She keeps walking with her chin held high as if absolutely nothing had happened, but I already know her weaknesses by heart and can spot the tiny cracks that appear in that ironclad self-control she puts on.
“Alicia,” she says as she passes by me, her eyes fixed on the screen of my bike without looking me in the face. “Don’t even think about increasing the resistance on the bike—I know you. Your knee is still swollen, and I don’t want you straining the tendon.”
I give her a half smile without slowing my pedaling, feeling my heart skip a beat and start racing at a thousand miles an hour.
“Good morning to you too, Clara. It’s such a pleasure to see you being so friendly first thing in the morning.”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even give me a glance.
“Good morning.”
Those are the only words she deigns to say to me all morning, but I’m overcome by an absurd, overwhelming, and extremely dangerous urge to jump off my bike, grab her firmly around the waist from behind, and plant a movie-style kiss on her right there, in front of the machines and the entire staff.
I shake that crazy thought from my head, muttering a curse under my breath, and keep pedaling furiously, even though my thoughts have already wandered far away from the gym.
The session moves along with joint mobility exercises, stretches, and strength training that leaves my arms shaking.
I try my hardest to focus on what’s right in front of me—Alba’s absurd jokes and Irene’s scathing comments about the undrinkable coffee at the hotel breakfast—but I can’t help noticing that Clara is constantly hovering around the room.
Watching me out of the corner of her eye.
Monitoring my every move. Looking out for me from a distance.
And the really messed-up part is that I’m starting to like it way too much—almost to the point of addiction—this exclusive attention she’s giving me.
During a break to hydrate, Irene comes running up to me with a bottle of water in her hand and one of those mischievous smiles of hers that practically screams gossip.
“Hey, Alicia, have you seen how Dr. Valle is looking at you? It’s like she’s waiting for you to explode right in the middle of the gym,” she murmurs, nudging me with her elbow.
I shoot her a quick warning glance and take a long swig from my bottle to buy some time.
“It’s her damn job, Irene. I’m the star forward and my knee’s a mess—she has to keep an eye on me.”
“Yeah, right. And I play wing for this club out of pure love for cardio and morning suffering,” she replies with a sarcasm that makes me cringe.
“Come on, Alicia, don’t give me that. That woman looks at you with an intensity and a hunger that would make anyone forget how to walk in a straight line. ”
I let out a brief laugh—almost a snort—and shake my head, trying my hardest to look indifferent.
“Don’t start getting all worked up over your Netflix dramas. I’ve got enough going on in my head already.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying what I see with these eyes God gave me.
If that woman looked at me with that possessive expression, I’d have already lost the ability to speak—and probably to think straight.
Have you noticed how she purses her lips every time you put your left foot down wrong?
It’s as if the pain hits her directly instead of you. ”
Her words pierce me right in the chest because I know, with absolute certainty, that she’s absolutely right.
Clara doesn’t take her eyes off me. And I, being a masochist, am constantly watching her every move, every gesture, and every hint of concern that slips through that facade of strict professionalism.
After the gym, it’s time for tactical training on the grass of the outdoor field at the hotel’s sports complex.
The sky is covered with thick gray clouds, and the gusty wind smells of an approaching storm and freshly cut grass.
Unlike my teammates, who are running back and forth following the coach’s instructions on pressing as a unit, I’m just walking, constantly feeling Clara’s gaze from the sideline.
This time, she doesn’t even bother to hide it in the slightest. Every time I slow down a little or take a small hop, she clenches her jaw brutally.
Every time I jog and lose my balance, she frowns.
And every time I decide to kick a ball with even the slightest bit of risk, she starts tapping on the tablet screen with such fury that it looks like she’s going to punch right through it with her finger.
When the session ends, Hugo gathers us in the center of the field for the closing talk, and Clara joins the staff huddle to speak to all of us. Her eyes linger on my face a second longer than usual.
“Good work this morning, girls,” she says in that clear, firm, melodious voice of hers that drives me wild.
“Remember, everyone, the vital importance of recovery time and stopping by the physio room. It’s great to give one hundred percent on the field, but pushing yourself past the point of exhaustion only leads to disappointment and unnecessary injuries. ”
Her words are directed at the entire team, of course, but the piercing glance she shoots my way as she utters that last sentence is meant exclusively for me. I feel a treacherous, burning heat rise up my neck.
Later, during lunch at the hotel buffet, Irene comes at me again; she sits down next to me with her tray and lowers her voice so the women at the next table won’t hear.
“Okay, Alicia, enough joking around. Is your knee getting better? I saw you limping pretty badly this morning.”
“Yeah, you pain in the neck, Clara’s exercise routine is really helping me,” I lie shamelessly, even though we both know full well that my knee is screaming for mercy.
Clara walks past our table with her tray and stops short for a second, looking down at me with medical superiority.
“Alicia, as soon as you finish eating, I want to check that joint. And I’m warning you now—I’m not going to accept a single one of your excuses today. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Doctor,” I reply with a cheeky smirk.
She raises an eyebrow skeptically, keeps her composure without saying anything else so as not to arouse suspicion, and continues on her way to the staff table. Irene gives me a sharp elbow to the ribs that almost makes me spit out my pasta.
“Girl, seriously, the sexual tension between the two of you is so thick you could cut it with a serrated knife. I don’t know how the hell you’re able to live and breathe with that hanging over your head.”
“Well, by living, Irene, just like the rest of us do in this life.”
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