Moral Conclusion
Alicia
The hotel where the club has us staying is located on the outskirts of the city, right off a side road flanked by dark pine trees and fields that remain perpetually damp from the rain of the past few days.
It’s an idyllic, elegant complex—and, above all, far too quiet to accommodate an entire women’s soccer team accustomed to constant banter, hazing, and tactical discussions that break out even at lunchtime.
Even so, this morning, the atmosphere strikes me as extremely strange and tense.
Maybe it’s because Clara has barely exchanged a glance with me so far today.
Or maybe she has looked at me, but in a way that’s totally different from before.
Much colder. More distant. More reserved and businesslike.
And that—let’s not kid ourselves—is driving me crazy.
I find myself in the complex’s gym doing a series of joint mobility and proprioception exercises, while the rest of my teammates practice their changes of pace in the drizzle on the outdoor field.
The smell of rubber from the dumbbells, sweat, and metal fills my lungs with every breath.
Right in front of me, a huge mirror covering the entire wall reflects back at me the image of my toned, sweaty, and visibly tired body.
However, I’m not looking at myself. Not at all.
My eyes are searching for her in the reflection.
Clara crosses the gym from one end to the other, accompanied by one of the club’s fitness trainers.
The two of them are talking in hushed tones while checking something on a tablet.
Her hair is pulled back into a flawless, high, tight ponytail, and she’s wearing the official black polo shirt that hugs her body in a way that, honestly, should be banned by UEFA.
Her straight shoulders, the delightful curve of her waist, the sexy way she moves her legs with that innate confidence…
everything about that woman is absolutely irresistible to me, even now that she’s decided to put this icy distance between us that’s eating me alive.
She doesn’t even look up from the device to glance at me. Not even for a measly second. That coldly calculated, carefully constructed indifference pierces my chest like an arrow.
I clench my jaw in anger and continue with the knee bends, even though my focus has drifted all the way to the Falkland Islands.
“Perfect,” I think, with a bitterness that gnaws at my insides. “So we’re going to play hide-and-seek again. I love your safe-distance routine, Doctor.”
I’m already familiar with that kind of distance, that evasive tactic she uses when something gets out of hand or she regrets how events are unfolding.
It didn’t use to bother me—the truth is, I was already hardened to it—but now it’s infinitely different, more personal and more emotional.
Because after everything we’ve been through and shared, after realizing that I’m madly in love with her…
I can’t imagine a single damn day without her in my life.
My left knee suddenly gives out when I land awkwardly during a weight-bearing exercise, and the pain turns into a sharp, burning, deep stab that forces me to close my eyes and let out a groan.
I take a deep breath through my nose and clench my teeth to keep from falling onto the mat.
I’m in the habit of ignoring my body’s signals.
The problem now is that Clara doesn’t ignore them anymore.
· · ·
The rest of the day turns into an unbearable exercise in self-control.
During lunch, Clara decides to sit right at the other end of the table.
She spends the whole time talking animatedly with the assistant coach about the high-pressing strategy for the first friendly match, and her voice reaches me like a distant, annoying echo amid the clatter of conversation.
I try my hardest to ignore her and focus on my plate, but I fail miserably.
Every time I unconsciously look up, I come face-to-face with her focused profile, completely oblivious to the Category 5 storm raging inside me.
During the afternoon tactical video session, she goes out of her way to avoid being alone with me in the room.
When our eyes meet purely by chance, she looks away at the speed of light.
And to top it all off, during the mandatory physical therapy session, she talks to me about my knee in such a strictly professional and clinical tone that it makes my blood run cold.
“So, Alicia, how does the workload feel on your tendon today?” she asks without looking up from my knee as she checks my range of motion.
“Fine,” I reply with a dryness that’s downright scary, even though inside I’m dying to grab her by the lapels of her tracksuit and scream that absolutely nothing is fine.
“We need you to be one hundred percent ready for the start of the season, so please don’t push yourself any harder than is strictly necessary,” she adds, removing her hands from my leg and turning away to wash them at the sink without looking me in the eye even once.
Not even a lingering glance. Not even one of those half smiles that drive me crazy.
Not a single one of those accidental brushes we used to seek out.
It’s more than obvious that she’s putting up barriers between us and pulling away from me at breakneck speed.
And the more obvious it becomes, the more resentment I feel growing in my chest. Because if she intends to end this before it even begins, she has a mouth and she can damn well tell me to my face.
I’m capable of putting up with a lot in this life, but I’ve always considered half measures cowardly.
Night finally falls over the resort, laden with a thick humidity that fogs up the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling windows.
Some of the players are still lounging on the sofas in the common room, watching a Champions League replay, laughing hysterically and shouting their commentary at the screen, while others have already gone up to their rooms. I’ve been walking alone through the carpeted hallways for nearly twenty minutes, like a lost soul, trying to ease the anxiety gripping my body—without the slightest success.
Every time I blink, that damn image of Clara flashes through my mind.
Her voice whispering obscenities in my ear, her hands sliding firmly all over my back, her hot breath burning the skin on my neck…
And right after that, this damn distance she’s put between us overnight, treating me as if I were the biggest mistake of her life.
Just then, I see her step into the glass-enclosed elevator at the end of the hallway, and my body reacts before my brain can process the command.
I quicken my pace as fast as my legs will carry me.
The automatic doors are about to close completely when I desperately slip my right hand between the panels, and the sensor reacts, opening the doors for me.
Clara jerks her head up, her eyes wide as saucers when she sees me enter, and a thick, tense, extremely dangerous silence falls between us.
The doors close again with a faint hiss behind us as I feel the elevator jolt and begin to descend.
She’s clutching a folder of medical reports tightly against her chest as if it were a shield.
I can clearly see how she’s making a titanic effort to maintain her composure, though the stiffness of her shoulders and the gleam in her eyes give away the fact that she’s a bundle of nerves.
I lean my back against the wall, crossing my arms, without taking my eyes off hers for even a millisecond.
“Are you going to keep giving me the cold shoulder for much longer?” I blurt out point-blank, and my voice comes out much hoarser, deeper, and more pained than I’d originally intended.
Her expression barely changes; she keeps up the facade.
“I’m not giving you the cold shoulder.”
I let out a dry, ironic laugh laced with bitterness.
“Yeah, right. And I’m the national team’s official goalkeeper. Give me a break.”
She lets out a long sigh through her mouth, her shoulders slumping, and runs a hand over her forehead with a look of sheer exasperation.
“Alicia… please, I’m begging you, don’t start this now.”
“No. Don’t give me that, and don’t pull that little act on me,” I interrupt her with a coldness that stings even me. “I’m not one of your patients you have to tiptoe around and handle with kid gloves.”
She frowns deeply, fixing me with her dark eyes, full of frustration.
“Get it through your head once and for all: I’m doing everything I can to protect both of us. We’re in an extremely delicate situation, and you know it,” she says, lowering her voice and glancing sideways at the floor indicator.
“Don’t give me that. Of course I know—I’m not an idiot. But exactly two nights ago in your bed, you didn’t seem to have so many doubts or reservations about being with me, and now… you’re pulling this on me? Are you suddenly unable to even look me in the face when I’m talking to you?”
I watch as her jaw tightens until the muscles stand out, and a glint of pure panic clouds her gaze. Seeing that fear in her eyes cuts straight to my heart; it hurts me far more than I ever could have expected.
“Look, if what you want is to end things between us and tell me to get lost,” I continue, my voice trembling with pent-up rage, “at least have the decency—the guts—to tell me clearly to my face. But don’t leave me in this fucking, shitty uncertainty that’s been eating me up inside all day.”
The words hang in the air of the elevator car, heavy as lead. The elevator keeps descending floor by floor, and I feel my heart racing a mile a minute, pounding against my ribs with savage force.
Clara freezes for a second, takes a slow step forward, closing the distance between us, and fixes her dark eyes directly on mine with an intensity that makes my legs go weak.
“You just have no idea.”