The Bomb Interview
Clara
The boardroom at the sports complex is claustrophobic, gray, and, right now, far too small to contain all the tension building within its four walls.
I remain seated in one of the leather chairs facing the oval mahogany table.
My hands are firmly clasped in my lap, and I’m making a tremendous effort to control the tremor that insists on running through my fingers.
Alicia is right next to me, just a few centimeters away.
I can feel the vibration of her presence without even turning my head: the energy contained in her muscles, the pure rage bubbling just beneath her skin, the humiliation that still sets her cheeks ablaze, and that excruciating fear that she, true to form, masks with a look of utter defiance.
Because Alicia Puertas knows perfectly well how to fight the world, but she hates with all her might feeling exposed.
And what just happened in that elevator was exactly that: a brutal, explicit, and definitive exposure of our intimacy.
Right in front of us are Hugo, the coach, and Julián, the club’s sporting director.
Their faces are a sight to behold, though they wear radically opposite expressions.
Hugo clears his throat, shifts in his chair, and glances sideways at some vague spot on the wall; he’s uncomfortable, visibly caught in a monumental mess he has absolutely no desire to deal with.
Julián, on the other hand, wears the icy, impassive, stern expression of an executive who had already made up his mind long before sitting down at the table.
Resting on the table are several folders thrown wide open that reek of trouble: newspaper clippings, athletic performance reports, and the termination clauses of our respective contracts.
This doesn’t look in the least like an informal conversation to clear things up.
This is a full-blown trial. And worst of all—the thing that turns my stomach—is that I understand all too clearly how the hell we’ve gotten to this point.
The silence drags on for a few seconds that feel like an eternity to me, punctuated only by the patter of rain against the windows. Finally, Julián clears his throat with a dry, sharp sound.
“Look, I think all of us sitting in this room are adults,” he blurts out suddenly in a deep, corporate, monotonous voice. “So I’m going to cut to the chase.”
I can clearly feel Alicia’s jaw stiffen and tense beside me. I force myself to hold Julián’s gaze without blinking, keeping my composure.
“What Hugo and I just witnessed downstairs in the elevator makes the true nature of your relationship crystal clear,” the sporting director states.
The word “relationship” lands on the table with the leaden weight of an anvil. Neither of us opens our mouths to reply, mainly because there’s absolutely nothing to deny at this point.
Julián slowly rests his palms on the open folder in front of him and continues his speech:
“I want you to understand me clearly to avoid any misunderstandings. Ravenhill FC’s bylaws do not contain any internal regulations that expressly prohibit romantic relationships between members of the coaching staff and players on the roster.
However, given the circumstances, we’re dealing with a situation that is particularly delicate and compromising for the club’s image. ”
Alicia lets out a dry, ironic, extremely bitter laugh beside me, crossing her arms with a sudden movement.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to say it’s delicate because I’m part of the situation?” she snaps at him without holding back.
Julián stares at her intently, narrowing his eyes patiently.
“Don’t simplify things in such an absurd way, Alicia. This is more complex than that.”
“Oh, wait. Isn’t that what this is about? Because if it isn’t, you’re going to have to explain yourself a whole lot better, Julián,” she retorts, standing her ground, her voice completely hardened by rage.
That little tone of hers puts me on alert; I know exactly where the line is between Alicia defending herself and going on the offensive, striking first before anyone has a chance to rub salt in the wound.
“Alicia…” I whisper, trying to intervene gently as I place a hand on her arm to calm her down.
She doesn’t even turn to look at me. Her gaze is fixed on the sporting director, piercing like a dagger.
“No, Clara. Leave it. I want to hear everything he has to say.”
Julián lets out a long sigh, as if having to deal with us at this hour were a burden.
“Your media history off the field doesn’t exactly help the locker room maintain the stability and focus the coach needs,” he declares, tapping his index finger on the newspaper clippings detailing her past scandals and outbursts.
Anger flashes across Alicia’s face at lightning speed, turning her eyes dark, almost black.
“I just find it fascinating that you’re bringing this up with me now,” she replies with a coldness that sends chills down my spine.
“Because when your emissaries came looking for me with the checkbook in hand so I’d sign the contract with Ravenhill, all those so-called problems already existed.
The tabloid front pages, the rumors, the conflicts with my former coach, the journalists’ lies…
All of that was laid out crystal clear on the negotiating table.
And yet you still decided to bring me to England because you were desperate for goals and jersey sales.
So don’t have the sheer nerve to use my private life against us just because it makes you uncomfortable to see a couple of kisses in an elevator. ”
Her words hit me right in the chest. First, because she’s absolutely right; and second, because behind that whole tough-girl, aggressive facade, I sense something that breaks my heart: a deep, numbing, heart-wrenching emotional exhaustion.
Alicia is sick and tired of always being labeled “the problem” or “the black sheep” before anyone even bothers for a measly second to try to get to know the woman behind the jersey number.
Julián narrows his eyes, visibly annoyed by the scolding she’s just given him.
“I assure you this has absolutely nothing to do with our personal discomfort, Alicia.”
“Of course it has to do with that—don’t give me that!
” she retorts with such vehemence that she leans forward across the table.
“The thing is, as soon as a female soccer player has a pair of balls and some backbone, she stops being a passionate player and instantly becomes a troublemaker. And if she goes and commits the terrible crime of falling in love with someone who works at the club, then you’ve got the scandal of the century on your hands. ”
“Alicia, please,” Hugo interjects for the first time, raising his hands in a placating gesture, trying to play firefighter before the situation gets out of hand. “No one at this table is using those terms with you or judging your feelings.”
She turns her head toward the coach with catlike speed, glaring at him.
“You don’t need to say it out loud. Female soccer players like me have been hearing exactly the same little speech between the lines for years, Hugo.
Every time a player strays even a millimeter from the damn straight line you people at the top draw, she’s immediately cast as the villain.
And I’ve had that role assigned to me by decree ever since I set foot in this country. ”
I feel something break painfully inside my chest as I watch her like this, unprotected, baring her claws and defending herself all on her own. Always alone against the world. My Alicia, so damn strong on the outside and so incredibly vulnerable on the inside.
The sporting director then shifts his gray eyes away from Alicia and fixes his gaze on me, adjusting his tie.
“Clara, you hold a position of the highest responsibility within the medical staff’s organizational structure. As a healthcare professional, you’ll understand perfectly well that this kind of situation puts the club in a very difficult position in terms of its reputation.”
And it’s at that very moment, seeing the coldness in his eyes, that I realize Julián’s masterstroke.
They have no intention whatsoever of destroying me or firing me in some nasty way; I’m an excellent physical therapist and not easy to replace.
They’re going to go after her—with a vengeance.
If this gets out, the headlines in the English sports press won’t be about a real-life love story between two adult, independent women who fell in love at work.
No way. Sensationalism sells better. The front pages will be all about Alicia Puertas—the perennial troublemaker, the problematic star who destabilizes the coaching staff, the player incapable of separating her romantic entanglements from her professional performance.
The same old story all over again. It’s always her who ends up paying the price.
Suddenly, I notice that my breathing becomes slow, deliberate, and strangely calm. It’s a very strange sensation. It’s as if all the panic I’d been building up over the last few hours has suddenly dissipated.
I sit up straight in my chair, rest my forearms on the table, and stare intently at Julián.
“Everything you saw downstairs was solely and exclusively my responsibility, Julián,” I say in a firm voice.
Alicia turns her head toward me at lightning speed, her eyes wide with utter astonishment.
“Clara… what the hell are you talking about?” she whispers in a strained voice.
I gently shake my head, standing my ground without looking at her.
“No, Alicia. Let me speak now, please.”
I feel the weight of her gaze fixed on my cheek from the side as I focus all my attention on the sporting director.
I feel my heart pounding a thousand beats a minute inside my rib cage, as if it were about to burst out of my chest, but I force myself to sound confident, professional, and completely detached.