Point-Blank
Alicia
The gym at the sports complex smells like it always does: rubber, metal, and that accumulated sweat that’s seeped into the walls after thousands of hours of grueling workouts.
I always sense an almost violent energy in this sanctuary: the sharp thud of iron weights hitting the floor, the stifled gasps of my workout partners, the squeak of sneakers pivoting on the gym floor, and a blaring reggaeton track that someone has cranked up full blast on their phone to motivate everyone.
I’ve been on the stationary bike for twenty minutes, pedaling as if the devil himself were chasing me, trying to convince myself that the unbearable burning in my knee is all in my head.
I clench my fingers tightly around the handlebars, keeping up the pace as sweat trickles down the back of my neck and soaks my shirt.
My quadriceps are starting to scream at me to stop, warning me that they’re going to cramp up, but I crank up the intensity.
It’s my trademark: pushing forward. Even if it stings.
Even if it feels like the joint is going to explode into a thousand pieces.
“Ease up on the resistance a little, Alicia. I know you—you’re going to end up unable to move,” Iván, my new physical therapist, tells me with a mix of professional firmness and good-natured encouragement.
His voice snaps me out of my mental loop all at once.
Iván is leaning against one of the columns in the gym, holding a tablet, while he watches me out of the corner of his eye with that infinite patience medical staff tend to develop toward me after just two days of putting up with me.
But he isn’t Clara. And that’s why this whole process feels so incredibly strange to me. It’s too sterile. Too proper. Too cold.
I let out a snort, lower the resistance on the bike, and gradually ease off the pedals until I come to a stop.
“Don’t get carried away…” I say, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the hem of my T-shirt. “Besides, I’m still deciding whether I like you or if I’m putting you on my blacklist.”
Iván bursts out laughing, taking it in stride.
“Hey, coming from the great Alicia Puertas, the fact that you haven’t told me to get lost is already a huge win. I’ll settle for you just tolerating me.”
I get off the bike, putting my right foot down first. As soon as my left foot hits the ground, my knee protests with a sharp spasm that shoots across the joint from side to side.
I compose my face in a millisecond—a trick I’ve practiced to perfection.
Anything to keep them from suspecting I’m not quite back to one hundred percent yet.
I pop the cap off my water bottle and take a long swig, the cold water freezing my throat as I let my gaze wander around the gym.
To my left, the team’s defenders are killing themselves doing barbell squats.
On the mats in the back, the wingers are stretching while whispering among themselves.
The league is about to start, and you can feel the tension in the air.
Although, to be honest, I couldn’t care less about the start of the season; I’ve got my sights set solely on Clara.
Ever since my interview was published, social media and the news have erupted into an uncontrollable firestorm.
My phone is flooded with press notifications, missed calls from unknown numbers, inflammatory tweets, and thousands of people weighing in on my private life and passing judgment without having a clue about anything.
I’ve had to read some real nonsense from cavemen, but, against all odds, the wave of support has been overwhelming, and at the club, I’ve been welcomed with open arms. Teammates from other clubs in the league, journalists fighting tooth and nail for me, and women’s soccer legends who admit to having gone through the same ordeal.
But in the midst of this media tsunami, the only person who matters to me is her.
And I know absolutely nothing about Clara.
I screw the cap back onto the bottle so angrily that I almost strip the threads.
“You’re in la-la land again,” Iván says, having slipped up beside me. “What a stir that interview has caused, huh?”
I let out a dry laugh, without a hint of humor.
“You have no idea. I’ve opened Pandora’s box.”
He looks at me sympathetically and taps his pen lightly against the treatment table.
“Come on, hop up here. Let’s test that range of motion before the coach walks in demanding to know if you’re good to play half an hour on Sunday.”
I huff and drag myself toward the treatment table, limping just a little despite my efforts to hide it.
“Coaches are all the same. All they care about are the three points.”
“Good thing I’m a physio,” Iván defends himself with a wry smile as he helps me lie back.
“Yeah, but you talk just like them, and that scares the hell out of me.”
Iván chuckles under his breath and begins to work on my leg with gentle movements.
His hands are precise, skilled, professional.
But they’re nothing like Clara’s touch. Clara’s hands are pure dynamite—warm, comforting, and able to read my body with just a light touch.
I really should stop thinking about that—but I can’t help myself.
Clara isn’t the club’s physical therapist anymore—that chapter is long gone. But everything leads me back to her.
“Well, the swelling has gone down quite a bit,” Iván says, focused on palpating my joint. “You’ve got a bit of strain on the tendon, but it’s in pretty good shape despite how it feels to you.”
“Are you sure? Because I still get spasms when I push myself a little too hard.”
“That’s the strain. So take it easy and don’t push yourself too hard. Keep a cool head.”
I’m about to fire off one of my usual sarcastic retorts when, suddenly, someone stops right next to the treatment table. I’d recognize that scent from a thousand miles away. Asleep, drunk, or in the worst possible state.
I lift my head very slowly, and when my eyes lock directly with Clara’s, the air gets stuck in my throat and I feel like I’m suffocating.
She’s wearing dark jeans that look absolutely stunning on her, black leather boots, and a charcoal-gray coat that glistens with raindrops from outside.
Her dark hair, slightly tousled by the wind, frames her face.
My heart skips a beat so violently that I think I’m going to faint.
It’s an explosive mix of relief, a mad urge to kiss her, and a wild desire that leaves me trembling.
All around us, the conversations in the gym fade away as if someone were turning down the volume with a remote control.
My teammates start glancing over at us. Some of them are terrible at hiding it, craning their necks without a shred of shame.
But I couldn’t care less; I only have eyes for her.
Clara takes a couple of steps forward with a confidence that disarms me.
“How’s that knee?” she asks, using a professional tone, but with a velvety quality that drives me wild.
That voice runs down my spine like a high-voltage shock, giving me goosebumps instantly. I try to come up with a witty reply—one of my typical cocky lines to mask the hurricane raging in my chest—but my mind goes blank. The words have taken a summer vacation.
Iván, who hasn’t a clue about the romantic drama unfolding before him, is the first to break the ice.
“Well, look, it’s coming along nicely,” he explains, showing her the tablet screen. “The joint is responding really well, and if there are no setbacks during the high-intensity workouts, we might even have her ready to play a few minutes in the league opener.”
I see Clara nod slowly, without taking her eyes off mine for even a millimeter.
There’s a new light in her gaze—something pure, stripped of fear and unfiltered.
She’s read that damn interview. You bet she has.
You can tell by her posture, by the way she takes me in with her eyes, as if she’s decided to throw all her inhibitions out the window.
Iván keeps droning on with technical details about the recovery plan and eccentric exercises, but my mind has already checked out.
Clara moves closer. Slowly. Without hiding from anyone.
I can feel the tension throughout the entire gym.
My pulse is racing; I could swear my heartbeat is booming through the speakers.
Her eyes drift down to my mouth, and without another word, she leans in and kisses me.
Just like that, point-blank, boldly, and in front of everyone.
The entire gym fades into nothingness. Her hand cradles my jaw with a possessive tenderness that melts me, while her lips find mine with authority.
It’s not a rushed kiss or some movie-perfect kiss; it’s so much better.
It’s real. It’s Clara saying, Here I am, choosing to take the plunge in full view of the whole gym.
She savors my lips, tasting me slowly, conveying in a single second everything she feels and erasing the silence of these past two days of anguish.
I hear the echo of a muffled squeal in the background, whispers, and the sound of someone dropping a dumbbell, but I don’t care.
When she pulls away just a few millimeters, I feel her warm breath mingling with mine.
I just stare at her, dumbfounded—I can’t help it—my lips tingling and my mind struggling to believe what just happened, and she rewards me with one of those smiles of hers that I know will be the death of me someday.
“Have… have you read it?” I manage to stammer, my voice deeper and hoarser than usual.
Clara tilts her head, still caressing my cheekbone with her thumb.
“Well, right now the whole country knows we’re dating,” she replies in a delightful whisper. “And it’s funny… because I don’t remember you ever officially asking me out.”
I let out a nervous little laugh, my stomach tied in a knot of pure happiness.
“Let’s see… technically, the schedule was tight and there wasn’t room for a formal date. I got carried away with the reporter—why should I lie to you?”
Her dark eyes shine with a beautiful intensity, with something that looks very much like pure, unadulterated happiness.
“Alicia…”
I make a move to speak, but she silences me by placing a finger on my lips. And then she lets it out. Without warning. In front of twenty-something gossipy players. In front of the coaching staff and whoever else needs to hear it.
“I guess, since everyone’s found out… all that’s left for me to say is that I love you madly, Alicia Puertas.”
My heart skips a beat so violently that I swear it stops for a second.
I feel a knot in my stomach, followed by a wave of heat so intense that I have to swallow hard to keep from bursting into tears.
Clara has never confessed her feelings to me so emphatically and openly before.
Hearing her is like having a fifty-pound backpack of insecurities, fears, and loneliness—one I’ve been dragging around for half my life—lifted off my shoulders.
She gives me a sidelong smile and runs her knuckles across my cheek in a gesture that melts me.
“And that knee better be ready to play the full ninety minutes. Because I want you at your best. On the field and off it.”
The laugh that escapes me is choked, emotional, and tinged with a touch of silliness because of just how utterly happy I feel.
All around us, the gym has fallen silent.
Several of my teammates are smiling from ear to ear.
Others try to hide it by staring intently at the pulley machines, though you can tell from a mile away that they’re not missing a single detail of the soap opera.
Iván clears his throat, looking as if he’s just attended the premiere of the year.
“Well… my contract certainly didn’t specify that I had to be the third wheel. But hey, I’m happy for you two.”
I cover my face with my hands, mortified, as I let out a hearty laugh. My chest feels so full that I can barely breathe. But it’s a wonderful feeling—pure and full of light.
I open my eyes just in time to see Clara looking at me with that feline gaze that always disarms me.
“Clara…” I begin, completely captivated.
She shakes her head, amused, and winks at me.
“Don’t say another word, or I’ll kiss you again and we’ll bring training to a standstill.”
“Is that a threat or a nice promise?” I ask her, with a roguish smile I can no longer hide.
Her smile widens, free and radiant. I don’t remember her ever being so carefree—and so very herself. She’s spectacular.
“I’ll be waiting for you at my place tonight.”
I feel a shiver of heat run through my body from head to toe. Clara plants a quick peck on my lips and takes a step back, locking eyes with me.
“Don’t be late.”
She winks at me with total complicity and turns around, heading for the gym exit and leaving a powerful energy hanging in the air.
As soon as she walks through the door, I hear a suggestive whistle behind me, followed by another and a chorus of laughter and stifled applause. I sit up slowly on the treatment table, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity.
A couple of teammates approach me along with Alba, who’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Damn, you’ve got some serious guts,” Alba says, giving me an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “I’m so happy for both of you—it’s about time.”
The left winger adds in her typical playful tone:
“Well, after this high, you’ve got to score at least a hat trick on Sunday. You certainly aren’t lacking in motivation.”
Iván shakes his head, jotting down a few notes on his tablet without losing his smile.
“Come on, ladies, move along and let me work—this feels like an episode of a soap opera. Although I’ll admit it’s been the best part of my workday in years.”
I lie back down on the treatment table with a goofy grin plastered on my face, but my mind is already wandering far away from the sports complex.
It’s at Clara’s apartment, imagining the conversation that awaits us, the kisses we’re going to share, and the wild way we’re going to make love after such a long wait.