The Locker Room’s Shield
The Locker Room’s Shield
Clara
“If any of you here ever ask me again if I use my knowledge of anatomy to give massages that aren’t covered in the federation’s manual, I swear on my college degree that on Monday I’ll tell Iván to make all of you do sets of isometric squats until even your eyelashes are shaking.”
My threat, delivered with the straightest face I can muster, is immediately drowned out by a roar of laughter that makes the pub’s wooden beams rattle.
We’re sheltered on the top floor of The White Raven, a venue with traditional English charm, its walls covered with black-and-white photos of the club, historic scarves, and a pungent smell of old wood, malt beer, and meatloaf.
It’s the team’s private refuge, the only place in the city where management doesn’t set foot and where the players can shed their elite-athlete armor to be, quite simply, a group of girls in their twenties trying to process the pressure of their league debut.
Next to me, Alicia nearly chokes on her glass of water. Her cheeks are flushed from laughter, her hair is tousled, and she throws an arm around my shoulders with a confidence and ease that still make my heart skip a beat.
“Don’t threaten them—these girls are capable of injuring themselves on purpose just to see if Iván follows your methods too,” Alicia chimes in, giving me a quick kiss on the temple that sparks a chorus of teasing and whistling among the diners.
“Come on, Alicia, show some respect for the single women on the team!” roars Sonia, the left winger and the locker room’s official clown, raising her pint of beer with a dramatic gesture.
“I’ve got enough trauma already dealing with your mood swings during practice without having to watch you two ooze sickly sweet love during dinner.
Last week’s gym spectacle was enough. I almost got hyperglycemia from all the sugar you were giving off! ”
“You’re just jealous because Miss Forward here only has eyes for me,” I fire back with a mischievous smile, earning applause from the rest of the table.
Seeing them like this, joking around and relaxed, brings me such immense relief that I feel my shoulders finally loosen.
I’m not going to lie: I came to this dinner with my stomach in knots.
It was the ultimate social litmus test. After my resignation and the media frenzy the tabloids tried to stir up following Alicia’s interview, I was terrified that my presence here would be awkward.
I was worried the players would see me as a distraction, as the cause of a rift on the coaching staff just a week before the start of the season.
But the Ravenhill FC locker room is cut from a different cloth.
“Joking aside, Clara,” Alba, the captain, interjects, adopting a more measured and mature tone as she rests her elbows on the table.
“We wanted you to come today because, even though you no longer have access to the training facility, you’re still one of us.
What you did… the way you stood up to the board so they wouldn’t use your relationship as a weapon against the team… taught us all a lesson.”
The players at the table nod solemnly. The captain holds my gaze with a respect that moves me deeply.
“This locker room has been holding its breath for a long time over certain comments from the board and the press,” she continues, glancing sideways at Alicia and then at me.
“They’re always asking us to be discreet, as if who we are were a problem.
Seeing that you chose to leave with your head held high rather than submit to their stupid moral clauses has brought us closer together than any of the coach’s tactical talks.
On Sunday, we’re not just playing for the three points.
We’re playing to show those old suits in the boxes that this team is united from within.
Whoever messes with one of us messes with all of us. ”
I feel my throat tighten with emotion. I slide my hand under the table and reach for Alicia’s.
Her fingers—long and strong—instantly intertwine with mine, squeezing them with a firmness that conveys all her strength to me.
I look at those girls—some of them barely more than kids who’ve had to grow up the hard way in elite soccer—and I realize that my resignation wasn’t an ending, but the beginning of something much bigger.
“Thank you, girls,” I manage to say, my voice a little hoarse.
“I’m only asking one thing of you: don’t let the noise from the outside distract you from the game.
The press can be destructive; they’re out for sensationalism, they’ll try to snap photos of anything or fish for controversial statements.
Don’t give them the satisfaction. Your only response has to be the ball. ”
“We’re going to give those vultures an answer that’ll force them to reach for a thesaurus so they don’t have to keep using the word ‘thrashing,’” Sonia blurts out with her usual swagger, drawing another round of collective cheers.
Dinner unfolds amid anecdotes, shared dishes, and a lighthearted, comedic atmosphere that makes me forget—for a few hours—the vertigo of my new situation as an unemployed woman.
Around midnight, we say our goodbyes at the back door of the pub.
The night air is cool, laden with that typical humidity that cleanses the atmosphere.
The players file toward their cars in groups, sharing laughs, perfectly united.
Alicia and I are the last to leave, waiting for the parking lot to empty. She wraps her arms around my waist from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder as we gaze out at the deserted street.
“I told you so,” she whispers in my ear, in that warm tone that gives me goosebumps. “They love you. They respect you. This locker room has a memory, and it knows exactly who’s given everything for them over the years.”
“I know,” I reply, turning in her arms to face her, savoring the closeness of her dark eyes. “It was beautiful. But now comes the hard part. Tomorrow is the last practice before the opener, and the press will be swarming the gate at the training facility. You all have to keep a cool head.”
Alicia flashes that confident smile that’s so characteristic of her and plants a resounding kiss right on my lips.
“Let them talk, Clara. Tomorrow you’ll see how an elite forward works.”
· · ·
Saturday morning dawns with a leaden sky, a thick gray that threatens to break at any moment. It’s the day of the final closed-door practice, the preparatory session where set-piece strategies are finalized and the starting lineup is confirmed.
Although I no longer have any contractual obligations, I’ve decided to drive Alicia to the vicinity of the facilities; we officially moved into her apartment just three days ago, and we’re still adjusting to the schedule of our new domestic routine.
Besides, Iván—my deputy in the medical department and now acting head—has asked me to stop by informally to supervise the final neuromuscular taping he’ll be applying to Alicia’s knee before she steps onto the field.
As soon as we turn onto the main avenue leading to Ravenhill FC’s training complex, reality hits us head-on.
It’s a veritable media circus. Dozens of journalists, photographers with gigantic telephoto lenses, and British television news trucks are crammed against the metal gates, braving the light rain that’s just starting to fall.
As soon as they recognize Alicia’s SUV, a flurry of camera flashes erupts, aggressively striking the windshield.
The reporters practically pounce on the hood, stretching out their microphones, desperately seeking the sensational image: the team’s star and the former physical therapist together in the same vehicle.
I feel the tension spike suddenly. My fingers dig into the dashboard, and I notice my breathing becoming shallow.
“Stay calm, Clara. Don’t look to the sides—look at me,” Alicia orders in a voice of absolute coldness and control.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.
She’s completely unflappable. Her hands are firmly on the steering wheel, her jaw clenched, and her gaze fixed on the security barrier that the club guards are struggling to open through the crowd.
There isn’t a single flicker of doubt in her eyes; it’s the same expression of total concentration she wears when facing stoppage time in a final.
The car drives through the gate, which closes immediately behind us, leaving behind the shouts of reporters calling out leading questions about “the locker room scandal” or “the team’s ethics.”
Alicia parks in her reserved spot, turns off the engine, and turns toward me. She takes my hands—which are trembling slightly—and kisses them with a calmness that strikes me as almost miraculous given the storm raging outside.
“Are you okay?” she asks me with infinite tenderness.
“Yes,” I nod, taking a deep breath. “It’s just that… it’s shocking to see how aggressively they’re hunting for a scoop. It’s as if their whole lives revolve around destroying something beautiful.”
“Those jerks don’t give a shit about soccer, and they don’t give a shit about us either, Clara.
They’re just looking for cheap thrills,” Alicia declares, letting out a small, scornful laugh.
“But they’ve picked the wrong opponent. Now, come with me.
I want you to be there when Iván tapes my knee. Your judgment is still law to me.”
· · ·
The inside of the facility feels like an armored bunker.
Security has reinforced the entrances, and the atmosphere in the hallways is one of absolute focus.
As we enter the medical department, Iván greets us with a relieved smile that lights up his face; the poor guy has noticeable dark circles under his eyes from the responsibility that’s fallen on him, but he maintains his composure impeccably.