Support Your Local Hooker (Carolina Rugby Romance #4)

Prologue Chiara

Late December in Consequence, NC

Consequence, North Carolina is not what I expected.

For starters, it’s warmer than New Jersey in December, which is a blessing. No gray slush. No icy sidewalks waiting to kill me before my first day of work.

Just bright sunshine, the faint smell of pine, and a whole lot of small-town charm.

I pull into the Carolina Rovers training complex parking lot and turn off the engine, gripping the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary.

This is it.

New job.

New town.

New year.

New start.

Exactly what I needed.

I grew up in a quiet suburb just outside Newark, New Jersey—the kind of place where everyone knows everyone’s business and your mother’s best friend still asks if you’re eating enough every time she sees you.

It’s safe. Familiar.

But it’s also the place where I made the biggest mistake of my life.

Of course it involves a man.

No, I don’t want to talk about it.

But it is why I’m here now.

Starting over.

I grab my bag, smooth my curly hair back into a ponytail, and step out of my older-than-is-reasonable Jeep Cherokee.

Professional.

Composed.

Focused.

That’s who I am.

And that’s exactly who I plan to stay.

Inside the facility, the place is already buzzing. Music thumps faintly from somewhere deeper in the building, and the smell of rubber turf and sweat hangs in the air like a warning sign.

Rugby players.

My new patients.

I square my shoulders and walk in.

There’s a woman sitting at the front desk—receptionist maybe—and she looks up with a bright smile that suggests she’s been waiting for me.

“You must be Chiara!” she says immediately.

“That obvious?” I ask.

“Well,” she says, eyeing my suitcase and the slightly shell-shocked expression on my face, “you’ve got the ‘new girl who just moved here and hasn’t yet been tackled by a 250-pound forward’ look.”

“That bad?”

“Give it time.”

I blink.

She laughs and sticks out a hand.

“Mitchell Knight said to send you straight to the indoor paddock. Practice is already underway.”

Yep. It definitely is.

The sounds of shouting, cleats, and bodies colliding echo down the hall like a small war.

I follow the noise until the hallway opens into the massive indoor field.

And then I stop.

Holy hell.

I knew rugby players were big.

But seeing them up close?

It’s like someone released a pack of Greek statues onto an unsuspecting populace.

Men built like trucks slam into each other, bodies colliding with a bone-rattling force that makes my professional brain catalog injuries automatically.

Shoulder strain.

Possible hamstring pull.

Minimum two concussions just waiting to happen.

And then there’s him.

He stands out immediately.

Massive.

Broad shoulders. Glossy hair. Striking blue eyes.

And a scowl carved permanently across his face like the world personally offended him before breakfast.

“I see you’ve noticed our resident bad boy,” the woman from the front desk says suddenly, appearing beside me like a cheerful ghost.

I jump slightly.

“Oh! Um—yeah. I’m just doing a quick catalog of who might be needing me sooner rather than later.”

“I see,” she says thoughtfully. “Well, Noah is definitely going to need you.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. He’s the team’s hooker.”

“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “He’s the team’s… what?”

My eyebrows climb so high they’re practically in my hairline.

The woman bursts out laughing.

“Sorry! I love doing that to newbies.”

She holds out her hand again.

“My name’s Finley. I’m basically in charge of all the Rovers’ social media accounts. Also, occasional chaos.”

“Ah,” I say, still trying to process the other thing she said. “Okay.”

“So,” Finley continues cheerfully, “every rugby team has a hooker. In rugby terms, that means he anchors the front row of the scrum. One of the toughest, most physical positions on the field. He throws the ball in during lineouts, takes brutal hits, and generally behaves like a man who’s fought a bar brawl before breakfast.”

“Oh!”

I feel like an idiot, but at least the terminology makes more sense now.

“Yeah,” Finley says with a grin. “Don’t worry. Everyone reacts like that the first time.”

She gestures toward the field.

“And the big guy over there? That’s Koa. He’s our number eight. Also, my boyfriend.”

Number eight? Another rugby reference I don’t get, for sure.

And as she starts rattling off names and positions from the roster, I try to keep track.

I really do.

But my gaze keeps drifting back to the same man.

Noah Walker.

The hooker.

He really is built like a tank.

And if the way he just flattened another player is anything to go by, he plays like one too. I have a feeling I’m going to be seeing a lot of him.

Finley is still yapping, and I am still staring—helplessly drawn to the man.

As if sensing my gaze, he looks up.

Our eyes meet across the field.

Clear. Sharp. Assessing.

Then—unbelievably—he winks.

I blink.

Oh no.

I know that look.

Athletes flirt.

Athletes charm.

Athletes assume every woman within fifty feet is interested.

And that is so not happening.

Not here.

No way. No how.

I step onto the sideline just as the drill ends and the team jogs toward the benches.

Sweat, testosterone, and ego roll toward me like a heat wave.

One of them whistles. Another gives me a grin that probably works on half the women in North Carolina.

“Excuse me, I gotta tell my man something,” Finley says and runs off to talk to one of the huge, scowling athletes.

I nod and I fold my arms, and wait.

Professional.

Composed.

Unimpressed.

Noah Walker stops right in front of me.

Up close, he’s even bigger. Taller by almost a foot, chest still rising from exertion, eyes glinting with curiosity.

“Hi, I’m Noah Walker. So, you here for a tour of the paddock?” he asks, voice rough.

“Chiara Giardino,” I reply and ignore his outstretched hand—no way I’m touching this man. “And that’s a big no to being a tourist.”

“Yeah, so why you here then, Love?”

“I’m the new physical therapist,” I correct.

He smirks. “Then you’ll be needing a tour sooner than later.”

“No, thanks. I got it.”

A few of his teammates snort.

He studies me like I’m an unexpected puzzle.

“Well, then, Chiara-the-physical-therapist,” he says, clearly with a trace of an accent that might be British. “Welcome to the Rovers. Maybe I can take you out to dinner tonight? Welcome you properly.”

I hold his gaze calmly.

And lay down the rule that’s going to save me a lot of trouble.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” I say. “I’m here to keep you healthy. Not entertained.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t flirt with athletes. I don’t date athletes. And I definitely don’t sleep with them.”

A few players choke on laughter behind him.

Noah Walker just grins.

Slow. Dangerous.

“Those rules for you or me, Love?”

“For both,” I reply, eyes narrowed.

What a pompous ass.

“Ah, I see, but there’s one thing you should know,” he says.

“What?” I ask because I’m obviously an idiot.

“I’m bloody terrible at following rules.”

My stomach does an annoying little flip.

I ignore it.

Because I already know something he doesn’t.

My rules aren’t negotiable.

I never date clients. Especially athletes.

And I won’t be dating Noah Walker..