Chapter 1
Noah
Late March in Consequence, NC
It’s spring.
Opening day is next week.
End of March like always.
Which means Great Dane has been giving us absolute hell.
“All of you are slow, dumb, and playing like shite!” he roars from the sidelines as we reset the scrum for the fourth time in ten minutes.
Coach’s voice could probably crack concrete.
Normally I’d be enjoying this part.
The grind. The hits.
The bone-deep satisfaction of smashing another bloke backwards into the turf.
But lately?
My head’s not in it.
Not even close.
Because every bloody time I try to focus on the drill, my eyes drift.
Right to the same spot.
The physio office just off the weight room. Where Chiara Giardino—bane of my existence—has been working for the last four months.
Four. Bloody. Months.
Ever since she walked into the facility in that neat little ponytail with those sharp brown eyes and that Jersey Girl attitude that says she’d rather staple her own hand to a desk than flirt with a rugby player.
And I’ve been useless ever since.
“Walker!”
Great Dane’s voice snaps like a whip.
I blink and realize the ball’s already gone through the scrum.
Shit.
“Where the hell were you looking?” he bellows.
“Nowhere, Coach.”
“That’s the bloody problem!”
The lads laugh under their breath as we reset again.
Tank—Hudson Jackson—grins at me from the second row.
“You’re losing it, mate.”
“Shut up.”
“Been losin’ it for about four months. Timing is sus,” he mutters.
“I said shut it.”
Everyone knows.
Hard to hide when the team hooker suddenly forgets how to do the one job he’s been doing since he was sixteen. Back when I was a scrapper, looking to break into the sport.
Hook the ball.
Simple, really.
Anchor the front row.
Take the hits.
Snap the ball back with your foot once it’s fed into the scrum.
Most people think the position’s about brute strength.
It’s not.
It’s timing.
Precision.
Instinct.
And I’ve always had it. Even back when I was a kid in London with my Da.
We didn’t have much growing up. Not a pot to piss in, as he liked to say.
Just a cramped flat, cheap boots, and a dream that rugby might get us somewhere better.
People doubted me—of course, they did. And I spent years proving I belong here. That this—on the field—is where I belong.
When I was twelve, we moved to New Zealand.
Best thing that ever happened to me.
Because that’s where I learned how to play the game properly.
Strength. Size. Speed.
And one uncanny bloody ability to hook the ball out of a scrum every chance I got.
It carried me all the way here.
All the way to the Carolina Rovers.
And now?
Now I’m getting yelled at by my coach because I can’t stop thinking about one stubborn woman who refuses to look at me twice.
“Again!” Great Dane shouts.
We lock in.
Shoulders slam together.
The pressure hits like a truck.
And just as the ball rolls in—I glance up.
Because the physio office door opens.
And there she is.
Chiara Giardino.
Dark curls pulled back. Glasses perched on her nose today. Clipboard tucked against her chest as she watches practice with that same cool, clinical expression.
Like we’re all just anatomy diagrams waiting to be labeled.
My chest tightens.
Bloody hell.
She’s so pretty it’s ridiculous.
Who has a mouth like that? And eyes—who else has got those big, gorgeous eyes with short, thick lashes and a splattering of light freckles right across her nose?
She drives me wild—and worse?
She doesn’t even care.
Four bloody months. And she still doesn’t give me the time of day.
Not after that first week when I might’ve come on a little strong.
Alright.
Maybe a lot strong.
But that was four months ago.
I backed off.
Mostly.
Doesn’t bloody matter though, because every time Chiara Giardino walks into the facility my brain goes sideways like a shopping trolley with a busted wheel.
The scrum collapses again.
“Walker!” Great Dane bellows from the sideline. “What the hell are you doing down there? Knitting?”
“Sorry, Coach!”
Tank’s laughter booms from behind me.
“You’re whipped, mate.”
“I’m not whipped.”
“You are absolutely whipped,” he says. “Four months and you still look like a stunned possum every time the physio walks past.”
“Shut up.”
Koa snorts beside him.
“Bro hasn’t even kissed her.”
“Don’t start,” I warn.
Tank grins like the bloody devil himself.
“You haven’t even touched her.”
“Exactly.”
The whole forward pack starts laughing.
“Mate,” Koa says, wiping sweat off his face, “this is painful to watch.”
“Yeah,” Tank adds. “Normally women are throwing themselves at Walker.”
“That’s because he’s pretty,” one of the props mutters.
“Shut your hole.”
Tank nudges Koa with his elbow.
“Think he even knows her last name yet?”
“Giardino,” I snap automatically.
That sets them off even worse.
“OHHHH!”
“Bloody hell, he’s got it bad!”
“Man’s memorized her surname!”
“Probably knows her shoe size too.”
She wears a size eight and a half US.
But I’m fucked if I’m telling that arsehole.
I shove Tank.
“Get stuffed.”
Tank just laughs harder.
Then his eyes flick past me.
Toward the sideline.
I follow his gaze.
And there she is.
Chiara.
She’s standing near the physio room door with her clipboard, watching practice like we’re a bunch of lab rats.
Brown curls pulled back.
Those serious brown eyes scanning the field.
Christ.
My chest tightens.
And just like a complete idiot—I can’t stop myself from looking.
She catches me staring.
And rolls her eyes.
Tank sees it.
Of course he bloody does.
His grin turns dangerous.
“Oh, mate,” he says quietly. “That’s tragic.”
“Piss off.”
Tank cracks his neck.
“Tell you what.”
“Don’t.”
“Gonna help you out.”
“I swear to God, Jackson—”
Too late.
The whistle blows and the next drill starts.
We line up for contact work.
Ball comes out.
Tank barrels forward like a freight train.
Straight at me.
“Oi—”
WHAM.
The bastard absolutely levels me.
Not illegal.
But definitely not friendly either.
I hit the turf hard.
Wind knocked clean out of me.
“Jesus Christ!” I wheeze.
Tank looms over me.
“Oh, shit,” he says with absolutely zero sincerity. “You alright there, mate?”
“You just killed me!”
“Bit dramatic.”
Great Dane jogs over.
“Walker, you good?”
I sit up slowly.
“Yeah. Just got trucked by this bloody idiot.”
Tank pats my shoulder like he’s consoling a dying relative.
“Probably should get that checked.”
“I’m fine.”
Coach squints at me.
“You look like shit.”
“I always look like shit.”
“Go see the physio.”
The whole pack immediately starts snickering.
My eyes narrow.
“You did that on purpose.”
Tank shrugs innocently.
“Accidents happen.”
Koa grins.
“Better go see Chiara, bro.”
“Fuck all of you.”
Tank claps me on the back.
“Good luck, Romeo.”
I flip them off and jog toward the sideline.
And as much as I hate to admit it—my heart starts pounding the closer I get to her.
Because it’s been four months since I first saw her, and Chiara Giardino still does things to my head no opponent ever has.
And if Tank thinks I’m whipped now?
He ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
Seriously though, this woman’s got my head so completely twisted I can’t keep going on like this.
Something’s gotta give.
Maybe Tank flattening me like a runaway freight train wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened.
Because now?
I’ve got a reason to walk straight into Chiara Giardino’s office—and finally find out if this bloody obsession of mine has even the slightest chance of becoming something real.