Chapter 2
Chiara
Oh my God.
Ouch!
That had to hurt.
I’m standing near the sideline when Tank absolutely steamrolls Noah Walker like a runaway truck, and I wince in professional sympathy even as half the team starts laughing like idiots.
Rugby players.
Honestly.
I shake my head and walk to the therapy room to get ice and the usual things ready for after practice. Judging from that hit, I might need more than usual.
I frown as I consider the possible injuries and dismiss them one by one.
I mean Tank is certainly capable of doing serious damage, but I doubt he would to his own teammate.
It all happened so fast.
One second, I’d been rolling my eyes at Noah and his ridiculous, intense staring. The next he was flat on his back.
Seriously, the man is a menace. He should’ve been paying attention to what he was doing and not glaring at me.
I know I probably bruised his ego because I didn’t swoon the first time he looked my way.
But I mean, really.
He does this broody little watching-every-move-I-make thing every time I’m within twenty feet of him.
And it is ridiculous.
I know what the real draw is.
I said no.
That’s it. That’s the whole mystery.
One New Year’s Eve proposition, a firm “not happening,” and now the man acts like I personally insulted his ancestors.
But what am I supposed to do?
Fall into bed with a hot rugby player with an accent just because he snaps his fingers?
Puhleeze.
I may be new here, but I’m not stupid.
These guys are players.
On the field.
And off the field.
If you know what I mean.
And sure, Noah Walker is, um, objectively attractive.
Dark hair. Amazing cheek bones. Cleft in his chin. Striking blue eyes.
Built like a brick wall.
But that’s exactly the problem.
Men like that don’t chase women like me. Not for real, anyway. Not for anything other than a quick roll in the hay.
And honestly? Who has time for that?
It’s ludicrous.
He’s just too damn pretty for me.
The man looks like he belongs on the cover of magazines.
And I absolutely do not.
Besides, how long before the chubby physical therapist gets boring?
Probably not long.
And if my pop taught me anything growing up in Jersey, it was one very crude and very old saying.
Don’t shit where you eat.
And I don’t plan to.
I came here for a job.
Consequence is my home now.
Working for the Carolina Rovers is what I do.
I’m not about to ruin all that for what would probably be a brief, disappointing fling.
Because let’s be honest—guys that good-looking usually don’t bother putting in the effort.
Geezus.
Why am I even thinking about that?
I do not care how Noah Walker is in bed.
Absolutely not.
“Are you sure, Love?”
Oh, fuck no.
Warning signals are going off in my brain, but I don’t look up.
Not yet.
“If you like, I could give you a demonstration.”
My head snaps up.
And there he is.
Standing in the doorway of the physio room.
Sweaty. Slightly bruised. Smirking.
Noah Walker.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
My stomach drops as realization hits.
I’ve been muttering out loud.
Just fucking great.
I fold my arms immediately, professional mask snapping firmly into place.
“If you’re here to flirt,” I say coolly, “you can turn around and limp right back onto the field.”
His smirk deepens.
“I’m here because Tank flattened me like a bloody bus,” he says.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
He steps into the room anyway, ducking slightly under the doorway like the oversized menace he is.
“Now, Love, is that anyway to treat a patient?”
Up close, he’s even bigger.
And annoyingly handsome.
But he’s also right. Technically, he is my patient.
I point at the treatment table.
“Sit.”
He obeys, still watching me with that lazy, amused look.
Like this whole situation is entertaining.
“Where does it hurt?” I ask.
“Mostly my pride.”
“That isn’t a medical condition.”
He chuckles.
“Ribs took a knock.”
I press gently along his side, clinical and focused.
Professional.
Very professional.
I’m not even looking at his tattoos while I work. And he has so many of them. Sexy little designs that are always peeking out from his beneath his clothing.
I’m dying to see them in their completion, but that’s not likely to happen.
Unless Noah decides to streak across the field one day.
I have to blink against the mental image that just invaded my wandering mind.
My fingers continue to move over his side. He sucks in a breath and I pause.
“Yeah, right there.”
“Bruised,” I say. “Nothing serious.”
“Shame.”
“Why is that?”
His eyes meet mine.
Molten.
Dangerous.
“Would’ve been a good excuse to see you more often.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of my head.
“Walker.”
“Chiara.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yet here I am.”
I step back, crossing my arms again.
“Just put some ice on it tonight. If it still bothers you, I’ll wrap it before practice tomorrow.”
He nods but still sits there.
“You’re cleared to go.”
He doesn’t move.
Instead, he leans back on his hands like he’s got nowhere else in the world to be.
“You know,” he says casually, “most women don’t mind a bit of attention.”
“I’m not most women.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
He stands slowly.
And for one second we’re much too close.
Close enough that I can smell soap and sweat and something annoyingly nice.
Close enough that my traitorous brain whispers, danger.
He tilts his head slightly.
“So,” he says after a moment, voice dropping just enough to make my stomach do an annoying little flip, “are you still thinking about whether I’d be disappointing in bed?”
My face goes nuclear.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, mortified. “You heard all of that?”
He leans one broad shoulder against the doorframe, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Hard not to notice when someone’s muttering about my bedroom performance across the training field.”
“I was not—”
“You absolutely were.”
I point toward the door, trying to salvage what little dignity I have left.
“You need to leave.”
“Why? Afraid you’ll keep talking?”
“I am a medical professional,” I say stiffly.
“And I’m an athlete under your care,” he replies smoothly. “Seems like we should communicate.”
“This isn’t communication. This is you being insufferable.”
His grin widens.
“Yet you’re still blushing.”
I groan and drag a hand over my face.
“Walker.”
“Chiara.”
“Get out.”
He pushes off the doorframe but doesn’t move very far. Instead he leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret.
“For the record,” he says, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, “if you ever decide you’d like to test that theory, you just let me know.”
My heart stutters.
“Because for you, Love? I am more than happy to set the record straight.”
My mouth falls open.
“You are unbelievable.” I try for stern, but it comes out breathy.
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Out.”
“Alright, alright.”
He backs toward the door, still smiling like he just had the time of his life embarrassing me.
“See you around, Doc.”
“And Walker?”
He pauses.
“If you flirt with me again, I’m assigning you extra stretching drills.”
His grin turns positively wicked.
“Careful,” he says. “Sounds like you want me back in here.”
And then he’s gone.
The door closes.
Silence fills the room.
I collapse into my chair and cover my face with both hands.
Because this is exactly the situation I promised myself I’d avoid.
Still, I have the horrible feeling Noah Walker is just getting started.
And if he does turn on the charm for real?
I might go back on my word not to get mixed up with a rugby player—and the consequences of that could be catastrophic.