Chapter 17
Noah
Last night was incredible.
I got to the motel room before Chiara did, slipped my bag into the closet before she could start arguing about boundaries, and made myself at home.
Took a shower.
Ordered Chinese.
Waited for her.
Then she walked in and stopped dead in the doorway, staring at me like I’d lost my mind.
Which, to be fair, I probably had.
Because there I was—standing in her motel room, fresh out of the shower, acting like I had any right to the place.
Like I had any right to her.
Christ.
The look on her face alone made the whole thing worth it.
We ate.
Well—mostly I fed her, which turns out to be my new favorite pastime.
Something about the way her lips part when I hold up a dumpling or a bite of lo mein… yeah. I could get used to that very quickly.
We talked, too.
Mostly nonsense.
The kind of things people talk about when they’re comfortable without even realizing it.
TV shows we both pretend we don’t binge-watch.
Music we grew up with.
Turns out we were both raised on a lot of the same old punk bands, which surprised the hell out of me.
Not many people I meet get excited about that sort of thing.
But Chiara does.
Her eyes lit up when I mentioned X-Ray Spex and The Germs, and when she admitted she used to blast Dead Kennedys in her room as a teenager, I knew I was in serious trouble.
We even got into an argument about whether the New York Dolls were underrated or just nuts.
And when she started humming a Ramones song under her breath while stealing my spring roll?
Yeah, I was done for.
We laughed.
Really laughed.
The kind that sneaks up on you when you forget you’re supposed to be keeping emotional distance.
And then, once we’d both had our fill of dumplings and noodles…
I had dessert.
And nothing on earth compares to Chiara Giardino when she lets herself go.
The woman has absolutely ruined me.
Wrapped me around her finger without even realizing it.
And the maddest part?
She still thinks this thing between us is temporary.
Like I’m going to wake up one day and decide I’m finished with her.
Not bloody likely.
We fell asleep sometime after the second shower.
And then we woke up tangled together and made a complete mess of the bed again before my alarm went off.
Which is a novelty for us, honestly.
We’ve mostly been stealing moments here and there since that first night.
Actually waking up beside her?
Dangerous. Addicting.
Because it makes me want that every morning.
The image of Chiara sprawled across those motel sheets—hair everywhere, curves on full display like some kind of erotic feast—slides straight into my head at exactly the wrong moment during practice warm-ups.
BAM.
A rugby ball smacks me square in the side of the head.
“Fuck!” I bark.
“Where’s your head, bruh?” Koa Jackson calls from across the pitch.
Tank claps him on the shoulder and they high-five like the pair of arseholes they are.
“Get yer shit together, lads! Run it again!” Coach Dane shouts.
I shake it off and reset for the drill.
And I try—honestly, I do—to focus.
But my mind keeps wandering back to this morning.
The way I slipped out of the room before Chiara woke up.
The way she looked sleeping there, curled into the pillow like she belonged in bed—my bed.
I left her a pink carnation right on the pillow I slept on before I went.
Swiped it from the continental breakfast tray the hotel had delivered upstairs.
A bit cheeky maybe.
But I liked the idea of her waking up and knowing I’d been thinking about her.
I also switched the room charges to my card at the front desk.
She’d probably argue about that if she knew.
Bullheaded?
Old-fashioned?
Maybe.
Definitely.
But there’s no universe where I let my girl pay for things while I’m around.
And I plan on being around.
With that thought in mind, I drag my attention back to practice.
Training is in an air-conditioned indoor facility, which is grand because Texas is so damn hot it makes me wonder if Hell can rival it.
The next two hours are brutal.
Full-contact drills.
Scrum resets.
Conditioning runs.
We’re sharing the field with one of the rival clubs in the tournament, which means the usual trash talk starts almost immediately.
It’s just guy nonsense.
Nothing serious.
I don’t pay much attention to it.
Not until I see her.
Chiara.
Walking along the sideline with her tablet in hand, curly hair bouncing as she moves from player to player, checking notes and watching the drills.
She’s wearing a pair of short gym shorts that show way too much of her creamy thighs, a tank top low enough to show her ample cleavage, and now I think I’m actually drooling. She has a half-zipped hoodie on over it, likely because the AC is on full blast.
It’s nothing obviously sexy.
But the way she fills it out? Christ, I’m about to sport a half-chub.
My gorgeous little physio.
Professional as ever.
I’m about to walk to her when a group of guys from the other team blocks the way.
And then I hear it.
Some prick from the Twisters says something loud enough for half the field to hear.
“Oy, get a load of that one,” he says.
I glance over just in time to see him staring at Chiara.
“She’s a little fat, but I reckon I could bend her over and watch that arse jiggle when she’s taking all eight inches of me.”
He makes a crude gesture to go with it.
A few of the Rovers go still.
Tank’s head snaps up.
Koa mutters something under his breath.
But my attention is locked on Chiara.
Because she heard him.
I can see it in the way her shoulders tighten.
The way her cheeks flush pink.
The way she looks down at her tablet like she’s trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
Professional.
That’s my girl.
Trying to ignore it.
But she shouldn’t have to.
Not with me standing right here.
I drop the ball and walk straight toward the bastard.
No hesitation.
No second thoughts.
I get right up in his face and grab him by the collar.
“What the fuck did you just say?” I growl.
He grins like he thinks this is funny.
“What? Come on, mate. If you’re already shaggin’ the little piggy, I’m willing to share.”
Something inside my head goes white.
And before I even think about it—I hit him.
Hard.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.