Chapter 18
Chiara
I’ve always been a big girl.
Not tall.
Big in the way people mean when they’re trying to be polite about it.
Wide. Soft. Plump. Chubby. Fat.
Take your pick.
When we were kids, most of my friends looked like gangly little fillies—long legs, narrow shoulders, coltish grace that made them look like they’d eventually grow into runway models.
And then there was me.
Round cheeks.
Thick thighs.
A belly that rolled when I laughed.
A pudgy little piglet among the gazelles.
I was cute as hell—don’t get me wrong. I still am.
But growing up, the differences were obvious.
There were comments.
There were jokes.
Middle school was especially creative with the insults.
But eventually the bullies stopped bothering.
Mostly because I stopped caring.
Bodies are bodies.
And honestly? I know a lot more about them than most people.
It’s how I make my living.
Muscles, joints, ligaments, recovery cycles—my entire job revolves around understanding the human body and helping people heal theirs.
Most of my clients just happen to be elite athletes.
So when some random jock on a rival team thinks he’s going to devastate me by calling me fat?
Please.
How remarkably uninventive.
I’ve heard worse from twelve-year-olds.
Which is why when the guy starts running his mouth and making those crude gestures, I do the only professional thing to do.
I ignore him.
Eyes down.
Tablet up.
Notes, Chiara. Focus on the notes.
But then something happens.
Noah Walker happens.
He doesn’t brush it off.
Doesn’t laugh it away.
Doesn’t pretend it’s just locker room stupidity.
Instead, he drops whatever he’s doing and walks straight toward the guy.
And when Noah Walker walks with purpose, people notice.
He’s not yelling.
Not yet.
But his shoulders are squared, his jaw tight, and every step looks deliberate.
Whatever words get exchanged between them—I can’t hear them.
But I can see Noah’s face.
And it’s getting darker by the second.
I probably should say something.
Tell him to let it go.
Remind him that this is exactly how situations spiral out of control.
That if anyone realizes he’s reacting because of me, it makes this thing between us obvious.
Complicated.
Messy.
I should stop it.
But I don’t.
Because I’m standing there completely stunned.
And somewhere deep inside—buried beneath the practical part of my brain that keeps insisting this whole thing with Noah is temporary—there’s a little spark of something warm and dangerous.
Because Noah hasn’t said anything out loud.
No declarations.
No big romantic speeches.
But the way he’s standing up for me right now? Punching the hell out of that loudmouth for being rude to me?
That sure as shit feels like a declaration.
Because—well, let’s just say things got real pretty quickly.
There’s shouting.
A couple more punches.
Players jumping in to pull people apart.
And suddenly the sideline looks less like a rugby pitch and more like a triage station.
And the aftermath?
Ice packs.
Bloody faces and knuckles.
And me shoving tampons up one player’s nose to stop the bleeding—which, yes, is a real trick and something I won’t ever stop using.
Coach Dane and Coach O’Donnell from the other team storm onto the field, barking orders and dragging their players into line.
At first Great Dane looks ready to explode.
“You all know the bloody rules about sportsmanship!” he roars.
Everyone goes quiet—everyone.
And then—just when I think the entire team is about to get a lecture that will last until Christmas—he adds, “And good on you, lads, for teaching those fucking wankers how to behave! O’Donnell!
We’ll be seeing you on the field tomorrow and I sure as fuck hope those boys of yours will play like the men they pretend to be. ”
A ripple of snarls and some laughter spreads through the entire training center.
I shake my head and grin despite myself.
Because apparently this is what passes for discipline in professional rugby.
And while the coaches finish their shouting match, my eyes drift back to Noah.
He’s standing a few yards away, knuckles scraped, chest still rising and falling from the adrenaline.
For a moment, our eyes meet.
And something passes between us.
Something quiet.
Certain—and it takes my breath away.
I’ve been collecting little pieces of him lately.
The way he remembers the music I like.
The allergy pills he brought without being asked.
The tiny pink carnation he left on my pillow.
The way he feeds me dumplings like he can’t help it.
All these tiny, thoughtful things I’ve been storing away in the back of my mind for a rainy day.
Because the truth is I’m too far gone now to pretend I don’t care.
And now I’m thinking, maybe Noah Walker might care too.