About the first time I hooked a ball clean out of a pile of bodies when I was fifteen, and he swore right then I’d go pro.
It’s his way of saying he’s proud.
So yeah, I stayed on the phone longer than I meant to.
But now I’m late.
And I’m bloody well panicking.
Because Chiara isn’t exactly the type to linger at team parties.
She shows up, says hello, makes polite conversation, and slips out the door before half the lads have finished their first beer.
Which means if I missed my shot tonight?
I might actually lose my mind.
“Yo, Walker!”
Someone claps my shoulder as I step into the room.
I nod and wave without even looking at who it is.
Not stopping.
Not tonight.
Normally I’d hang around, talk shop, maybe let some sponsor buy me a drink and listen to them ask what a hooker does for the twentieth time.
But now?
Now, I’m on the hunt for far better company than some old bloke wanting to debate scrum technique.
Come on, Chiara.
Where are you, Love?
The room is packed.Music pounding, people laughing, screens replaying highlights from the match.
I scan the crowd once.
Twice.
And then—there she is.
My breath leaves my lungs.
She’s standing near the bar.
And Christ.
She looks gorgeous.
Little black dress.
Tiny flowers scattered across it.
The fabric hugs her curves like it was bloody designed to torture me.
