The way her body fit against mine.
The way she came undone beneath me like she’d been holding herself back for months.
The way she fell asleep in my arms after, curled against my chest like she belonged there.
Then morning came.
And she bolted like I’d lit the bloody bed on fire.
And now, here we are.
Which is about the point fate—or maybe the rugby gods—decide to step in.
Because, of course, the injury happens.
Second half against the Atlanta Kings.
Scrum goes sideways after a bad feed, and the whole pack collapses into a mess of elbows and shoulders.
Someone catches me wrong while we’re untangling.
Sharp pain shoots through my shoulder and up my neck.
I finish the match.
Because that’s what you do.
But by the time we’re back in the locker room, I can barely lift my arm.
Great Dane takes one look at me and snorts.
“Well, that’s convenient.”
“Convenient?”I mutter.
“You’re about to spend a lot of time with the physio,” he says dryly.“Maybe you can fix whatever you broke between you two and get your bloody head out of your arse while you’re at it, Walker.”
The lads laugh.
But my heart does something stupid in my chest.
Because Chiara is more than a physio to me.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about her.
Not once.
Not for a single bloody minute.
So the next morning I find myself standing outside the physio room at eight in the morning.
Half an hour before my scheduled rehab.
I knock once and I don’t wait.I just push the door open.
Chiara looks up from her desk.
Her brown curls are piled into a messy bun today, and she’s wearing those glasses that make her look even more serious than usual.
