Not even close.
Because every bloody time I try to focus on the drill, my eyes drift.
Right to the same spot.
The physio office just off the weight room.Where Chiara Giardino—bane of my existence—has been working for the last four months.
Four.Bloody.Months.
Ever since she walked into the facility in that neat little ponytail with those sharp brown eyes and that Jersey Girl attitude that says she’d rather staple her own hand to a desk than flirt with a rugby player.
And I’ve been useless ever since.
“Walker!”
Great Dane’s voice snaps like a whip.
I blink and realize the ball’s already gone through the scrum.
Shit.
“Where the hell were you looking?”he bellows.
“Nowhere, Coach.”
“That’s the bloody problem!”
The lads laugh under their breath as we reset again.
Tank—Hudson Jackson—grins at me from the second row.
“You’re losing it, mate.”
“Shut up.”
“Been losin’ it for about four months.Timing is sus,” he mutters.
“I said shut it.”
Everyone knows.
Hard to hide when the team hooker suddenly forgets how to do the one job he’s been doing since he was sixteen.Back when I was a scrapper, looking to break into the sport.
Hook the ball.
Simple, really.
Anchor the front row.
Take the hits.
Snap the ball back with your foot once it’s fed into the scrum.
Most people think the position’s about brute strength.
It’s not.
It’s timing.
