Precision.
Instinct.
And I’ve always had it.Even back when I was a kid in London with my Da.
We didn’t have much growing up.Not a pot to piss in, as he liked to say.
Just a cramped flat, cheap boots, and a dream that rugby might get us somewhere better.
People doubted me—of course, they did.And I spent years proving I belong here.That this—on the field—is where I belong.
When I was twelve, we moved to New Zealand.
Best thing that ever happened to me.
Because that’s where I learned how to play the game properly.
Strength.Size.Speed.
And one uncanny bloody ability to hook the ball out of a scrum every chance I got.
It carried me all the way here.
All the way to the Carolina Rovers.
And now?
Now I’m getting yelled at by my coach because I can’t stop thinking about one stubborn woman who refuses to look at me twice.
“Again!”Great Dane shouts.
We lock in.
Shoulders slam together.
The pressure hits like a truck.
And just as the ball rolls in—I glance up.
Because the physio office door opens.
And there she is.
Chiara Giardino.
Dark curls pulled back.Glasses perched on her nose today.Clipboard tucked against her chest as she watches practice with that same cool, clinical expression.
Like we’re all just anatomy diagrams waiting to be labeled.
My chest tightens.
Bloody hell.
She’s so pretty it’s ridiculous.
Who has a mouth like that?And eyes—who else has got those big, gorgeous eyes with short, thick lashes and a splattering of light freckles right across her nose?
She drives me wild—and worse?
