She doesn’t even care.
Four bloody months.And she still doesn’t give me the time of day.
Not after that first week when I might’ve come on a little strong.
Alright.
Maybe a lot strong.
But that was four months ago.
I backed off.
Mostly.
Doesn’t bloody matter though, because every time Chiara Giardino walks into the facility my brain goes sideways like a shopping trolley with a busted wheel.
The scrum collapses again.
“Walker!”Great Dane bellows from the sideline.“What the hell are you doing down there?Knitting?”
“Sorry, Coach!”
Tank’s laughter booms from behind me.
“You’re whipped, mate.”
“I’m not whipped.”
“You are absolutely whipped,” he says.“Four months and you still look like a stunned possum every time the physio walks past.”
“Shut up.”
Koa snorts beside him.
“Bro hasn’t even kissed her.”
“Don’t start,” I warn.
Tank grins like the bloody devil himself.
“You haven’t even touched her.”
“Exactly.”
The whole forward pack starts laughing.
“Mate,” Koa says, wiping sweat off his face, “this is painful to watch.”
“Yeah,” Tank adds.“Normally women are throwing themselves at Walker.”
“That’s because he’s pretty,” one of the props mutters.
“Shut your hole.”
Tank nudges Koa with his elbow.
“Think he even knows her last name yet?”
