Chiara
Another tie.
And honestly?
That one was hard won.
By the time the whistle blows, half the players on both teams look like they’ve been dragged through a war zone.
I’m already mentally cataloging injuries before they even leave the field.
Bruised ribs.
One questionable knee.
Three split lips.
A whole lot of egos that will need icing along with everything else.
There are more bumps and strains after today’s game than I’ve seen in a while, but luckily nothing catastrophic.
Still.
I can’t help thinking the fight before the match probably didn’t help matters.
That and the fact they spent eighty minutes trying to flatten each other after.
As the teams shake hands, my gaze drifts across the pitch—and lands on him.
McMurray.
The jerk who made that disgusting comment about me earlier.
I only just learned his name from one of the staff.
He’s standing near midfield with his teammates, and when he catches me looking, he smirks.
Actually smirks.
The expression sends a chill down my spine.
It’s the kind of look that makes my skin crawl.
I immediately turn away and start searching the field for someone else.
For the one player who can erase that ugly feeling in my chest.
And I find him instantly.
Like I always do.
Noah.
His brilliant blue eyes are already on me.
Focused.
Steady.
