“Giardino,” I snap automatically.
That sets them off even worse.
“OHHHH!”
“Bloody hell, he’s got it bad!”
“Man’s memorized her surname!”
“Probably knows her shoe size too.”
She wears a size eight and a half US.
But I’m fucked if I’m telling that arsehole.
I shove Tank.
“Get stuffed.”
Tank just laughs harder.
Then his eyes flick past me.
Toward the sideline.
I follow his gaze.
And there she is.
Chiara.
She’s standing near the physio room door with her clipboard, watching practice like we’re a bunch of lab rats.
Brown curls pulled back.
Those serious brown eyes scanning the field.
Christ.
My chest tightens.
And just like a complete idiot—I can’t stop myself from looking.
She catches me staring.
And rolls her eyes.
Tank sees it.
Of course he bloody does.
His grin turns dangerous.
“Oh, mate,” he says quietly.“That’s tragic.”
“Piss off.”
Tank cracks his neck.
