Page 1 of Scrum Heat

Chapter One

Frankie

Look, I didn’tmeanto faint in front of Alderbridge RFC’s Director of PR and Internal Affairs—otherwise known as the woman most likely to ruin your life with a clipboard and a well-placed email.

But in my defense, I’d taken my suppressants, I’d marinated myself in beta-bland deodorant, and I’d even brought a color-coded portfolio.

I was ready. I wascomposed.

And thenhewalked by.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind ten minutes—back when I still had dignity, functioning scent blockers, and knees that didn’t buckle at the sight of the world's tightest compression shorts.

*

“So, Frankie, tell me: why do you want to work with us here at Alderbridge RFC?”

Such a normal interview question. So standard, so predictable.

And so deeply inappropriate for someone currently sweating like a sinner at an alpha church bake sale.

Smile, I remind myself.Sit up straight.Donotsniff.

“I love rugby,” I say brightly.

That, of course, is a lie.I love snacks. Silence. Books where no one gets concussed. I donotlove the thought of being steamrolled by six-foot muscle walls named things likeRhyswho list their weight in kilograms on dating apps.

Still, Evie—Director of PR and Internal Affairs, walking Pinterest board, and possible former sorceress—doesn't know that; and she nods with frosty interest.

Her nails are French-tipped, her bright blond ponytail is tight enough to launch a small spacecraft, and her lanyard font isembossed. Safe to say: I do not trust this woman. She’s the type of person who owns a label maker and uses it to emotionally dominate.

“I mean,” I backpedal, “I love storytelling. And rugby has stories. Grit. Triumph. A surprising amount of slow-motion footage. And, you know...shirtlessness.”

Evie’s brow arches.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “That came out weird. I meant there’s emotional narrative potential. With thighs.”

Great. I have, against all odds, just pitched sports porn to my would-be boss before 10 a.m.

“I see you’ve just graduated?” she says, gracefully changingthe subject and flipping to the last page of my résumé.

“Yes! Communications, digital strategy focus. Graduated top of my class.” (That part’s true.)

She narrows her eyes. “You ran a viral campaign?”

Technically, it was a meme. But—

“Mmhmm. Ninety thousand shares in less than twenty-four hours. It temporarily broke the student union’s socials.”

“And your internship?”

“At a café franchise,” I explain. “I managed their TikTok. We sold out of cinnamon buns for six weeks after one video.”

This is my first interview since I accidentally went into heat in the back of an Uber. I haven’t missed a suppressant dose since, and Ireallyneed this job—not just for rent money, but because my current lease (above a butcher shop that permanently smells like regret and pastrami) ends next week. If this doesn’t work out, the only other option is moving back in with my mother, who refers to suppressants asthose filthy hormone tricksand is determined to set me up with her best friend’s beta son, Nigel.

Nigel, who uses the phrase“yum-yum”without irony.

Nigel, who looks like he thinks a clitoral stimulator is a type of DJ equipment.

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