Page 133 of Scrum Heat

“You make it soundsomuch weirder than it actually is.”

“Did you know that ticket sales for the semi-final maxed out two hours ago?”

I sigh. “I did.”

“It’s a good thing, obviously,” she nods. “I just hope you’re prepared to be publicly claimed by four extremely sweaty men in front of a full stadium.”

I groan. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Well—you’ve already won the internet. Now you just need to make sure you win the room today.”

I nod, trying to channel composure; but every step I take feels louder than the last, and the door at the end of the hall looms closer.

Still, I can feel them. All four of them. Not here physically, but inside me, around me; that soft, invisible web of connection tugging under my skin, running hot and steady through my chest.

Jax, low and grounded. Finn, bright and protective. Theo, sharp and focused. Rory, anchored and still.

Evie stops just outside the door and turns to face me. I draw in a slow breath, then another.

“Any final advice?” I murmur.

“Yes.”

I wait, and she leans in close.

“Remember: the moment you walk into that room, you stop being the rumour. You become the story,” she says. “So tell it right.”

The door opens, then clicks shut behind us.

The boardroom is colder than I expected.

Not in temperature, but in atmosphere.

The long oak table looks like it hasn’t hosted joy in a decade as five people sit spaced evenly along it, each with a notepad, a glass of water, and the kind of expression that suggests they’d rather be doing literally anything else than talking to me. Tom’s already here, seated slightly off to the side with a laptop in front of him and a stress line between his eyebrows that looks permanent. He offers a polite smile and gestures for me to take the empty chair at the end of the table.

Evie follows behind me. She doesn’t sit—no, she stands behind me, pen already in hand, posture regal and dangerous.

“Good morning,” says the man at the center of the table. He’s older, with crisp gray hair and an Alderbridge RFC crest pinned to his lapel.

I don’t catch his name, and he doesn’t offer it.

He folds his hands. “You’re Frankie.”

It’s not a question.

“Yes,” I say evenly.

There’s a pause, then a woman to his left—mid-fifties, glasses she doesn’t seem to need—makes a note on her pad and speaks without so much as looking up at me.

“And you’re now bonded to four members of the senior squad.”

“Yes,” I repeat, steady.

“And prior to this week,” she continues, flipping to the next page, “you were bonded to only one. Mr. Rivera. The others followed…when, exactly?”

“Over the past few days,” I say, then clear my throat. “It was a mutual, consensual decision. The bonds formed organically as our relationships developed.”

Another board member snorts. Evie’s pen clicks sharply.

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