Page 140 of Scrum Heat

It starts subtle.

A late shoulder here. A boot left in the ruck just a second too long. One of their locks “accidentally” trips Finn as he peels out of a breakdown.

It looks small from the stands, but we know what they’re doing.

Denton Vale’s not playing for the scoreboard—they’re playing for blood.

They want to rattle us. Get in our heads and drag us into a brawl so they can claimwe’rethe threat; the dangerous ones, the unstable pack with the scent-matched omega and something to prove.

And the worst part? They’realmostgood at it.

Finn gets clipped in the ribsagain—off the ball, completely avoidable—and this time, he actually hits the ground. The whistle blows,finally, but still no card—just a ref with tired eyes and a vague gesture for cleaner play.

“Clean?!” I shout. “That was a cheap shot!”

Rory grabs the back of my jersey. “Theo—focus.”

I turn to him, furious. “That’s the third hit! They’re targeting him.”

“I know.”

“We’re not just gonna take it, are we?”

“Yes.” He breathes once. “And then we’re gonnawin.”

I look toward the sideline.

Frankie’s standing now, her desire for footage apparently long forgotten, since there’s no phone or camera in sight around her.

Her eyes locked on Finn as he pushes himself up again, clutching his ribs. Her whole body is tense. Harper’s talking to her, probably saying something reassuring, but Frankie doesn’t look away.

And somewhere behind her—among the rest of the endless crowd in the sold-out stands—someone from the OSC is watching this. Watchingus.

Waiting for one of us to snap.

I can practically hear their internal monologue now.

Unstable. Dangerous. Pack imbalance. Risk of escalation.

Nope. Not today.

I force my breath to steady and jog toward the mark.

It’s another penalty, at least; from a kickable distance, again.

I’ve made this shot a thousand times in training: thirty meters out, a slight angle to the left.

Around me, the crowd noise begins to fade. I place the ball on the tee, then take three steps back, and one to the side.

I don’t rush it. I don’t think about Marcus Vale.

No: I think about Frankie. About the way her fingers tighten on her phone when she’s nervous, and the way she kissed my cheek this morning and told me to show them what I’m made of.

I move forward, swinging my leg. It’s a clean connection—the perfect arc.

The ball goes straight through, and the crowd goeswild.

Both Tom and Coach cheer from the sideline, and Rory breathes out.

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