Page 146 of Scrum Heat

There’s a brief break in play, and Marcus Vale jogs up next to me; all casual and calm, his mask still painted on.

“Captain to captain,” he says with a smirk. “Tell me—what’s it like knowing your omega’s getting passed around like a free sample on the sidelines?”

I stop walking, but he keeps going.

“I mean, seriously.Fouralphas? Couldn’t even pick just one or two to knot her properly? Or am I giving you guys too much credit, here—do you all just take turns holding the camera?”

My hands curl into fists, and I hear Jax exhale behind me.

“You’re really confident behind your mouth, Vale,” I say quietly. “Let me guess—you’re the one who started the trolling? Your team’s little smear campaign?”

He snorts. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, James. You sound paranoid as fuck.”

“Oh really?” I shrug. “Just all seems a little too…obvious.Frankie’s been getting anonymous comments for weeks, now; but it’s all conveniently been timed, all escalated recently to line up with this game.”

It’s his turn to shrug. “If she can’t handle a little attention, maybe she should’ve stayed out of sight.”

That’s it.

I step close—close enough he can’t dodge, and close enough no one else hears it.

“You say one more word about her,” I grunt, “and I will drag you off this pitch by your fucking larynx.”

His smirk twitches—just for a second.

I add, “And then I’ll piss on your cleats for good measure.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Rory.” Theo calls behind me. “Ball’s placed.”

I don’t break eye contact.

“Get ready to lose, Vale.”

It’s only then that I turn around and walk back to my team—back to my pack. Theo’s waiting with the ball in hand, half-stretched out to me already.

“You want this?” I ask him.

He nods once, sharp. “Every second.”

I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Then take it.”

The ref signals the penalty, and Theo places the ball.

It’s not an easy angle—just past the 10-meter line, wide right—but he doesn’t even blink.

He steps back, inhales a long, deep breath, then kicks.

It’s clean. High. Arcing through the sky like it’s been summoned by the gods themselves.

And it’s fuckingperfect.

The flags go up, and the crowd goes insane.

There’s no final whistle, yet—won’t be for another eighty seconds—but they know it, just as we do:

We’ve won.

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