Page 147 of Scrum Heat

Finn tackles Theo first, knocking him to the turf. Jax lets out a sharp, feral yell—rare for him, but it cuts through the stadiumlike lightning. Ben and Ollie sprint across the field, mobbing everyone.

And I laugh.

Through it all, I just stand there andlaugh.

We did it. Weactuallydid it.

By the time I can process everything happening around me—the whistle finally being blown, confirming our victory, the crowd losing their minds in the stands around us—Frankie’s already halfway through the gate, her hair flying, mouth wide open, and eyes on us like we just rewrote the stars. Harper’s beside her, the pair of them sprinting at full pelt, and I watch as Theo stumbles up to meet her first with arms spread wide, half-laughing, half-crying.

A few others join us all on the pitch to celebrate the victory, and then Finn reaches Frankie. I keep my eyes on them and smile as he picks her up like she weighs nothing, spins her once, then sets her back down just in time for Jax to pull her in and press his forehead to hers.

I’m itching to head over to her, to them; but I can’t—not yet.

There’s one thing left to do.

I walk to center field, toward the ref. Marcus Vale’s waiting there, surrounded by the disappointed faces of his team, who are all still very much pretending not to be crushed by the scoreboard.

I’m usually a lot more humble about these kinds of things—after all, nobody likes to be on the losing side—but fuck ‘em. These guys had it coming.

He offers his hand, sneering as he speaks.

“Congratulations. That was one hell of a match,” he says. “Shame your girl’s the only real headline.”

I take his hand, and squeeze.

Hard.

Until his knees shift and his smirk falters.

“Say her name again, Vale,” I say, leaning in close. “And let’s see how fastImake the front page.”

Marcus grits his teeth and tries to pull away, but I just squeeze tighter.

He winces, a crack forming in that smug little façade, and only then do I let go.

He stumbles back, face tight, eyes flashing. Then he turns—fast—and walks off without another word.

I stand there for a second longer, but I don’t watch him leave. Instead, I allow myself to drink in this moment, this accomplishment, thisvictory.I let the roar of the crowd crash around me, let the sweat cling to my back, the turf burn sting beneath my taped wrists, the bond in my chest hum steady and low like it’s been waiting for me to look up.

Then I turn, and she’s there. In the middle of the field, hair wild from the wind, cheeks flushed. She’s standing completely still, eyes locked on mine, as if the whole stadium doesn’t exist.

She starts toward me, and I don’t move.

I wait. Let her cross the distance. Let her reach me.

Because that’s how it’s always felt.

Like she’s the only thing I’ve ever been waiting on.

I open my arms when she gets close enough. She steps into them without hesitation and wraps her own arms around my middle. I exhale deeply as she presses her face to my chest, and I hold her tight. Tighter than I should do, probably; but I can’t help it. My body’s still ringing from everything—rage, control, effort, pride—but this calms all of it.

“You did it,” she says quietly, voice muffled into my jersey. “You led them.”

“No,” I murmur into her hair. “Wedid.”

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, and when she smiles, I finally let go of everything I’ve been holding back since the first whistle blew.

I smile back, and then I kiss her.

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