Page 27 of Scrum Heat

Chapter Eight

Frankie

This is fine. Everything’s fine.

I am not having a slow-motion breakdown at the local rugby club while directing four obscenely hot alphas in what Evie calls sponsor-friendly thirst trap content, and Idefinitelydidn’t almost drop my phone because Jax did a pull-up and looked vaguely threatening about it.

Nope. Everything’s cool. Totally normal, in fact.

We’ve come to the Alderbridge RFC pitch, in my first officialtown outing. It’s a proper training facility—grass field, goalposts, branded cones, and an outdoor tap that Theo has already weaponised. I’ve been crouched behind the camera—okay, fine, my phone—saying things like “a little to the left” and “hold that pose” and “Theo, for the love of god, put the hose down.”

To be fair, he did put it down.

Afterhe sprayed it across his abs first.

Honestly, the man is amenace. He’s been treating this like an audition for something illegal: mugging for the camera, flexing like it’s foreplay, and spraying himself with the damn hose.

“Just getting my reps in,” he said, while shirtless (despite my protests), misted, and fully aware of his own thighs.

Rory is the complete opposite. The team captain followed my every direction without theatrics. He just got on with it: he did the drills, refused eye contact, and looked like he was contemplating filing an HR report the entire time.

He did growl at Theo twice, though, which predictably made Theo worse.

For the most part, Jax didn’t even acknowledge the camera—though that’s no real surprise, since I’m quickly learning that he barely acknowledges gravity. It was as if he heard the wordslight training drillsand took them as a personal challenge from god. Within minutes, he was doing pushups on a tree stump, deadlifting the tire, and using a bungee cord and a metal pole to improvise resistance training.

I wasn’t filming content—I was documenting a rogue fitness cult.

He was focused and intense. He didn’t say much, but honestly, the quiet was louder than any flirting. Besides, he was gorgeous, and he made for excellent thirst-traps.

I may or may not have zoomed in on his biceps. And forearms.

And his shoulders.

And that one sharp muscle that runs from the hip down like it’s personally offended by modesty.

At one point, I caught myself wondering whatwouldget him to break focus. What would make him lose that unshakable calm. What would make him—

Nope.

I shook it off so hard I almost dropped the phone.

Professionalism, I reminded myself.Boundaries.

And suppressants that are currently doing absolutelynothing.

And then, of course, there was Finn.

Finn, who just so happens to be a walking daydream with thighs carved from hope.

Finn, with his sandy blond hair damp with sweat and curling slightly at the ends.

Finn, with eyes that are all soft, green, and unreasonably kind.

Finn, with his broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin, with his arms that could cradle a horse and a moisture-wicking shirt clinging to him like it had emotional needs.

The camera didn’t just like him—itadoredhim.

He did slow-motion stretches, ran his drills with perfect form, and asked“is this okay?”after every take, as though I wasn’t already two seconds from losing my mind.

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