Page 37 of Scrum Heat

But beneath the laughter, something’s building.

The dares get bolder.

Jax is dared to take off his shirt and do ten slow push-ups while making eye contact with me. He doesn’t flinch. Just drops to the floor, peels his shirt off like it’s a napkin, and starts lowering himself with terrifying control.

By push-up four, I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

By seven, I’m planning a wedding.

By ten, I’m praying for strength—and maybe a cold shower.

Finn has to whisper something filthy in someone’s ear, and chooses me. He leans in close, his voice low and warm, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

“If you were mine, I’d have you bent over that coffee table before you could even think about safe words.”

I go still. Absolutely motionless.

Because this isFinn—soft, sweet, cardigan-core Finn, the man who carries reusable bags and apologized to a moth he found in the bathroom yesterday morning—and he just saidthatwith a straight face.

I do not recover.

Theo loses the no-innuendo for ten minutes challenge and gets punished with a dare to sit on the floor beside me and stay quiet for five minutes.

He lasts two before resting his hand on my ankle and whispering, “Do you know how good you smell right now?”

I kick him gently. He grins wider.

Rory refuses all dares involving shirt removal, but he doesn’t move when I lean against the edge of the couch near him. Doesn’t blink when I accidentally brush his knee. Doesn’t stop watching me once.

It’s late when the game fizzles out. The living room is dim, the snacks are gone, and my brain’s officially cooked.

Someone makes a comment about getting up early tomorrow ready for the game. Someone else groans. There’s still tension in the air, but it’s quieter now—much more settled under the surface.

I yawn, then move to stand. “I’m going to bed.”

Theo lifts a hand lazily. “Need help getting tucked in?”

“No. Go hydrate.”

“Already did. Want to scent-check my breath?”

“Go away.”

Finn smiles, soft and warm. “Sleep well, Frankie.”

Rory nods. Jax doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers longer than it should.

By the time I get to my room, I’m not tired anymore. I’m wired.

I kick off my socks, crawl into my bed, and immediately freeze.

It smells like them.Allof them. Not just vaguely, and not just hints—but fully saturated alpha scent.

I don’t remember when it happened, but somewhere between post-dinner teasing and Theo sitting too close, they somehow sunk into the fabric.Again.

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. I don’t move. I don’t sniff. I don’t moan or roll or rub my face in anything—I justbreathe.

This is dangerous.

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