Page 41 of Scrum Heat

“Ten’s limping,” I add. “Left leg.”

“Keep pressure on his inside,” Rory replies without missing a beat.

We don’t waste words. Never have.

Finn jogs up behind us. “They’ve got ego. We’ve got lungs. Run them.”

“They’re loud now,” Theo grins, swinging his arms. “But let’s see who’s still talking at full time.”

Number 4 jogs up to midfield and shouts something about alphas staying on top.

No one here’s surprised.

“Nice mixed pack, James,” he sneers as he jogs past Rory. “Very…cute.”

Rory bites out a curse, but as their captain’s eyes turn to me, I say nothing at all. I just look at him—long enough for his smirk to slip half a millimetre.

“Fuckingfreak,” he barks.

I don’t so much as flinch. I keep my stare locked onto him as he backs off, glancing at me over his shoulder before he lines up with the rest of his team.

I’m not proud of the red cards on my record, but I’m not sorry, either.

And when the whistle blows, I’m gone.

*

At the end of the first half, it’s 7–3.

Tothem.

So far, the game has been hard, tight, and pretty brutal.

Still, we just about managed to hold the line.

They came in heavy on the left. Finn took two hits that should’ve flattened him, but stayed standing. Theo nailed a penalty from thirty out that just about managed to keep the scoreboard alive.

They answered with a try, and the conversion was clean. They screamed about dominanceagain.

I blocked out the noise and focused on the plays, on body language, on the cracks starting to show in their number 10’s footwork and the desperation in their winger’s line speed.

Rory called the formation, and we fell into it like we’d trained for war. Jamie took a hard shoulder from a guy twice his size and popped straight back up.

South Harwich laughed. We didn’t.

Betas on this team don’t need defending, just space to run. They’ve more than earned it.

I backed Jamie on the reset, knocking their eight-man off balance before he could take another shot. No words, just movement; and a quick nod from him told me everything I need to know.

We go into halftime trailing by four. Theo tosses his mouthguard and mutters curses at the floor, and we walk in shoulder-to-shoulder; no shouting, no accusations, and no flailing.

Coach is already in the locker room—clipboard under one arm, tactical notes in hand, jaw tight. He’s ex-military, ex-front-row, and not interested in motivational speeches unless they end in bruises.

He doesn’t pace. Doesn’t yell. Just calls the room to order with a look.

“Four down,” he says. “It’s fixable. You’ve gotta stay sharp, tighten the line, don’t give their ten an inch. Their left wing’s flagging—press harder.”

He rattles through the rest quickly and precisely, no time wasted. Rory's nods along, already syncing strategy. He checks his own notes, murmurs a few adjustments to Coach, and points something out on the whiteboard.

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