Page 69 of Scrum Heat

“Please.” I roll my eyes. “They’re teenagers. They think anyone older than twenty with a following over five figures is aspirational.”

“I’m serious! You’re funny, you’re smart, you’re hot—people want to know who you are. They’re literally foaming at the mouth for more information.”

I shift in my seat, not quite blushing, but definitely flushed.

“Yeah, well. They want to know until they don’t. I’ve seen the comment sections.”

Harper softens. “Frankie.”

“I know,” I wave it off. “I’m ignoring them.Mostly. But the second the views go up, so does the hate. I’ve started scrolling past on purpose when I feel the tone changing. Not always easy, but I’m trying.”

She nods. “Good.”

I sip my soda and stare out the window at this ridiculous town with its rugby murals and flower boxes and inexplicably aggressive ducks.

“You ever think your life was going to end up here?” I ask.

“In Alderbridge? Sure,” Harper shrugs. “But as part of the RFC? Honestly… No. But you know what?”

“What?”

“It’s not a bad place to be. Especially when half the population has thighs like those.”

I grin into my straw. “You make a compelling point.”

And even with all the mess—the pressure, the hate comments, the Nigel texts—I feel it.

That little pulse of something warm in my chest.

I’m starting to belong.

Chapter Eighteen

Theo

The gym lights hum.

One of them flickers every few minutes—right above the squat rack—and it’s been driving me insane since I walked in an hour ago.

But that’s kind of the point.

This place is shit. Rust on the dumbbells, foam peeling off the benches, and the speaker hasn’t worked since Rory tried to play classical music during a leg day circuit. The smell’s permanently halfway between liniment and trauma—

But it’s quiet.

No fans. No flirting. No packmates hovering with water bottles or asking if I’ve worked through that complex—and no one here to smell me and guess the answer.

Just me, the weight rack, my headphones, and a playlist aggressive enough to scare my anxiety back into its cave.

I’ve been hitting it harder than usual this week. Every rep, every sprint, every drop of sweat has been aimed at one specific target:

Beating Marcus Vale.

He’s Denton Vale’s captain, center-forward, and asshole incarnate. The guy’s a walking PR stunt for their RFC, and the reason I once punched a whiteboard in high school.

His dad’s a total sleaze who’s been circling my father’s political seat for the last three years like a vulture with veneers. Mine’s not much better, but hey—he’s still my dad, and no one gets to talk shit about him unless it’s me.

Marcus is everything I hate in an alpha—performative, smug, always trying to show dominance by volume rather than presence. He’s got media attention, a six-pack carved out of spite, and the kind of attitude that makes sponsors swoon and omegas run screaming.

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