Page 85 of Scrum Heat

They balance each other. Theyfit.

“Don’t,” I hiss, snapping to attention and grabbing Jax’s arm. Which, side note, feels a lot like trying to stop a brick wall that lifts for fun. “He’s baiting you. Don’t bite.”

Jax doesn’t blink. “Not biting.”

And then he punches him.Hard.

The winger goes down clutching his face and whimpering something about sportsmanship while the ref comes running over. Cue absolutechaos: whistles, coaches shouting, and Theo whooping and hollering in support from the sideline while Rory sighs like a man who had aged ten years in ten seconds.

“THAT’S OUR MAN!” Finn bellows, throwing his water bottle in the air.

Rory doesn’t say anything directly to them, but I don’t miss the way he pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something that’s probablynotfamily (or social media) friendly.

Jax turns back to me, his expression worryingly calm. “You okay?”

Me? Oh, I’m fine. Absolutely fine.

Just overheating in my branded polo and considering the pros and cons of fainting for dramatic effect.

Eventually, everything sort of… resumes. Jax is benched for five minutes, Rory receives a warning for ‘intimidating energy’ (who knew that was even a thing), and Theo—now apparently powered by blind rage and spiteful grace—scores two tries back-to-back within the first fifteen minutes of the match. Finn sprints like the ghost of every disrespected omega is pushing him forward—

And, obviously, they win.

The final whistle blows, and I shove my panic deep into my bag with the tripod and get back to work. The crowd has gone absolutelyferal—parents cheering, teens screaming, and I watch (and record) in horror as someone throws a foam finger directly at the ref.

I capture it all: Theo’s sweaty, feral grin; Rory bleeding from the lip and still in full captain mode; Finn pointing into the stands and yelling, “SHE’S OURS!” like we were doing a weirdly romantic hostage negotiation; and Jax…

Well. He remains calm through it all, still cracking his knuckles like he’s picking his next target.

And I can’t help but think of how they didn’t just look like a team, but how they look like a pack.

Mypack.

I finish packing up—mic cords rolled, the camera the club provided me with now switched off, battery safely back in its little case—and stand there for a second, letting it all settle. The match. The chaos. The fact that I’d survived it without crying on a livestream or stabbing a winger with a lens cap.

Which is when Rory appears beside me, tall and brooding, blocking the sun and any sense of personal space.

“If you ask if I’m okay—” I begin.

“I was going to,” he said flatly.

I look up at him, squinting slightly at the sun. “Then yes. I’m okay. Wonderful, even. Only mildly traumatized.”

He gave the world’s smallest nod. “You did good.”

“I didn’tdoanything,” I laugh. “But, for what it’s worth, you too. You were very… leadership-y. Bleeding and everything.”

“...Leadership-y?”

I groan, and he almost laughs. “Post-match debrief. You heading back to the hotel?”

“Soon. Just want to make sure I haven’t lost a mic or my sanity.”

He lingers like he wants to say more, but doesn’t, which is classic Rory. I watch as he jogs back to the tunnel, shoulders stiff, already shifting into captain mode again.

The team gather near the far end of the pitch. I use my phone to film these moments for some post-win footage as Theo flings his towel at Finn, who ducks and flips him off with a grin. Rory’s already got his arms crossed and is nodding intensely at whatever one of the Coach’s is saying to him, well and truly locked in listening mode.

But it’s Jax who catches my eye.

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