Page 137 of Scrum Heat

“They’re not getting through me.”

“Finn—”

I nod. “Fast and wide.”

“That’s right. You want to be underestimated?Let them.” Rory grins now. “Then tear the ground out from under them.”

Behind me, Ollie laughs—all sharp and breathless. “Cap, I’m gonna run through a wall.”

Ben pounds his fist to his chest. “Let’s fuckinggo.”

Rory steps back, his voice dropping. “This pack? Thisteam?” He taps his chest. “It’s more than a system. More than a story. It’sours.Now go make damn sure they remember it.”

The room explodes.

Boots slam, tape snaps, breath sharpens like knives; and the air is charged with adrenaline and determination.

Coach steps in behind Rory, a clipboard under one arm. “Focus stays tight. They’re going to come inhard—Vale’s already got a yellow this season for shoulder contact off the ball.”

“Can I return the favour?” Theo pipes up.

Coach doesn’t blink. “Not unless you want a sit-down with the board and a two thousand dollar fine.”

Rory rolls his shoulders. “We’ll keep it clean, but hard.”

“Hard’s the easy part,” Jax mutters.

“Speak for yourself,” Ollie comments, and the room erupts again.

We’re dressed, armed, and dangerous. Compression shorts, tight jerseys, bandaged knuckles and sweat already slick on skin. And thescentin here?

It’s not just pre-match adrenaline—it’spack.

It’sus.

Coach claps once, sharp. “Tunnel in two. Let’s go.”

The room moves.

I stand, breath catching in my throat as I follow their lead. The second our boots hit concrete, the sound punches out fromthe crowd—chanting, stomping, the rising swell of Alderbridge supporters in full voice.

It’spacked.

The stands are totally full, with flags flying, kids on shoulders—and someone’s already started a “Vale’s going home” chant that sounds half-drunk and fully hopeful. We jog up onto the turf, boots pounding, shoulders jostling. Coach’s voice calls out behind us—last-minute orders, small corrections—but my head’s already narrowed.

Field. Ball. Contact.

Win.

Frankie’s just to the right of one of the barriers. She’s wearing a team jersey with a denim jacket over the top, phone in hand and Harper next to her holding a backup tripod and a laminated media pass in her teeth like it’s part of a ritual. Frankie’s watching us through the lens of her phone camera; her expression half-focused, half-fierce.

She’s gorgeous—utterly beautiful—andmind.

Something in my chest tugs sharp.

The OSC’s in here somewhere, too. I don’t know where, or who; but I know that they’re watching—judging.

Waiting for one of us to slip.

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