Page 150 of Scrum Heat

“I’m sorry, was that a bollard? I thought it was a manifestation of my need for therapy.”

Boots scatter. Jackets hit the floor. Someone is laughing.

I think it might be me.

By the time I finally make it to the stairs, Rory’s muttering something about property damage and “why do I always have to be the responsible one?” while Jax silently flicks the light switch off behind us.

We’re all half-tipsy; full of Ollie’s mother’s homemade lasagna and victory and champagne and pure adrenaline.

I reach my bedroom first, flick the light on, step inside—

And pause.Because Theo walks straight past me and faceplants onto my bed in nothing but boxer briefs and a sheepish grin.

“Absolutely not,” I say automatically. “Go to your room.”

Theo lifts his head just slightly. “Frankie. My room is haunted.”

“By what?”

“My consequences.”

Finn appears next, dragging his hoodie over his head and flinging it somewhere in the vague direction of a chair.

“There’s glitter in my bedsheets,” he announces.

“Youdid that!”

He shrugs. “Still valid.”

I watch with wide eyes as he drops his socks and kicks off his joggers. He’s got nothing on now but dark gray briefs and thigh muscles that are frankly rude as he climbs onto the mattress like it’s calling to him personally.

Well.

At least I know they all showered after the match.

At least they’re clean.

Rory leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, biceps looking like a threat. He’s still in his joggers and compression shirt, but his expression says he’s one dramatic sigh away from tossing them in the laundry basket and giving in.

“You’re not seriously doing this.”

“Ilivehere now,” Theo mutters from the pillow, already burrowed halfway under the duvet.

Finn throws an arm over him. “We’re in love. You can’t make us leave.”

I blink. “You all have rooms. With beds. And doors.”

“Your bed smells better,” Theo mumbles, face smooshed into my pillow. “It smells like you. And cookies. And safety.”

“I will literally Lysol you.”

That’s when Jax wanders in.

He’s bare-chested, with a pair of sleep shorts low on his hips. He’s silent and steady as always, and apparently done pretending he isn’t part of this.

He sets a bottle of water and a protein bar down on my nightstand. “You didn’t eat much,” he says simply, like that’s the only justification needed.

My heart does a stupid little flip. “...Thanks.”

---