Page 23 of Scrum Heat

“Born ready.” I wink. “So, how do you want me: shirtless and fast, or slow-mo and glistening?”

“Neither.”

“Bold choice. Wrong, but bold.”

She exhales through her nose, but I spot the way her dark eyes wander to my legs and linger for a beat.

“At least you’ve stayed vertical this time,” I smirk, all faux concern and zero shame. “I’m proud of you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Theo. I swear, I will launch this phone so hard at your head that it’ll get a data plan in space.”

“Hey,” I shrug, “I’m just saying: last time you saw me in compression shorts, you ended up in the team medical room.”

“Itripped.”

“On what?” I laugh. “The sheer force of my thighs?”

She makes a sound that might be a growl, but she doesn’t deny it, and her ears turn a truly criminal shade of pink.

God, I love mornings.

“You could at leastpretendto take this seriously,” she sighs.

“Iamtaking it seriously,” I reply, hand on chest. “I brushed my teeth, styled my hair, and even put on some tinted moisturizer. That’s elite-level commitment.”

She looks furious, and I grin.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

People underestimate me all the time. I let them. It’s fun—andsafe.

Because behind the winks and water-pouring antics is the son of a career politician with a permanent stick up his ass and a reputation to protect.

My dad’s a government liaison for Pack Regulation Policy. He’ssuperfun at parties, of course.

(Translation: all regulation, no joy.)

My mother is long gone. Not dead or anything—no, she just spontaneously moved to France with her tennis coach when I was seventeen and hasn’t looked back since. She sends postcards sometimes, though there’s no return address.

I don’t have any siblings. It’s just me: the only heir to a surname that comes with expectations, scandal mitigation training, and mandatory annual haircuts at a Members-Only salon.

Rugby, though? Rugbysavedme. Gave me something that wasn’t performative, polished, or pre-approved by a family aide. Just bruises, strategy, found family, and the only three men on earth I’d willingly take a yellow card for.

Rory, with his spreadsheet soul and repressed dominance.

Jax, with his silent loyalty and tendency to whittle furniture out of raw emotion.

Finn, who once cried over a baby hedgehog and has a scent like chamomile and hope.

They’re my brothers. Mypack.

But now this omega is in our space and making little irritated huffs every time I flex near her thighs; and if she thinks I’m not going to dedicate the entire day to flustering her into a heat spiral, she clearly doesn’t know anything about me.

Rory’s stomping around the pitch in his full training gear; jaw tight, sleeves tight—everythingtight. He’s probably mad at the sky again.

Frankie glances at him. Then at me.

Then does a double take so aggressive I’m surprised her neck doesn’t pop.

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