Page 43 of Scrum Heat

It’s a textbook tackle; both cleanandlegal.

He hits the ground so hard it echoes. The contact rattles up through my chest, but I don’t break stride. I push off and reset before he’s even stopped gasping.

The crowd loses it.

Finn whoops and slaps someone’s helmet. Theo yells something obscene about dominance and cardio. Rory pumps a fist once and calls the next play mid-run.

We move. We run it.

And we score.

We take the lead, and we don’t give it back.

During the next stop in play, I scan the sideline. I’m not looking for her necessarily, but my eyes immediately lock on to Frankie.

She’s back by the rail, phone in one hand, and that little frown of concentration she gets when she’s filming. Her mouth moves—talking to herself or narrating, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.

Her camera’s tracking the play, but her eyes are on me.Again.

I meet them, and hold her gaze. Just for a second.

I nod in acknowledgement. She freezes, taken aback by it, I think. My brow furrows just a touch as she blinks, surprised, then her expression softens slightly before she nods back.

As much as I want to keep staring at her, I have to look away, because I’m on a pitch, in the middle of a game, and if I look at her for longer than that—if I let myself see the way her mouth softens when she focuses, or the way she tracks my movement like she’s thoroughly enjoying it—

Then I won’t stay focused.

And I can’t afford that.

Still. She’s easy to look at.

Tooeasy, in fact.

*

The final whistle blows. The game finishes 19–12.

Alderbridge wins.

South Harwich sulks off. One guy throws a water bottle, while another rips his mouthguard out and launches it into the grass; hisNO MERCYtattoo now half-covered in turf burn and bruised ego.

Finn’s already whooping. Theo does a cartwheel, shouts something sarcastic about alpha supremacy, and nearly takes out a corner flag in the process. Rory throws both arms in the air,yelling to the crowd, his eyes wild with that rare, sharp grin he only breaks out after a win that actually meant something.

Coach marches onto the pitch.

“That’show you answer,” he nods, happy as I’ve ever seen him. “That’show you hold a line.”

Someone yells back, “We learned from the best, Coach!”

He grunts like that’s illegal praise, and immediately barks at Theo to put a shirt back on before we get fined.

I walk off the pitch with Rory beside me. My jaw aches, my shoulder’s tight. My shirt’s soaked, and there’s blood dried on my wrist tape.

I don’t smile. I just nod once; sharp and satisfied.

We did what we came to do, but this is just the start of the season. We’ve got a lot more to go through yet.

Near the sideline, Frankie waits. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the wind or the shouting or both, and she’s watching the team celebrate with a wide smile. I watch as she adjusts her grip on her phone, focused as she angles it for a shot.

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