Page 45 of Scrum Heat

Me.

“Good,” she says softly. “You shouldn’t.”

Chapter Twelve

Rory

The water’s close to freezing when I step into the shower block.

“Whose idea was cold water?!” Theo yelps somewhere to my left. “We just won a full-contact turf war and now we’re being punished?”

Finn’s still smiling, of course. He gave everything on that field and then asked if we needed help carrying cones. “Better than the portable locker rooms at Harwich,” he offers, scrubbing mud from his hair. “Those had spiders.”

“Those had regrets,” Jax mutters as he joins us.

There’s laughter all around. Jax doesn’t usually crack jokes, which means everyone’s still riding high.

We earned this.

South Harwich were never going to roll over. They’re the loudest team in the division, all brute force and dirty tackles. But we held.Adjusted. Hit harder, stayed clean, and won.

I watch the steam rise from the corner where someone finally figured out the hot tap.

Frankie’s out of sight now—somewhere back in the main room reviewing footage or helping one of the interns download post-match content—but her laugh had echoed off the tiles five minutes ago when Finn made a face at Theo’s shampoo choices. She’d joined us in the locker room to film some of the post-match aftermath, where one of the guys had passed her an energy drink, and Theo had leaned over and kissed the top of her head like it was the most normal thing in the world. She’d thrown a balled-up sock at him in response, and even Jax had cracked a smile.

“Nice throw,” I told her as I passed.

“Nice shoulder check,” she’d smirked.

That’s high praise from her.

She didn’t even blink when the towels were flying and someone slapped Theo’s ass like it was a team ritual, and the rest of the team noticed. Not the sock, or the nonchalance at ass slapping—buther.

The way she’s settled in. The way we all orbit her now without saying it out loud.

She’scomfortable.

And the guys? They’ve stopped trying to impress her. They’re just being themselves around her now—loud, obnoxious, half-naked selves—and it feelsgood.

Coach yells something about keeping the victory laps under control and not giving the sponsors a reason to increase our PR budget as we file out of the showers in stages, some still dripping, some already halfway into team hoodies. After thesteam, noise, and half a dozen towels later, we regroup by the vans.

Coach claps me on the back, then nods to the rest of the team.

“Go out. Enjoy it,” he says. “But be back at training Monday with the same hunger. No coasting.”

“Yes, Coach,” the guys chorus.

And then someone—probably Theo—says, “Diner?”

Finn lights up. “Hazel’s got that Saturday night special.”

Frankie perks up. “Wait, did you say Hazel’s?”

Ten minutes later, we’re piling into cars. Still half sore, half damp, and full of dumb energy. The parking lot at Hazel’s is half full. Someone must’ve called ahead, because they’ve shoved two tables together near the window.

Frankie ends up wedged between Jax and Finn, and I sit across from her. She looks happier than she did two weeks ago. Still tired, still wired, but lighter.

It matters.

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