Page 62 of Scrum Heat

Stretching. Hydrating.

Staring down the grass like it called rugby ‘just a game.’

Because rugby is sacred, and someone has to take it seriously.

Jax arrives exactly on time; long strides, calm face, probably did seven hundred pull-ups in the woods on the way here just for fun. Finn bounces up beside holding the rest of the muffins he made last night in a large tupperware box.

“Morning, Captain!” he calls. “Do we want high-protein or emotional-support flavour?”

I do not dignify this with a response. He knows he’s on thin ice, and the muffins are the only reason he’s not already buried under the pitch.

Ollie and Ben wander over a minute later, mid-argument about creatine dosages and whether or not oat milk counts as real milk. Ben’s holding his gym bag upside down, Ollie’s shirt is inside out—

So, business as usual.

Nate and Marco arrive not long after, debating which of the older players might be secretly bonded without declaring it on the league registry.

(Their current theory? Coach Simmons. I refuse to comment.)

And then comes Theo.

Late.Again.

I don’t ask where his shirt went. I’ve stopped asking. I assume there’s a pile of them behind the hedgerow that he refuses to collect, out of some deep, personal philosophy about aesthetic airflow.

He saunters onto the pitch like he’s here to seduce the concept of sport itself.

“Morning, sunshine,” he grins at me.

“You’re late,” I snap.

“Don’t be like that. You know time is a social construct.”

I squint at him. “You dressed from the ground up and just gave up halfway, didn’t you?”

“It’s calledbalance,Captain. You might want to give it a try sometime.”

I inhale deeply.

Think of the muffins. Think of retirement.

The rest of the team’s already stretching, tossing balls, and arguing like toddlers on creatine. I start walking over with Theo, and then comes the whistle.

Coach Barnett emerges from the equipment shed like he was grown in a petri dish of testosterone and tactical shouting. He’s six-foot-something with a neck thicker than my thigh and a glare that’s legally classified as a controlled substance.

“Five laps,” he barks, already chewing gum. “Move like you didn’t spend the entire off-season crying into your overpriced oat milk and making thirst traps for TikTok.”

I’m running before he finishes the sentence.

Jax moves like a soldier in a nature documentary: efficient, silent, and probably conserving oxygen for war; while Finn bounds ahead like he’s chasing a squirrel. Meanwhile, Theo runs like the ground owes him money and he’s planning to flirt it back one stride at a time.

This is what I live for. Rhythm. Structure. Momentum.

No thinking. No scent.No distractions.

For twenty minutes, I am peace. I am power.

I am the alpha equivalent of a spreadsheet.

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