Page 66 of Scrum Heat

And yeah. They’re not wrong.

Itisa dream job. I film hot men doing hot things, get paid for it, and then edit it all in a charmingly tiny office with a knitted gecko on the windowsill and at least three different typesof caffeine. I’ve been invited onto the team bus for the away game this weekend, and I’m already planning what to shoot: the routines, the warmups, the chaos, the bus snacks, whatever the hell Theo does to ‘mentally prepare’.

It’s going to be good. Behind-the-scenes content seems to be doing well—like,reallywell. Finn was right: people want the real stuff, the unfiltered stuff. They want to see what it’s actually like to be in this role, in this environment—the noise, the energy, the weird ways players tie their socks or scream into towels.

But the thing is… the comments asking about me?

They feeldifferent.

Not bad. Not really. Just…exposing. Like suddenly the camera’s turned around and I didn’t get a chance to check my reflection.

And worse? I kind of want to answer them.

But wanting to show up more comes with a catch.

I’ve had to train myself not to check the comments too closely anymore. I want to—of course I do. They’re right there, ticking up by the second. But after that first wave of attention, when things really took off, I learned the hard way: more traffic means more trolls.

Most of the time, I scroll past the hate before I let my brain finish reading it. I’m getting better at clocking the tone early and moving on. But every so often, something slips through. A swipe, a dig, something mean said in just the right font to cut a little deeper. Sometimes it’s accidental—clicking where I shouldn’t, tapping a reply without thinking. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.

And when that happens?

Even if ninety-nine comments are hyping me up—asking questions, offering encouragement, telling me this is their dream job, asking how I got here—it’s the one that calls me thirsty or fake or says I must’ve flirted my way into a contract that echoes loudest.

It’s hard not to let that sink in.

Still, I’ve been trying. I keep posting. I keep editing. I keep scrolling until I find the good ones—the girls who want to know more, who say they’d love to work in sport, who tell me it’s nice to see an omega in a job like mine.

I might not have been here for long, but I feel comfortable now, settled and at ease; and with each curious comment that comes, I find that I actually kind ofwantto talk about how I got here. To show people what it actually looks like to run socials for a semi-pro rugby team that smells like testosterone and protein powder and collective emotional repression.

I want to tell them that it’s not just a job—it’speople.

Including four massive, maddening, magnetic alphas who are slowly ruining my life in very confusing and potentially orgasmic ways.

Speaking of which—

Finn.

Yeah. So.

Thathappened.

And… keeps happening. Sort of.

There’s been no full replays, no second-half scoring, but there’s kissing. There’s sneaky, panty-dampening, body-arching kissesthat happen behind closed doors and once, infuriatingly, in the pantry.

We haven’t talked about it, which is fine, of course. AndI’mtotally fine, too.

Except.

I want more.

And not just with Finn.

That’s the part I can’t say out loud.

Because the truth is, I want all of them. Finn’s soft and steady. Theo’s pure chaos and charm. Rory’s storm cloud in human form. And Jax?God. Jax barely says ten words a day andstillmakes my stomach do front flips just by existing.

It’s not fair. It’s not normal.

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