Scrum Heat (The SportsVerse #1)

Chapter One

Frankie

L ook, I didn’t mean to faint in front of Alderbridge RFC’s Director of PR and Internal Affairs—otherwise known as the woman most likely to ruin your life with a clipboard and a well-placed email.

But in my defense, I’d taken my suppressants, I’d marinated myself in beta-bland deodorant, and I’d even brought a color-coded portfolio.

I was ready. I was composed .

And then he walked by.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind ten minutes—back when I still had dignity, functioning scent blockers, and knees that didn’t buckle at the sight of the world's tightest compression shorts.

*

“So, Frankie, tell me: why do you want to work with us here at Alderbridge RFC?”

Such a normal interview question. So standard, so predictable.

And so deeply inappropriate for someone currently sweating like a sinner at an alpha church bake sale.

Smile , I remind myself. Sit up straight . Do not sniff.

“I love rugby,” I say brightly.

That, of course, is a lie. I love snacks. Silence. Books where no one gets concussed. I do not love the thought of being steamrolled by six-foot muscle walls named things like Rhys who list their weight in kilograms on dating apps.

Still, Evie—Director of PR and Internal Affairs, walking Pinterest board, and possible former sorceress—doesn't know that; and she nods with frosty interest.

Her nails are French-tipped, her bright blond ponytail is tight enough to launch a small spacecraft, and her lanyard font is embossed . Safe to say: I do not trust this woman. She’s the type of person who owns a label maker and uses it to emotionally dominate.

“I mean,” I backpedal, “I love storytelling. And rugby has stories. Grit. Triumph. A surprising amount of slow-motion footage. And, you know... shirtlessness .”

Evie’s brow arches.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “That came out weird. I meant there’s emotional narrative potential. With thighs.”

Great . I have, against all odds, just pitched sports porn to my would-be boss before 10 a.m.

“I see you’ve just graduated?” she says, gracefully changingthe subject and flipping to the last page of my résumé.

“Yes! Communications, digital strategy focus. Graduated top of my class.” (That part’s true.)

She narrows her eyes. “You ran a viral campaign?”

Technically, it was a meme. But—

“Mmhmm. Ninety thousand shares in less than twenty-four hours. It temporarily broke the student union’s socials.”

“And your internship?”

“At a café franchise,” I explain. “I managed their TikTok. We sold out of cinnamon buns for six weeks after one video.”

This is my first interview since I accidentally went into heat in the back of an Uber. I haven’t missed a suppressant dose since, and I really need this job—not just for rent money, but because my current lease (above a butcher shop that permanently smells like regret and pastrami) ends next week. If this doesn’t work out, the only other option is moving back in with my mother, who refers to suppressants as those filthy hormone tricks and is determined to set me up with her best friend’s beta son, Nigel.

Nigel, who uses the phrase “yum-yum” without irony.

Nigel, who looks like he thinks a clitoral stimulator is a type of DJ equipment.

I will not bond with a Nigel.

“You’d be managing TikTok, Instagram, match-day content, some livestreams—basically all of the club’s social media channels,” Evie says. “Think you can handle that pressure?”

Absolutely not.

“Without a doubt.”

She taps her pen. “And you’re an omega?”

Ah . There it is.

“Yes,” I nod. “Registered, suppressed, and fully briefed on all scent-related protocols.”

She doesn’t react as she flips to the last page of my file. “I assume you saw that the role comes with the option of accommodation. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“That was sort of, part of , why I applied,” I admit, not wanting to sound too eager. “I don’t want to assume, or anything, but… I’d be coming here for a fresh start.”

“You’re from the city, right?”

“Well, about an hour southeast,” I nod. “But my lease is coming to an end, and now I’ve graduated, my options are to get a job and find somewhere new to live... or end upmoving back home to my mom and being bonded to Nigel.”

Evie’s mouth twitches. “ Nigel? ”

“It’s a long story,” I sigh.

“Ok- ay ,” she frowns, then clears her throat. “So, why not stay in the city?”

Aha . Now this question, I was expecting.

“It’s easy to get lost in the city. Not literally, but just… swept up in all the things that don’t really matter. I’m ready for something more settled, more homely .”

“Well, Alderbridge is definitely quiet,” she says. “This is a small town with a slow pace. But that comes with its own challenges. This is the kind of place where people notice if you sneeze funny.”

“Honestly, after four years of hustle, bustle, and overpriced everything , it sounds perfect.”

“Well then—you’ll like the spare room at the players’ house.”

I blink. “The… players’ house?”

“It’s technically a staff house,” she explains. “One of the older converted properties close to the forest, and the training pitch. A few of the guys stay there during the season.”

She says this like it’s normal, like sharing a wall with four rugby-playing alphas won’t turn my hormones into a Shakespearean tragedy.

Still, it's better than Nigel. Geez, anything's better than Nigel.

“You’d be close to the action,” she adds. “Bit noisy on match days.”

“That’s fine,” I tell her.

And it is. Dangerously fine. At this point, I am the dictionary definition of someone making reckless decisions for rent-free ( and Nigel-free ) living.

“Just so you’re aware,” Evie adds, “no one else has applied. At least, no one who didn’t use a meme as a cover letter.”

Which means... the job's mine. Right? It's practically guaranteed, if my only competition is a meme.

“We need someone who can start immediately.”

“I can start… right now,” I tell her.

“Great,” she says briskly, then moves to stand. “Let’s do a quick tour. The team just finished training—you might meet a few of the boys.”

“Perfect,” I lie.

Because I have a terrible feeling that ' the boys ' equals a horde of half-dressed alphas fresh from sprint drills, vibrating with testosterone and rut tension, which is exactly what every scent-sensitive omega wants to stumble into.

I smile anyway.

Because I am brave.

And stupid.

We step into the hallway, and that's where it happens. I smell him before I see him, which is, frankly, rude . I’m pretty certain there are laws in place against that.

I am trying to be professional. I am trying not to drool. I am trying not to go full feral in an open-plan corridor—

But his scent hits me hard.

Pine. Crushed spice. Leather. It screams rip off your panties or run for your life , and I'm completely torn.

And then he appears.

Theo Blake.

He's the Alderbridge RFC kicker, and the team's all-round star player. With damp, dark hair, a towel around his neck, and tan skin glistening; he's 6’3 of shirtless alpha arrogance poured into black compression shorts that could be classed as an omega rights violation.

He looks directly at me with intense brown eyes—all confident, curious, and predatory—and my instincts scream . I try to sniff something neutral instead, but it’s too late.

My body chooses violence.

I tip forward, knees folding, mouth forming a panicked oh no —

And then, dear reader,

I faint.

*

I wake up horizontal, warm, and lay out on something firm that smells like grass and testosterone.

My brain may be buffering, but my senses are not, and I frown at the sound of a deep, unfamiliar voice.

“ Sh ! She’s coming to.”

Oh no. Oh no no no.

My eyelids flutter open, and Theo Blake’s face is the first thing I see.

His stupidly gorgeous, smug-yet-concerned face.

He’s all devastating cheekbones with that look alphas get when they sense a weakness and think, hmm, I could fix that by pinning you to a wall.

Another face looms beside his: broader and darker skinned, with a sharp jaw and frowning like it’s a full-time job.

“Careful,” Knife Jaw growls.

His voice is the deep, gravellykind that comes with a deadlift record and an emotional repression kink, which feels unnecessary given that I’m currently horizontal, shame-buzzed, and physically incapable of doing anything but vibrate with embarrassment.

Evie appears then, moving them out of the way and holding out a bottle of water.

“Frankie? Can you sit up?”

I attempt movement, which is a tactical error. My head spins, and suddenly, there’s a warm, alpha hand behind my back.

I don’t know what cologne Theo's wearing, or if it’s just his scent straight from the source, but it’s doing unspeakable things to my nervous system. My entire spinal cord does the Macarena as I flinch away from him, and I swear that my ovaries high-five as my inner omega rolls over and shows her belly.

“Sorry,” I blurt, voice cracking. “I, uh… skipped breakfast. Low blood sugar. Definitely not a pheromone thing. Just a totally average, well-regulated citizen having a very normal day.”

Knife Jaw—whose muscles are somehow visible through his hoodie —narrows his eyes. I get the distinct impression he could detect lies via sonar.

Evie frowns and flips open my file. “You’re not listed as scent-sensitive.”

“Oh,” I say, pushing a hand through my honey-blond hair. “That’s so weird. Maybe the form glitched? I was very busy not being a hormonal liability at the time.”

She does not laugh. Instead, she murmurs something about rescheduling the tour while they “verify some things”.

Translation: Make sure I'm not at risk of humping the club’s mascot mid-livestream.

“We’re going to get you checked over in medical,” she says, tucking my file under her arm.

“Oh no, that’s really not nec-”

“It is,” she smiles. With teeth . “We can’t risk letting you out of the building if you’re not stable.”

I half-laugh, trying to stand. “I mean, I’m definitely conscious now. That’s a win, right?”

“You still look pale,” says Knife Jaw. Now that my head's settling, I'm pretty sure he's Rory, the team captain.

“She’s flushed,” says Theo. “In patches.”

“Super helpful,” I mutter. “Thanks for the patch analysis.”

Evie gestures down the hall. “Let’s get you to medical—just a quick check. Better safe than emergency services.”

I mean, she’s technically my new boss. She controls my job, my housing, and probably the Wi-Fi password; so I’m not arguing.

I stagger upright and pretend everything is both fine and perfectly normal. I keep my gaze forward as I shuffle toward the medical room, flanked by judgment, regret, and two suspiciously thick-thighed demigods.

Theo's hand brushes against my lower back again, and a pulse of heat flares through my body. I'm pretty certain that I'm going to lose this job before I even get it, and what's worse—

I think I've accidentally imprinted on a man whose thighs could crack a watermelon and me in a single lunge.