Chapter Six
Frankie
I t’s been a few days since I crash-landed into the players’ house, and somehow, I haven’t spontaneously combusted, fainted again, or accidentally scent-bonded with a protein shaker.
Progress .
The boys seem more relaxed now that they’re convinced I’m not about to spiral into a full-blown heat at any moment. I’ve spent most of the time tucked safely inside, just in case—but as I expected, nothing’s gone sideways. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to leave the house at all. But I know my body, and I know the difference between a hormonal wobble and a heatwave; so I made a quick trip back to the city to grab the rest of my stuff from my old place, dodging a passive-aggressive note from my landlord and packing everything I owned into a single suitcase and a tote bag that used to be white.
Since then, it’s been eating, sleeping, panic-researching the club and pretending I don’t notice the way Theo stretches like a damn show pony every time he walks past my room.
I’m still getting to know them—one-on-one chats here and there, mostly between training sessions and the suspicious amount of time they spend doing laundry for four men who exclusively wear shorts. But I can’t lie: I’ve grown to feel much more comfortable here already.
And living like this? It’s kind of every omega’s dream. Four hot alpha rugby players who are all nice to me, all weirdly emotionally available, and all shirtless ninety percent of the time—just walking around like it’s normal to have arms the size of ham hocks and thighs that could crack a skull during casual conversation.
Honestly, if I die tomorrow, bury me in the towel nest and write she lived the dream on my gravestone.
Evie video calls me early on Monday morning, precisely two minutes after I finish my second slice of Finn’s banana bread, and it feels both calculated and cruel.
Her face fills the screen—flawless, glowing, and terrifying. Her cool blond hair is styled within an inch of its life, and while her lips say Hi, sweetheart , her eyes say Deliver results or I will erase you from every database in existence .
“Frankie!” she greets me. “You look... flushed.”
“It’s the hoodie,” I say flatly. “It’s made of wool and poor decisions.”
“You’re not feverish, are you?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “No bonding urges? No desire to violently rearrange soft furnishings or claim anyone via eye contact?”
“What? No . Absolutely not. I slept like a log. A very dry, fully-regulated log. No urges. No nesting. No... humping.”
Evie narrows her eyes. “Hm.”
“It’s a totally normal morning,” I insist.
Jax appears behind me and silently slides a jar of hormone-balancing herbal tea onto the table. I just look at him for a moment before shooting him a closed-lip smile.
Finn is humming from the sink area while slicing strawberries into precise shapes, while Theo eats another round of heavily buttered toast with the confidence of a man who’s never experienced consequences. Meanwhile, Rory has been keeping a perfectly reasonable, regulation-approved, omega-safe distance from me all weekend, and is currently wiping down the already-clean counter with militaristic aggression.
Evie’s lips purse, and I get the distinct sense she can smell chaos through the screen.
“Well... that's good,” she nods. “Because I’d like to give you your first assignment.”
“Oh. Right. Okay. No pressure.”
“Since you’re up and about, I’d like you to film a little something for the club socials. Nothing too gruelling—just a quick intro to start getting content flowing on our pages again.”
“Ah—I mean… sure? That sounds… good ?”
“Excellent!” she beams. “I was thinking about just having a quick behind-the-scenes piece. Nothing too polished, since those never seem to be effective. Maybe some footage of the guys doing warm-ups and light drills—some candid moments between them. Think: intimate, authentic, sponsor-safe thirst trap. ”
I stare at her in disbelief. “That’s… not a phrase that should legally exist.”
“I sent you all the logins for socials along with individual asset folders over email last night,” she says, pointedly ignoring me. “Check your spam if you can’t find them—the subject line is ‘Digital Branding & Organic Engagement: Phase One.’ ”
Yep. That sounds like something Evie would send.
“You’ll have creative freedom,” she adds, “but send it to me for approval before posting—just for this first one.”
“Got it,” I nod.
“And Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure we get some shots of their thighs. That’s what the commenters keep asking for.”
“…I—”
“Statistical data,” she says before I can comment. “Not opinion.”
I look down at my phone like it might catch fire. “Evie, do you sleep in a power suit?”
“Only before dates,” she smirks. “Good luck! I’m rooting for you. And please, try not to faint again—it’ll make editing continuity a nightmare.”
“Thanks?”
“Anytime.”
She hangs up like a true professional escape artist, leaving me blinking into the digital void with only one clear takeaway:
I’m apparently responsible for filming pack thirst content—and thighs are now a content pillar.
I slowly turn to find four alphas staring at me from various corners of the kitchen like a hot, protein-fuelled boyband.
“What?” Theo says, toast halfway to his mouth.
“You,” I point straight at him. “Put a shirt on. We’re filming.”
Finn’s bright eyes light up. “We’re doing content?! I love content!” he beams. “Do you want a TikTok trend? A reel? We could do one of those slo-mo water splash things!”
“I’m not spritzing anyone,” Rory growls. “And if any of you fuckers post me without approval again, I’ll use your ring light as a tackling dummy.”
“Hey!” Finn gasps. “That ring light is my emotional support circle!”
“Relax, Cap,” Theo grins. “You looked great . Almost as good as you do on the portrait. We didn’t even have a social media manager to promote it and the internet still loved it.”
Rory’s jaw ticks. “I don’t care if the internet wants an entire calendar shoot—I am not here to thirst trap for engagement metrics.”
I stare directly at him.
“…Unless Evie says it’s in the sponsor brief.”
Theo barks out a long, loud laugh as Finn leans in close, stage-whispering down my ear.
“He pretends he hates it, but I’d bet that he’s already got a folder called ‘Lighting: Abs.’”
Jax picks up a resistance band and mutters, “if anyone gets glitter on the pitch again, I’m out.”
“I’m not even sure how glitter got there last time!” Theo protests. “I was shirtless, not bedazzled.”
“I swear to god—”
“ Look ,” I cut in as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “The sooner we leave and get this finished, the sooner it’ll be over with, and we can forget it ever happened. Evie wants a ‘sponsor-safe thirst trap,’ and I don’t know what that means either, but I’m guessing it involves you four doing drills while looking sweaty and intimidating but not actively on the brink of a scent-triggered orgy.”
Rory crosses his arms over his frustratingly broad chest. “That sounds like a trap.”
“You sure?” Theo raises a brow. “Because we’ve definitely done worse at training.”
“Remember the time we did scrimmages shirtless and the high school had to reschedule their track session to avoid ‘ emotional distress ’?” Finn laughs.
Rory sighs and looks right at me.
“You need me to do anything in particular?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Look broody and alpha, I guess.”
“Easy. That’s his resting face,” Theo smirks.
Rory mutters something about early retirement as I move to stand.
“Alright, come on,” I snap. “Training shirts and some shorts that show off your thighs—Evie’s orders.”
Four heads turn to me at once. Four large, very tall, very broad, very muscled heads.
I pause, blink, and recalculate the angle of my authority.
Because they’re all huge . Like, cover-model-meets-construction-site-meets-“ do you even lift, bro ” energy. If I stacked them on top of each other, they’d form a protein-scented skyscraper—and yet here I am, five-foot-nothing, running a full-blown rugby pack thirst-trap campaign with nothing but a phone and unearned confidence.
But still—I am in charge. It’s in the job description. I think.
“Now, let’s get ready, make some sponsor-safe magic, and come home” I finish, pointing dramatically toward the kitchen door.
“What the lady wants, the lady gets,” Theo laughs. “Besides, my thighs were born for content.”
“Mine were born for contact sports,” Rory grumbles.
I bury my face in my hands. “ Go . Get changed. I’ll meet you all out front in ten minutes.”
Jax grabs a water bottle, nods once, and disappears into the yard. Finn actually salutes , then bounds out of the room and upstairs with all the subtlety of a baby elephant on a trampoline.
Which leaves me in the kitchen with Rory and Theo.
A horror movie, frankly.
Rory looks at me, and his gaze drops, all slow and unblinking.
“You sure you’re feeling okay?” he asks, voice low and serious.
I freeze. “What?”
“You’re flushed,” he comments, folding his arms across his broad chest.
“Maybe it’s the banana bread,” I sigh. “Or the weird eggs Jax was holding. Or, you know, all of your pheromones literally seeping into the walls of the house. Could be mold—alpha mold.”
Theo leans back against the counter, his abs flexing and his biceps doing things to my ovaries that should require a license.
“Or,” he chirps up, “maybe it’s because we’re a scent match.”
I choke on absolutely nothing. “I’m sorry, what ?”
“Come on, Frankie. You’ve heard this story before. An omega starts spiking around a certain scent profile. Instinctual compatibility and early pack bonds. You know—feral biology.”
“That is not a real thing.”
“It’s literally a real thing.”
“My body isn’t doing anything ,” I snap. “And if it was, it wouldn’t be matchmaking, it would be malfunctioning .”
Rory steps forward, his alpha energy at full volume.
“Frankie.” His voice is quieter now, but it lands with the weight of a verdict. “If it is a scent-match, then you need to say something. I’m not risking you spiraling on your first day of work.”
“No, I—Rory, I’m fine ,” I hiss. “I mean it, it’s just the banana bread. And first day nerves. And the fact that you all smell like an orgy made eye contact with a lumberjack convention.”
“Aha!” Theo grins wider. “So you admit it: you have noticed our scent.”
I slap a hand over my forehead. “I’m going to set myself on fire.”
“You might already be combusting,” he says cheerfully. “Should we get a thermometer, or just sniff you again and guess?”
“I’m going to go get changed,” I sigh. “And when I come back, you two better be in shorts, shirts, and not trying to CSI my hormones.”
“Don’t forget the camera!” Theo calls after me as I stomp toward the door. “And maybe some salt. For the thirst trap!”
“I will end you ,” I shout back, my voice muffled by the hallway.
Behind me, Rory growls low and sharp. “Shut it, Theo.”
There’s a beat.
Then Theo again, far too smug:
“Just saying. If anyone’s going to imprint on her, it’ll be me.”
I head upstairs and slam the door to my new room for dramatic emphasis.
God help me—this is only day one.