Chapter Eight
Frankie
T his is fine. Everything’s fine.
I am not having a slow-motion breakdown at the local rugby club while directing four obscenely hot alphas in what Evie calls sponsor-friendly thirst trap content, and I definitely didn’t almost drop my phone because Jax did a pull-up and looked vaguely threatening about it.
Nope. Everything’s cool. Totally normal, in fact.
We’ve come to the Alderbridge RFC pitch, in my first officialtown outing. It’s a proper training facility—grass field, goalposts, branded cones, and an outdoor tap that Theo has already weaponised. I’ve been crouched behind the camera— okay, fine, my phone —saying things like “a little to the left” and “hold that pose” and “Theo, for the love of god, put the hose down.”
To be fair, he did put it down.
After he sprayed it across his abs first.
Honestly, the man is a menace . He’s been treating this like an audition for something illegal: mugging for the camera, flexing like it’s foreplay, and spraying himself with the damn hose.
“Just getting my reps in,” he said, while shirtless ( despite my protests ), misted, and fully aware of his own thighs.
Rory is the complete opposite. The team captain followed my every direction without theatrics. He just got on with it: he did the drills, refused eye contact, and looked like he was contemplating filing an HR report the entire time.
He did growl at Theo twice, though, which predictably made Theo worse.
For the most part, Jax didn’t even acknowledge the camera—though that’s no real surprise, since I’m quickly learning that he barely acknowledges gravity. It was as if he heard the words light training drills and took them as a personal challenge from god. Within minutes, he was doing pushups on a tree stump, deadlifting the tire, and using a bungee cord and a metal pole to improvise resistance training.
I wasn’t filming content—I was documenting a rogue fitness cult.
He was focused and intense. He didn’t say much, but honestly, the quiet was louder than any flirting. Besides, he was gorgeous, and he made for excellent thirst-traps.
I may or may not have zoomed in on his biceps. And forearms.
And his shoulders.
And that one sharp muscle that runs from the hip down like it’s personally offended by modesty.
At one point, I caught myself wondering what would get him to break focus. What would make him lose that unshakable calm. What would make him—
Nope .
I shook it off so hard I almost dropped the phone.
Professionalism , I reminded myself. Boundaries .
And suppressants that are currently doing absolutely nothing .
And then, of course, there was Finn.
Finn, who just so happens to be a walking daydream with thighs carved from hope.
Finn, with his sandy blond hair damp with sweat and curling slightly at the ends.
Finn, with eyes that are all soft, green, and unreasonably kind.
Finn, with his broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin, with his arms that could cradle a horse and a moisture-wicking shirt clinging to him like it had emotional needs.
The camera didn’t just like him—it adored him.
He did slow-motion stretches, ran his drills with perfect form, and asked “is this okay?” after every take, as though I wasn’t already two seconds from losing my mind.
“I can do it again. Want one with more light? Want one with less bounce?”
I had no idea what he meant by bounce , but I filmed it again anyway.
For content. Obviously.
By the time we wrap up, I’m pretty confident that I have enough footage to satisfy Evie, the club’s sponsors, and at least eighty percent of omega TikTok. On top of that, I also haven’t combusted, fainted, or accidentally mounted a training cone; which counts as a huge win.
I survived Rory’s scowls, Finn’s sunshine energy, Theo’s hose kinks, and Jax doing morally confusing things to a tire.
And I was fine.
Totally. Perfectly. Fine.
Until I wasn’t.
Because now we’re done, the adrenaline’s gone, and all that’s left is four sweaty alphas stretching in the sun while my hormones try to boot up a heat that isn’t even happening.
My pulse skips. My spine tingles. The scent hits me like a tackle to the chest and suddenly everything’s just… too much.
“Okay!” I chirp, way too loud for even my own ears. “Great job, team. You were deeply chaotic and weirdly photogenic.”
Theo winks as he downs the last of his water. “ That’s going in my bio.”
“I need to go and edit,” I say quickly, backing toward the clubhouse. “You know how it is: deadlines. Emails. Productivity. Corporate synergy.”
“You’re flushed,” Rory calls, without looking up.
“It’s the sun,” I lie.
“It’s cloudy.”
“Yeah, well, turns out I’m allergic to… daytime hours and testosterone.” I cringe at myself. “Catch you all back at the house!”
And then I flee.
At speed.
Thankfully, the house isn’t too far of a walk, and I make it back in no time at all. None of the alphas have attempted to follow me, which is a relief: I’m finally going to have some much-needed alone time to calm my composure and get back in control.
I make it back to my room and lean against the closed door like I’ve just escaped a fire. My skin’s buzzing, my knees are trembling , and I don’t even want to know if it’s from adrenaline or pheromones or just residual compression-short trauma.
Theo's hoodie is still on the bed, where I tossed it earlier in a noble, temporary show of restraint.
I don’t put it on, because I’m strong. I’m grounded.
I’m a modern omega woman with a bachelor’s degree and a very average serotonin level.
I’m…
…Okay, screw it .
I give into all of my instincts and dive into the alpha-made nest sitting in the corner of the room, hoodie in hand and my camera roll now open.
I settle myself down and hit play , watching the first video as Theo lunges— slowly —with those compression shorts clinging to every inch of muscle that he calls thighs. He’s smirking, winking, and absolutely knows what he’s doing, the smug bastard.
Finn jogs into frame, flushed and glowing, his shaggy blond hair damp with sweat, his smile so earnest I almost whimper.
In the background, Rory mutters something about professionalism. I watch his strong jaw clench in annoyance as his shirt pulls across his broad chest when he moves, and—oh, yep , my ovaries just applauded.
Then the camera cuts to Jax silently lifting a tire. His veins are doing the most, his arms look like they bench press regret, and his whole vibe is deeply unhelpful to my mental health.
I let out a sound into the hoodie sleeve. It’s not dignified. It might not even be human.
Still, I rewind, and hit play again.
This time, I swear the hoodie purrs.
I curl tighter into the nest. The air smells like alpha, like muscle and musk and something darker underneath—all four of them embedded in the fabric of this room, of this house , of me.
My thighs clench as my skin prickles all over. My mouth has turned completely dry, and my hormones are staging a military coup.
I am not surviving this job. Hell, I’m not surviving this hoodie .
And if one more clip auto-plays with Theo saying “how low do you want me?” while lunging into camera like a living thirst trap, then I might just do something truly, cosmically stupid.
*
I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here under the very loose excuse of editing.
Which is, of course, a complete and utter lie. I haven’t edited a damn thing.
My phone’s propped up on a pillow, and somehow—I don’t even know how—I’m now in nothing but Theo’s hoodie and my underwear.
My yoga pants? Gone . My baby pink tee? No idea .
I swear, one minute I was checking video framing, the next I was half-naked in a hormone nest and making questionable decisions under the influence of alpha sweat.
The next clip loads, and it’s Theo again. He’s mid-lunge, shirt plastered to his abs and sweat glistening. He’s laughing—probably amused at himself, but possibly directed at me—but the camera is focused and committed, and it catches everything .
The sweep of his huge hand across his thick neck. The visible flex of his broad, strong thighs. The frankly illegal roll of his hips as he rises out of the lunge.
“Slow enough for you, sweetheart?” video-Theo drawls.
I make a sound that’s definitely not safe for work. Hell, it’s not even safe for public parks.
I can’t help myself, though.
I hit replay.
Then again.
Then once more, pretending it’s for quality control.
My thighs press together instinctively as heat flashes across my skin like a warning siren. My scent is rising again, and I’ve no blockers left to fight it, no distractions to pull me away.
“Oh my god,” I whisper into the hoodie. “I need an intervention.”
Still, I rewind and watch as Theo lunges again, and I feel it this time—low and deep and devastating.
I shouldn’t. I absolutely shouldn’t.
But the blanket Finn gave me—the one that smells like mint, almond, and him—is right next to me; folded, soft, and so him .
I move without thought, dragging it between my legs…
And the pressure is perfect.
It’s shameful. It’s filthy.
It’s happening anyway.
I bury my face in the edge, breathing in Finn like his scent might ground me instead of completely undo me. My hips grind into the plush fabric, slow and needy, chasing a friction I can’t reason with anymore.
But it’s Theo’s voice that plays again in my mind.
"Go lower, sweetheart. I want you shaking."
I moan into the blanket, into the scent, into the madness I’ve somehow agreed to cohabitate with.
I force my eyes to stay open as the video cuts to Finn—his training shirt riding up, green eyes wide, cheeks flushed, all sweet, golden-boy apocalypse—and it only makes it worse. I can feel his warmth, the weight of his kindness. The way he’d whisper it’s okay, I’ve got you while his body pressed mine into the mattress.
My thighs tense as I grind down harder, my slick soaking straight through my panties.
"Frankie," video-Theo drawls—closer, deeper, rougher —
And I come.
Hard .
My orgasm crashes through all hot and sharp, leaving me whimpering into a peppermint-scented blanket. My thighs tremble with the force of it, and my chest heaves as I attempt to steady my breathing.
And then—nothing.
Nothing except heavy, embarrassed silence.
I flop back against the blankets, Finn’s blanket still tangled between my sticky thighs, hair matted and pressed up on my sweaty forehead.
Holy. Shit.
I twitch as I blink up at the ceiling, then at the phone—
Then the stain on my moral record.
Fuck.
I’m going to hell.