Chapter Nine
Frankie
E vie left town three days ago without warning. There was no meeting, no briefing—just a voicemail timestamped at 6:12 a.m.
“Something’s come up, and I have an emergency meeting over in Denton Vale. I’ll be back before the end of the week. Don’t let Theo post anything without supervision — including on his personal accounts.”
That last part felt targeted.
When I asked the guys what was going on, I got four very different levels of unhelpful.
Rory said club drama. Jax muttered something about lawyers and wouldn’t make eye contact. Theo claimed it involved a cursed foam roller and a decades-long pack feud that escalated into property damage and “ at least one mild haunting. ” Meanwhile, Finn blinked, looked around at the others, and then nodded like the whole thing made sense.
I quickly realized that no one really knows , but whatever it is, it’s bad—the kind of bad that makes the club’s Director of PR and Internal Affairs disappear mid-week in a tailored blazer and heels that could wound.
All anyone agrees on is that it has something to do with Denton Vale RFC—one of Alderbridge’s oldest rivals. Apparently, the tension goes way back to at least two generations of grudges. Something about a player poaching scandal in the nineties, an unsanctioned bond during a summer tournament, and one particularly controversial incident involving a mascot and a smoke bomb.
There’s not much I can do. Evie didn’t tell me anything beyond don’t let Theo near the internet, and I’ve already changed three of the club’s passwords.
So, in the meantime, I start a new note in my phone titled Possible Rugby Beef . You know—just in case.
*
With Evie out of town and my heat lockdown officially lifted, I’ve spent the past three days cautiously reclaiming my sanity—and, more importantly, finally seeing Alderbridge for myself.
Turns out, it’s annoyingly charming.
The streets are narrow, the houses are old and all lean at slightly different angles, and everyone knows everyone else’s breakfast order, blood type, and dating history. People actually wave when you walk past them. Not even in a creepy way—just in a “ we definitely already know who you are ” kind of way.
It’s nothing like the city.
Everyone here seems to have a strong opinion on baked goods, weather, and who should be starting fly-half this season. In my first two hours of exploring, I’d had five strangers welcome me to the town. Two of them were holding dogs. One of them was a vicar.
None of them asked for my name.
On my first afternoon out, Finn walked me to the bakery—for air and sugar, apparently. He’s clearly a regular. The women behind the counter lit up the second he stepped inside—one waved, one pinched his cheek, and the third asked if he’d remembered to stretch after training.
I didn’t even make it through the door before one of them looked me up and down and said, “You’re the club’s new social media girl.”
Then she handed me a gingerbread rugby ball and offered to introduce me to every single man in town who’s under forty.
She apparently keeps a spreadsheet. Color-coded.
That evening, I needed some more shampoo. Jax offered to walk into town with me, quiet as ever but steady at my side. We didn’t talk much, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… calm.
I’m starting to like the way he’s silent. It feels solid. Safe .
We ended up at a small grocery store run by a retired winger named Steve, who squinted at me, looked at Jax, and said, “Solid head on your shoulders for someone surrounded by that much thigh.”
Jax said nothing—just handed me a basket and paid once we were done. I tried to pull out my purse, but he shot me a look that shut me up instantly. I’m still not sure if that was support or pity. Possibly both.
On Wednesday morning, Theo decided I needed a smoothie. His logic? They all have protein shakes after training, so obviously I needed one too—to " match the vibe ." I told him I was fine, but he ignored me and insisted on taking me to Pulse that I was working hard, getting settled, and actually—against all odds—enjoying it here. I kept my voice light, and kept things breezy. I definitely didn’t mention the scent triggers, or the laundry situation, or how I’d nearly sobbed when someone offered to hold the door for me at the post office; but I said I was happy.
And weirdly enough… I think I meant it.
I’m still the new girl, but as the days have passed, the stares have softened. The questions are more curious than nosy. Someone said I looked settled yesterday. I almost cried.
I didn’t expect to like it here, but I do.
*
Evie returns first thing on Thursday morning with a sharp blazer, tight bun, and eyes like she’s just walked out of a courtroom and won on a technicality.
She finds me in my office—which is a generous term. It’s technically a converted supply closet with a door that sticks and a window that faces a fence, but it’s mine , and it’s more work space than I’ve had to myself in years.
I’ve already made it a little homely: a tea stash in the drawer, my work laptop wallpaper set to a cat in a rugby jersey, and Finn’s knitted gecko perched proudly on the side cabinet.
I’m halfway through scheduling a match-day teaser post for tomorrow when she walks in.
“Oh, good,” she says, nodding at the screen. “You didn’t burn the socials to the ground.”
“I thought about it,” I say dryly. “But Theo threatened to give himself an unofficial takeover and I panicked.”
“Well. Don’t get too comfortable. Everything’s about to get messier.”
“...Are you going to tell me what happened at Denton Vale?”
“No,” she sighs. “But I will say that if a certain transfer document leaks, I was never there.”
She doesn’t explain. I don’t ask.
We move on.
I swivel the laptop monitor toward her and pull up the dashboard.
“Training day edit went live Wednesday night—like you approved,” I say, clicking through tabs. “Views are climbing steadily. We’ve got over three thousand likes across platforms, four-hundred shares, nine-hundred saves, and the comments are… mostly thirst-adjacent, but enthusiastic.”
Evie scans the numbers. Scrolls. Pauses. Scrolls again.
“Also, someone made a gif of Theo pouring water on himself and captioned it ‘hydration is a lifestyle.’ It’s been reposted twenty-seven times this morning.”
She watches the footage again, this time with the data beside it. Still doesn’t smile, but she does nod.
“This is good. You’ve got a good eye.” She straightens. “I’m giving you full control of the social schedule.”
“Wait—like, full full?”
“I’ll still manage sponsor approvals,” she explains. “But content planning, post scheduling, match-day coverage—it’s yours now.”
“And the players are fine with that?”
“They don’t get a vote.”
I mean—fair enough.
“Sounds…good,” I reply, trying not to look visibly underqualified.
“You’ll need to make sure you’re hot on your weekly diary. Plan ahead. Touch base with me on Mondays. Oh—and before I forget—”
She digs around in her bag for a moment before she hands me a key fob and a lanyard with my name printed on it in corporate Helvetica.
It feels…weirdly official.
“Don’t let them drag you into nonsense,” she adds. “Theo’s already asked if you can film his ‘hydration routine.’”
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes.”
*
Once Evie’s has left, I return to my desk, flip to a fresh page in my notebook, and start drafting the content diary. The season’s full fixture list is pinned up on my wall, and I highlight all the home and away games, then add repeating blocks for press content, training days, rest days, and snack days ( those are unofficial, but morale matters ).
It all looks… weirdly manageable.
I log into the club’s socials and start loading posts into the scheduler. Thumbnails. Captions. Tags. One rogue TikTok of Theo doing fake stretching with suspicious intent.
My first actual week on the job, my first real task ticked off and completed, and I’m still standing. Still clothed. Still not banned from the clubhouse.
The schedule locks into place, and suddenly, so do I.
A job. A routine. A team. A town that’s too nosy for its own good but already memorizing how I take my coffee. And, dare I think it… a pack .
Somehow, I’ve gone from passing out in front of an alpha on the day of my interview to managing the club’s content calendar and receiving small-town plums from women named Maureen.
I didn’t plan any of this. But for the first time in months, maybe years, I think I might be exactly where I’m supposed to be.