Chapter Eleven
Jax
T he locker room is loud.
Not the sound—sound, I can block out. It’s the energy , all twitchy and wired, the palpable charge in the air. The weight of expectation and the way everyone’s vibrating with the same pre-match adrenaline.
Velcro tears. Boots thump. Someone’s already spilled half a scoop of pre-workout across the floor.
I sit on the bench and tape my wrist. Left first, tight and neat, like always.
Rory’s pacing. He always does. Big strides, eyes sharp, already playing half the game in his head. Theo’s flexing in the mirror, telling a story to some of our teammates that I’m ninety percent sure didn’t happen. Meanwhile, Finn’s breathing through one nostril in sets of four.
He read it in a blog post once, and now it’s tradition.
The energy’s slightly different, though, because Frankie’s here, too.
She’s perched on the edge of a kit box in a pair of skin-tight jeans and an Alderbridge RFC jersey that’s way too big. It’s one of ours—Theo’s, if I had to take a guess. She’s got her phone in her lap and her legs tucked up like she’s trying not to take up space. Her foot’s bouncing, and she’s half-focused, half-ready to bolt.
But she keeps looking at me.
She watches like I’m an equation: the unknown variable in a house full of loud constants. I haven’t given her much—no flirtation, no casual conversation; no soft, golden-boy smiles. That’s not me.
I’m the one who doesn’t knock before contact. The one who gets sent in when things get ugly. And maybe that’s what she’s sensing—that underneath the quiet, there’s something sharper, something less safe.
Good . That makes her smart.
And she shouldn’t trust what she doesn’t know.
But still, when her knee brushes mine as she shifts, when she tucks her hair behind her ear and bites her lip while reviewing footage, I feel it. Every single cell in my body clocks it.
My silence isn’t a strategy—it’s just how I am. Always has been.
Because silent stays alive. Silent sees everything.
Silent doesn’t get caught in the fallout.
I spent years learning to make myself invisible in a house where noise was dangerous, where stillness was survival. I’ve got the scars to prove it—thin and faded, one of the worst tucked beneath the tape on my left wrist. You’d only notice it if you were looking for something wrong.
Most people don’t look.
But she might.
Rory claps once, loud and sharp. Everyone jerks up.
“It’s time.”
Theo kisses his biceps and jumps to his feet. “Let’s go ruin some egos, gentlemen.”
Finn straightens his collar and gives a little nod. “Maybe we could actually try for a clean game, with no injuries, where everyone drinks water.”
“Just once, can we lead with violence?” Theo groans.
Ollie and Ben, two of our teammates, laugh in agreement.
“Violence and accountability,” Rory mutters, grabbing for his boots. “Let’s not have anyone getting benched in the first ten minutes.”
Theo flexes in front of the mirror again. “Rory, please . I’m the morale boost. You’re the scowl. Jax is the nuclear option.”
Everyone turns to me for a beat, but I don’t respond. I just tighten the strap on my glove and keep moving.
Rory jerks his chin. “Game plan’s clear. Harwich will try to muscle wide early—don’t let ‘em. We hold formation and keep our heads.”
“Especially yours, Theo,” Finn adds.
“Mine’s gorgeous,” Theo says. “But noted.”
Rory’s already halfway to the door. “No one gets through us. Not today.”
“Let’s give them something to whine about in the group chat for the rest of the season,” Finn snickers.
There are grins all around, and I finish taping my right wrist. I stretch my fingers and roll my neck once to each side.
Then I look at Frankie.
It’s not a glance. Not a flick.
A look .
She’s still sitting on that kit box, phone in her lap. Wide-eyed, but steady now. Watching.
She catches it; and this time, she doesn’t look away.
Her mouth parts as though she’s about to say something—a wish for luck, maybe, or a joke, even a warning.
But she doesn’t.
She doesn’t need to. We both know something’s shifting.
I stand, and my shoulder lightly brushes hers on the way past.
I don’t say a word, but the tension?
It says plenty.
*
South Harwich is already on the pitch when we step out.
They’re loud and posturing, all teeth and swagger as they pace around like caged animals.
Their captain—number 4—makes a performance out of slapping backs and barking plays, then stares us down like we’ve already lost.
That’s cute.
They’ve been top five in the league the past two years. Lost the final last season, decided it was everyone else’s fault, and haven’t shut up about it since—including online. Rory hates them. Theo calls them the the loudest team with the weakest follow-through. Finn tries to be nice about it, but even he rolls his eyes when they start sprint drills in front of us all, yelling “ DOMINATE .”
That tells you everything.
They’re an all-alpha squad, and proud of it. They’ve built their whole identity around strength and intimidation. They look at our team and see what they think are weaknesses: betas in the back line, a kicker who makes jokes, and an enforcer who doesn’t talk.
But they don’t see what we are.
Our betas aren’t benchwarmers, they’re workhorses . Scrappy, relentless, and smart; they each had to train twice as hard just to earn space on a squad that leans alpha-heavy, and they earned every inch.
I clock the way South Harwich’s front row eyes Jamie—our beta winger—with the kind of amusement that says: soft .
Whatever. Let them underestimate him—they’ll regret it.
Their entire team has got one strategy: run through.
Ours is: don’t let them.
That’s where I come in as the enforcer. It’s not an official position on paper, but every team has one.
I don’t score points. I don’t kick goals.
I keep order. I handle problems.
“Fourth’s too narrow,” I murmur to Rory as we line up.
He gives a short nod. “Saw that too.”
“Ten’s limping,” I add. “Left leg.”
“Keep pressure on his inside,” Rory replies without missing a beat.
We don’t waste words. Never have.
Finn jogs up behind us. “They’ve got ego. We’ve got lungs. Run them.”
“They’re loud now,” Theo grins, swinging his arms. “But let’s see who’s still talking at full time.”
Number 4 jogs up to midfield and shouts something about alphas staying on top.
No one here’s surprised.
“Nice mixed pack, James,” he sneers as he jogs past Rory. “Very… cute .”
Rory bites out a curse, but as their captain’s eyes turn to me, I say nothing at all. I just look at him—long enough for his smirk to slip half a millimetre.
“Fucking freak ,” he barks.
I don’t so much as flinch. I keep my stare locked onto him as he backs off, glancing at me over his shoulder before he lines up with the rest of his team.
I’m not proud of the red cards on my record, but I’m not sorry, either.
And when the whistle blows, I’m gone.
*
At the end of the first half, it’s 7–3.
To them .
So far, the game has been hard, tight, and pretty brutal.
Still, we just about managed to hold the line.
They came in heavy on the left. Finn took two hits that should’ve flattened him, but stayed standing. Theo nailed a penalty from thirty out that just about managed to keep the scoreboard alive.
They answered with a try, and the conversion was clean. They screamed about dominance again .
I blocked out the noise and focused on the plays, on body language, on the cracks starting to show in their number 10’s footwork and the desperation in their winger’s line speed.
Rory called the formation, and we fell into it like we’d trained for war. Jamie took a hard shoulder from a guy twice his size and popped straight back up.
South Harwich laughed. We didn’t.
Betas on this team don’t need defending, just space to run. They’ve more than earned it.
I backed Jamie on the reset, knocking their eight-man off balance before he could take another shot. No words, just movement; and a quick nod from him told me everything I need to know.
We go into halftime trailing by four. Theo tosses his mouthguard and mutters curses at the floor, and we walk in shoulder-to-shoulder; no shouting, no accusations, and no flailing.
Coach is already in the locker room—clipboard under one arm, tactical notes in hand, jaw tight. He’s ex-military, ex-front-row, and not interested in motivational speeches unless they end in bruises.
He doesn’t pace. Doesn’t yell. Just calls the room to order with a look.
“Four down,” he says. “It’s fixable. You’ve gotta stay sharp, tighten the line, don’t give their ten an inch. Their left wing’s flagging—press harder.”
He rattles through the rest quickly and precisely, no time wasted. Rory's nods along, already syncing strategy. He checks his own notes, murmurs a few adjustments to Coach, and points something out on the whiteboard.
Finn crouches by the bench, running through formation shifts and calling subs with quiet authority. The younger guys cluster near him—they always do. He’s the one who checks on them after hits, the one who remembers birthdays, too.
They listen when Rory speaks because he’s the captain. They grin with Theo because he’s what they aspire to be. They trust Finn because he remembers who they are.
And they watch me.
Not because I talk, but because I don’t.
I pass behind Jamie and clap him on the back. Light, but enough. He nods, then settles.
Coach doesn’t miss it. He never does. He just looks at me and gives the smallest nod of approval back.
Quiet reinforcement, I think.
Coach has never pushed me to speak more. Never asked why I don’t fill the silence, never made me explain how I see the game or what I notice during drills. He just figured it out, same way I did.
By paying attention.
He knew from the start that I wasn’t here to talk, or socialize, or make friends. I was here to play rugby, here to win, here to hold the line.
That hasn’t changed.
He’s the only one outside the team who never tried to drag answers out of me, and that’s why I listen when he talks, why I give more when he’s watching.
We don’t say much. We’ve never needed to.
And we’re not in this room for comfort—we’re here to finish what we started.
*
The second half starts, and I’m locked in.
I don’t hear the crowd anymore. Don’t hear the chants, the whistles, or Theo yelling to no one in particular. I just see movement. Weight. Rhythm.
Bodies shift before they commit—you just have to watch close enough.
South Harwich changes tactics and starts sending it wide. Faster hands, quicker offloads, trying to stretch us thin.
It doesn’t work.
They keep pushing through me, over and over.
That’s the mistake.
Because here’s the thing no one tells you:
Silence is strategy.
When you don’t talk, they think you’re not paying attention. They think you’re numb, slow, a blunt instrument. All hit, no read.
What they don’t see is that I’ve already mapped their setups and clocked their playmaker’s habits. The way number 8 leads with his right shoulder when he’s faking a pass. The slight delay in their 10’s boot when he’s going to switch direction.
And they don’t realize I’m already there before they move.
Number 8 tries it again, straight down midfield. He thinks he’s fast and we’re slow to close the gap.
He’s wrong.
I don’t yell, don’t signal—I just step in and drop him.
It’s a textbook tackle; both clean and legal.
He hits the ground so hard it echoes. The contact rattles up through my chest, but I don’t break stride. I push off and reset before he’s even stopped gasping.
The crowd loses it.
Finn whoops and slaps someone’s helmet. Theo yells something obscene about dominance and cardio. Rory pumps a fist once and calls the next play mid-run.
We move. We run it.
And we score.
We take the lead, and we don’t give it back.
During the next stop in play, I scan the sideline. I’m not looking for her necessarily, but my eyes immediately lock on to Frankie.
She’s back by the rail, phone in one hand, and that little frown of concentration she gets when she’s filming. Her mouth moves—talking to herself or narrating, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.
Her camera’s tracking the play, but her eyes are on me. Again .
I meet them, and hold her gaze. Just for a second.
I nod in acknowledgement. She freezes, taken aback by it, I think. My brow furrows just a touch as she blinks, surprised, then her expression softens slightly before she nods back.
As much as I want to keep staring at her, I have to look away, because I’m on a pitch, in the middle of a game, and if I look at her for longer than that—if I let myself see the way her mouth softens when she focuses, or the way she tracks my movement like she’s thoroughly enjoying it—
Then I won’t stay focused.
And I can’t afford that.
Still. She’s easy to look at.
Too easy, in fact.
*
The final whistle blows. The game finishes 19–12.
Alderbridge wins.
South Harwich sulks off. One guy throws a water bottle, while another rips his mouthguard out and launches it into the grass; his NO MERCY tattoo now half-covered in turf burn and bruised ego.
Finn’s already whooping. Theo does a cartwheel, shouts something sarcastic about alpha supremacy, and nearly takes out a corner flag in the process. Rory throws both arms in the air, yelling to the crowd, his eyes wild with that rare, sharp grin he only breaks out after a win that actually meant something.
Coach marches onto the pitch.
“ That’s how you answer,” he nods, happy as I’ve ever seen him. “ That’s how you hold a line.”
Someone yells back, “We learned from the best, Coach!”
He grunts like that’s illegal praise, and immediately barks at Theo to put a shirt back on before we get fined.
I walk off the pitch with Rory beside me. My jaw aches, my shoulder’s tight. My shirt’s soaked, and there’s blood dried on my wrist tape.
I don’t smile. I just nod once; sharp and satisfied.
We did what we came to do, but this is just the start of the season. We’ve got a lot more to go through yet.
Near the sideline, Frankie waits. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the wind or the shouting or both, and she’s watching the team celebrate with a wide smile. I watch as she adjusts her grip on her phone, focused as she angles it for a shot.
She looks like she belongs. Not just in the frame, but in the middle of it.
Theo reaches her first. “Sensational footage queen!” he yells in greeting, his arms wide.
Before she can react, he scoops her up in a full-body hug and spins her once, muddy boots and all.
“Theo!” She shrieks and slaps at his shoulder, but it’s mostly for show. “Put me down!”
He does, then immediately leans into her phone and kisses the lens. Loudly. Twice .
“For the views,” he announces. “Make sure to tag me. I want royalties.”
Rory walks past, towel over his shoulder. “Don’t tag him. We’re trying to keep our sponsors.”
“Rude,” Theo laughs, before jumping on his back.
Finn jogs up after, cheeks red from the cold and the win, beaming. He taps Frankie on the shoulder like he’s not sure he’s allowed to interrupt.
“Hey. You okay?”
She grins. “Better than okay. You were amazing!”
“Thanks.” Finn blushes so hard it reaches his ears. “Did you get the offload play at the end? With the switch pass?”
“Every second.”
“Good,” he breathes. “Because I’m never doing that again. Not unless someone buys me pancakes.”
“You’re on,” she laughs.
Then her gaze slides past all of them.
To me.
She hesitates for a beat, then her mouth curves upwards into a smile that’s small, and real, and just for me.
I hold her stare as she steps forward, her sneakers crunching over the dead grass.
“You were incredible out there,” she says.
I shrug. “That’s the job.”
“Do you always throw guys to the ground like that?” she asks. “Or was today special?”
She’s closer now. I can see the smudge of dirt on her jeans, the way she’s holding the strap of her tote bag like she forgot it’s there.
She’s not flinching at the blood on my collarbone, not blinking at the bruises blooming along my arms. She’s looking at me like none of it makes her nervous.
I should walk away.
I don’t.
“They came for my team,” I tell her. “I don’t let that happen.”
She doesn’t laugh or try to brush it off. Instead, she holds my eyes.
And maybe it’s the victory talking. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought during the last ten minutes of play. But as she looks right at me, I swear, it’s as though she sees something.
Not just the bruises, not just the quiet—
Me .
“Good,” she says softly. “You shouldn’t.”