Chapter Twelve
Rory
T he water’s close to freezing when I step into the shower block.
“Whose idea was cold water?!” Theo yelps somewhere to my left. “We just won a full-contact turf war and now we’re being punished?”
Finn’s still smiling, of course. He gave everything on that field and then asked if we needed help carrying cones. “Better than the portable locker rooms at Harwich,” he offers, scrubbing mud from his hair. “Those had spiders.”
“Those had regrets,” Jax mutters as he joins us.
There’s laughter all around. Jax doesn’t usually crack jokes, which means everyone’s still riding high.
We earned this.
South Harwich were never going to roll over. They’re the loudest team in the division, all brute force and dirty tackles. But we held. Adjusted . Hit harder, stayed clean, and won.
I watch the steam rise from the corner where someone finally figured out the hot tap.
Frankie’s out of sight now—somewhere back in the main room reviewing footage or helping one of the interns download post-match content—but her laugh had echoed off the tiles five minutes ago when Finn made a face at Theo’s shampoo choices. She’d joined us in the locker room to film some of the post-match aftermath, where one of the guys had passed her an energy drink, and Theo had leaned over and kissed the top of her head like it was the most normal thing in the world. She’d thrown a balled-up sock at him in response, and even Jax had cracked a smile.
“Nice throw,” I told her as I passed.
“Nice shoulder check,” she’d smirked.
That’s high praise from her.
She didn’t even blink when the towels were flying and someone slapped Theo’s ass like it was a team ritual, and the rest of the team noticed. Not the sock, or the nonchalance at ass slapping—but her .
The way she’s settled in. The way we all orbit her now without saying it out loud.
She’s comfortable .
And the guys? They’ve stopped trying to impress her. They’re just being themselves around her now—loud, obnoxious, half-naked selves—and it feels good .
Coach yells something about keeping the victory laps under control and not giving the sponsors a reason to increase our PR budget as we file out of the showers in stages, some still dripping, some already halfway into team hoodies. After the steam, noise, and half a dozen towels later, we regroup by the vans.
Coach claps me on the back, then nods to the rest of the team.
“Go out. Enjoy it,” he says. “But be back at training Monday with the same hunger. No coasting.”
“Yes, Coach,” the guys chorus.
And then someone—probably Theo—says, “Diner?”
Finn lights up. “Hazel’s got that Saturday night special.”
Frankie perks up. “Wait, did you say Hazel’s?”
Ten minutes later, we’re piling into cars. Still half sore, half damp, and full of dumb energy. The parking lot at Hazel’s is half full. Someone must’ve called ahead, because they’ve shoved two tables together near the window.
Frankie ends up wedged between Jax and Finn, and I sit across from her. She looks happier than she did two weeks ago. Still tired, still wired, but lighter.
It matters.
I watch her laugh at something Theo says, and the way she leans into Finn’s shoulder when he makes a dramatic retelling of the smoothie bar incident. Jax passes her the syrup without her asking for it, and she accepts it with a small smile in his direction. Their eyes linger for a beat, and her cheeks flush pink.
She belongs here.
And for the first time since this season started, I think maybe—so do we.
*
Sunday morning is quiet.
Not silent—Theo’s already thumping around—but quieter than yesterday. The kind of quiet that settles over a house after a win.
I’m stretched out on the couch, oversized hoodie on, legs half off the end. Today is a rest day, full stop. I’d planned to hit the gym with Theo, but somewhere between opening my eyes and standing up, I decided today I don’t care about hypertrophy. I care about not moving.
“You sure you’re not coming?” Theo asks as he laces up his sneakers by the front door.
“Rest day,” I grunt.
He rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna stiffen up.”
“That’s the point.”
Theo snorts, grabs his headphones, and flexes at himself in the mirror for no reason. “Well, someone’s gotta represent Alderbridge quads. Guess it’s up to me.”
“Your thighs get more attention than our win yesterday.”
“They’ve earned it.”
I wave him off without opening my eyes. “Don’t break the treadmill.”
“Don’t break the couch.”
He’s gone with the slam of the door and the clatter of keys.
I shift, dig my phone out of the blanket heap, and see a new message waiting.
Saw the match score. That was yours, wasn’t it? Proud of you, Rory. Call when you’re free.
I stare at the text for a second, then lock my screen.
My mother means it. I know she does. But there’s a weight to it—there always is.
I shove the phone under the cushion behind my head and close my eyes.
Jax and Finn are still upstairs, totally dead to the world, and I’m not far behind them; half-asleep with one leg hanging off the couch, hoodie now pulled over my head. I’m about to drift off when there’s a soft sound—bare feet on the floorboards. Then movement. Then—
“Oh,” Frankie says. “You’re… horizontal.”
My eyes crack open.
She’s standing in the living room doorway holding a bowl of something and wearing one of the team hoodies that doesn’t belong to her. Possibly mine. I’m not sure. I don’t care.
Except the hem of it hits her mid-thigh.
Fine. I care. A little.
“Rest day,” I grunt.
She smiles. “You said that already.”
She walks past the couch, sets the bowl down on the coffee table, and—without asking—nudges my legs off the cushion with her hip.
I blink at her.
She flops down next to me, tucks her feet under her, and starts eating cereal like this is normal.
Like she hasn’t just invaded the only corner of peace I had left.
“This is my space,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “It’s community seating. Besides, you’re taking up ninety percent of it.”
“I’m bigger than you.”
“You’re grumpier than me.”
I stay still for a minute. Not out of politeness, but out of sheer confusion.
It’s not that she’s here. It’s not even that she’s sitting next to me. It’s… the smell. Her smell.
Warm. Soft. Familiar now. And it’s not just her scent, it’s… presence. She’s embedded in the house, embedded in us .
She hums to herself between mouthfuls, then shifts a little—just enough that her bare leg brushes against mine.
I go rigid.
She doesn’t notice, or she pretends not to.
I don’t know the last time I was this close to an omega without it being something physical, something fast and forgettable—something that didn’t involve cereal and shared couches and oversized hoodies. I glance at her from the corner of my eye and catch her licking the spoon.
“What?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Nothing.”
“You were staring.”
“Was not.”
She grins. “You were thinking very loudly.”
I shift again. She shifts too.
Her thigh presses to mine again, firmer this time.
I don’t move.
She sets the bowl down and wipes her hands on a napkin. I shift myself more upright as she settles back into the couch, and I move to turn the TV on. Some crappy show flickers on that I know she’s been watching, and then she leans back—slow and relaxed—
And her head bumps against my shoulder.
It’s not a big thing, but I stop breathing for it all the same.
She doesn’t move. Again.
And neither do I.
I can feel her weight there; the soft curve of her against the side of my arm, the tiniest warmth of her skin brushing mine where the sleeve rides up.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
“I keep forgetting there’s a woman in the house,” I say suddenly.
She pulls back, eyes wide. “Uh. Thanks?”
“I didn’t mean— shit . I meant—you’re not— ugh .” I rub a hand over my face. “You’re quiet.”
“You mean I don’t act like Theo.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she laughs.
“You should.”
There’s a pause, then she leans back against me again.
“So. You forget there’s a woman in the house, huh?”
“I forget there’s an omega ,” I admit.
“And now?”
“Now, I remember.”
My voice comes out low and rough, and I notice the way her breath catches.
Then, quietly, she says, “You know… you’re not what I expected.”
I glance down at her. “What did you expect?”
She shrugs, angling her head so she’s blinking right up at me. She’s closer now than she’s ever been before, and it feels intimate .
“More knife jaw. Less… hoodie.”
I snort. She smiles.
I don’t move away, and I don’t say it out loud, but I think: You’re not what I expected either.
And that might be the problem.