Chapter Thirteen
Frankie
I t’s weird how quickly chaos becomes routine.
Four shirtless alphas stomping around the kitchen, arguing about macros and microwave etiquette? Normal. Jax stealing all the protein bars but somehow still being the quietest man alive? Expected. Theo trying to pitch shirtless commentary reels over breakfast while Rory threatens him with the team budget spreadsheet? Daily occurrence.
Meanwhile, I’m just trying not to combust.
I’ve spent the past few weeks buried in research—studying what other rugby teams are doing, sure, but also checking out how clubs in other sports are building their online followings. Football, hockey, soccer, even roller derby. I’m taking notes, analyzing what works.
And it’s not just scores and stats—it’s the behind-the-scenes stuff. The messy, funny, everyday things that make people feel like they’re part of something.
Turns out, people don’t just want to see results. They want stories. They want faces. They want personality.
Especially the girls.
I’ve seen the comment sections of videos, the shares, even the DMs. I’m not the only one who didn’t grow up knowing anything about rugby, and sure, maybe I’m not about to start handing out tactical breakdowns or play-by-play commentary—but if I can show off how much fun this team is, how welcoming it can be, how magnetic the culture actually is ?
Well. Maybe more women and girls will start watching, start following, start showing up.
Maybe they’ll see there’s space for them here, too.
But to reach those people, we need content that works; content that hooks people in and makes them stay.
Which brings me to our first six-foot-something, green-eyed, tan-skinned rugby golden retriever.
This afternoon, we’re filming the first in what I’m calling our Player Profiles series. Quick-fire Q that soft, steady gaze still locked on mine, but unmoving.
The tension buzzes louder than any comment section ever could. It sits heavy between us, tight and unsure and completely unscripted.
The moment drags out, and my cheeks begin to burn beetroot red.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I pull back a fraction, my voice barely working.
He nods, still quiet.
I try to smile. It twitches awkwardly on my face, so I abort halfway through and move too fast, rattling a chair as I retreat blindly.
“Right. I should—uh—go check the upload and schedule the next post,” I say to the air somewhere near his shoulder.
He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already moving. I leave the kitchen with my face on fire, and by the time I reach my room, I’m practically vibrating with adrenaline.
I close the door, then stand there for a second to breathe.
Then I faceplant into the bed and groan into the pillow.
Because apparently, the only thing more mortifying than someone not making a move on you, is you almost making one first.
*
I don’t know how long I stay curled up, replaying everything in my head.
The way I leaned in. The silence he met me with.
And, of course, the humiliating way I bolted.
I pull the blanket over my face. Somewhere in the house, one of the guys laughs loudly—Theo, I think. I’m not even sure if it’s real at this point.
Just as my eyes are beginning to droop to a close, there’s a knock on the door.
“Frankie?”
I freeze at the sound of Finn’s voice muffled through the door.
There’s a beat of silence, then: “I, uh—brought tea. Just wanted to check on you.”
I sit up, wipe under my eyes (just in case ), and shuffle to the door. It’s not locked, but he doesn’t even try to open it.
I crack it open to the sight of him standing there in gray sweatpants and a plain white tee, his fair hair still damp from the shower. There’s a steaming mug in his hands, and that soft, uncertain smile on his face that makes me feel like I’m being offered a life raft.
I step back. “You can come in. If you want.”
He nods, then closes the door behind him quietly. He doesn’t say anything at first—just passes me the mug and takes in the evolving blanket nest in the corner as I climb back onto the bed and sit against the headboard, legs tucked under me.
He hovers, glancing around like he’s not sure if he should sit or retreat. Finally, I pat the edge of the mattress.
“You can sit.”
He lowers himself gently onto the bed; not too close, but not too far, either. Always a gentleman.
“You alright?” he asks.
I nod, then shake my head, then shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He watches me for a second, then sighs. “About earlier… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. If I made anything weird.”
“You didn’t.”
I sip the tea. It’s peppermint. Of course it’s peppermint.
“I just didn’t want to do something you’d regret,” he says softly. “That’s all.”
I frown. “Why would I regret it?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.
“I’m not good at this stuff,” I admit. Finn’s eyebrows lift slightly, the soft green of his eyes turning curious. “I mean… you know. Feelings. Trust. Letting people in.”
“You don’t have to be,” he says, gentle and sure. “Not with me.”
We sit with it—his words, my fear, the space between us—until his hand moves across the blanket and brushes mine. It’s barely a touch, just the side of his knuckles against the back of my hand, but it sends a jolt straight through me.
I glance at his hand, then up at him.
He’s already watching me.
I watch his face, utterly transfixed as his lips part and his eyes darken—
And this time— this time —he leans in first.
The kiss is soft, at first. Something close to cautious. His mouth brushes mine like he’s testing the heat, but I don’t flinch, and I don’t pull away.
I press into him, and the tension snaps .
His large hand comes up to cradle my jaw as the kiss deepens, his other palm steady on my waist, like he’s anchoring himself. I shift closer, my knees brushing his thigh around the covers, and he makes a low sound against my lips. It’s soft, almost surprised—like he hadn’t expected me to want this just as badly.
I kiss him harder as my hand knots in the front of his white shirt. His fingers curl into my hip, and his breath breaks when I bite gently at his lower lip. I pull back, just enough to speak, and we’re both breathing like we’ve run a sprint.
“Is this okay?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he half-laughs, voice hoarse. “ Very okay.”
I smile, then reach for him again.
“Move back,” I tell him, guiding him with me.
His brows flick up when his back hits the headboard, but he doesn’t stop me. His hands fall to my hips as I move to straddle him, the covers slipping down around my body.
The mug of tea sits forgotten on the nightstand, and his breath catches as I settle myself down over his lap. I run my fingers through his hair—still slightly damp from his shower—and watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes trace every inch of me like he’s trying to memorize it.
Then I lean in.
And this time, the kiss isn’t soft at all.