Chapter Seventeen
Frankie
I ’ve been staring at my laptop for twenty minutes.
Technically, I’m editing pre-match content. Realistically, I’m watching Rory tell the camera—completely deadpan—that his matchday ritual is not murdering Theo .
It’s going to be another viral one. I can feel it.
The comments on the last post are still rolling in—fast, funny, and highly flattering. But they’re not just about the guys: they’re also about me.
Is the media girl single?? Asking for a friend (it’s me).
More Frankie pls. We want a Q and with each curious comment that comes, I find that I actually kind of want to talk about how I got here. To show people what it actually looks like to run socials for a semi-pro rugby team that smells like testosterone and protein powder and collective emotional repression.
I want to tell them that it’s not just a job—it’s people .
Including four massive, maddening, magnetic alphas who are slowly ruining my life in very confusing and potentially orgasmic ways.
Speaking of which—
Finn.
Yeah. So.
That happened.
And… keeps happening. Sort of.
There’s been no full replays, no second-half scoring, but there’s kissing. There’s sneaky, panty-dampening, body-arching kisses that happen behind closed doors and once, infuriatingly, in the pantry.
We haven’t talked about it, which is fine, of course. And I’m totally fine, too.
Except.
I want more.
And not just with Finn.
That’s the part I can’t say out loud.
Because the truth is, I want all of them. Finn’s soft and steady. Theo’s pure chaos and charm. Rory’s storm cloud in human form. And Jax? God . Jax barely says ten words a day and still makes my stomach do front flips just by existing.
It’s not fair. It’s not normal.
It’s not the plan.
But still, the heart—and body—wants what it wants, and I want all of them. Which feels… greedy .
I’ve met people in packs before. Old classmates, a couple at college who had the whole shared-nesting-and-collective-Instagram vibe down. But I never asked them how it worked, never asked the questions I need answers to now.
Like, how do you know when it’s right? How do you figure out the dynamics?
Does someone make the call? Is it instinct? Agency? A group text?
How do you know if you’re a scent match for one, or more, or all?
And what if you are ?
Do you tell them? Do they want to know?
Do they want you ?
The idea of asking makes my throat tighten. I’m not even officially bonded—hell, I’ve spent most of my teenage years and adult life pretending I’m not even an omega, if I can help it.
Now look at me—living in a house with four alphas who smell like mine, making content about them, and wanting them.
All of them.
And I have no idea what happens next.
I shut my laptop and press my palms into my eyes until I see stars, then I open a new note on my phone that I title as Away Day Filming Plan.
I start typing.
Because if I’m not brave enough to ask the questions yet…
At least I can make sure I get the footage.
*
I’m halfway through syncing subtitles on the pre-match video when Harper sticks her head into my office.
“Lunch?” she asks, already holding her keys.
I glance at the Tupperware on my desk.
Sad pasta. No garlic, and absolutely no joy.
“I brought food,” I start to say. Then I think about the fact I’ve been in this office all morning squinting at font sizes and accidentally seeing another hate comment I promised myself I wouldn’t read. “You know what? Screw it . Let’s go.”
Harper beams.
We end up at a little café just off the high street that has tiny tables, mismatched chairs, and a whole lost-in-Wonderland aesthetic going on. I haven’t been here before, which I say out loud just before the grilled cheese arrives and changes my life.
Harper looks smug. “What can I say? I’ve lived in Alderbridge all my life. I know all the good spots.”
I don’t say that the boys have said the exact same thing. Apparently everyone in this town thinks they invented hospitality and carbs.
Still—she’s not wrong. The place is cute and cozy. The table wobbles just enough to be charming, and the lady behind the counter gave us extra chips because “ you both look like you’re working hard. ”
And honestly? It’s kind of a relief.
Not being surrounded by protein shakes. Not being stared down by four testosterone-heavy alphas in various states of compression short-related chaos. I love the job—obviously—but being the only woman in a house full of enormous, confusingly magnetic men is… a lot.
“It’s nice to have this,” I admit. “Female company, I mean. Someone whose entire scent profile doesn’t scream post-gym euphoria.”
She laughs. “Right? I mean, yeah—Evie’s technically female. But she’s also an alpha. And terrifying . She’s basically running this club with Tom.” She pauses. “You’ve met Tom, right?”
“You mean the team manager?”
“Yeah. Always has a clipboard, and kind of looks like an exhausted gym teacher from a sports drama?”
“Oh—him! Yes. Big ‘ once tackled a goose mid-match ’ energy.”
“ Exactly .” Harper smiles. “Anyway, Evie’s great, but I wouldn’t exactly text her for a meme or cry about my ex. And it’s been kind of nice having someone around who gets it.”
“Gets what?”
She shrugs. “Being the only sane woman in the room. And pretending not to be flustered every time Theo stretches.”
“Okay, but that’s not even fair,” I laugh. “He stretches on purpose. It’s a trap.”
We clink our drinks and dig into our toasties, and for the first time all day, I remember how much nicer it is to spiral in good company.
“My mother’s still texting me, by the way,” I tell her, opening my messages. “She says Nigel would love to see me.”
Harper snorts. “ The Nigel?”
“Oh yes. The man, the myth, and the legend. Did I tell you that he once referred to his own hairline as genetic betrayal and tried to pitch a podcast to my uncle about conspiracy theories in lawn care?”
She chokes on her lemonade.
I sigh. “Honestly, I’d feel worse about ignoring them if he wasn’t so cringe—and weirdly full of himself. He once introduced himself to my cousin’s fiancé by saying that he was the alpha of the house. At Christmas. Over roast potatoes.”
“I’d have gone feral.”
“You don’t know the half of it. He’s a beta, for crying out loud.”
We’re still laughing when the bell over the door jingles, and a group of girls in Alderbridge High uniforms walk in.
One of them clocks me immediately. I try not to act like I’ve noticed, but I watch from my peripheral as she nudges her friend, whispers something, then walks over.
“Hi!” she smiles. “Are you the girl from the Alderbridge RFC videos?”
I nod. “Guilty.”
They light up.
“Oh my god. We love them. The one where Theo Blake tries to do that yoga pose and falls over? It’s iconic. ”
“He’s a character alright,” I laugh.
“It’s amazing how much the socials have really taken off. We’ve been trying to make our own content, but it never gets anywhere.”
“Algorithms are evil,” I say solemnly. “But honestly? It’s not just about trends. People want stories—something that feels real . Think less filters, more personality.”
They nod like I’ve just handed them sacred knowledge as one asks if I’ll ever do a Q&A video about how I ended up here.
I shrug. “Maybe. If I ever work out how it happened for myself.”
They laugh, say thank you, then head off to their table, giggling and whispering.
Harper turns to me, smug. “You need to be on camera more.”
“ Please .” I roll my eyes. “They’re teenagers. They think anyone older than twenty with a following over five figures is aspirational.”
“I’m serious! You’re funny, you’re smart, you’re hot—people want to know who you are. They’re literally foaming at the mouth for more information.”
I shift in my seat, not quite blushing, but definitely flushed.
“Yeah, well. They want to know until they don’t. I’ve seen the comment sections.”
Harper softens. “Frankie.”
“I know,” I wave it off. “I’m ignoring them. Mostly . But the second the views go up, so does the hate. I’ve started scrolling past on purpose when I feel the tone changing. Not always easy, but I’m trying.”
She nods. “Good.”
I sip my soda and stare out the window at this ridiculous town with its rugby murals and flower boxes and inexplicably aggressive ducks.
“You ever think your life was going to end up here?” I ask.
“In Alderbridge? Sure,” Harper shrugs. “But as part of the RFC? Honestly… No. But you know what?”
“What?”
“It’s not a bad place to be. Especially when half the population has thighs like those.”
I grin into my straw. “You make a compelling point.”
And even with all the mess—the pressure, the hate comments, the Nigel texts—I feel it.
That little pulse of something warm in my chest.
I’m starting to belong.