Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jax
T he field smells like turf, sweat, and pack.
The sun’s dropping behind the hills, casting long, golden streaks across the grass. The wind’s sharp enough to bite, but not cruel—just enough to make you move faster, breathe deeper, and focus harder.
Coach is barking orders from the sideline, his voice hoarse from hours of doing the same, but I don’t listen too closely. We know what we’re doing by now. We’ve been scrimmaging the B-team for over an hour—non-starters, a few Academy boys thrown in for the hell of it. They’re good athletes: young, fast, hungry .
But they’re not us .
We’ve been set into structured pods—backs resetting defensive lines, forwards practising clean breaks, mauls, short offloads. In other words: controlled chaos. Rory calls the next sequence, and I shift into position before the words finish leaving his mouth.
We’ve been playing rugby together for years now, but this is the first time it’s felt like this.
Not just sharp, not just tight, but right .
I stay central, sweeping rucks and clearing bodies, letting the others carve patterns ahead of me. Rory commands the line while Theo drifts wide, feinting sharp cuts and yelling play options no one taught him as Finn darts through the line with his usual grin, light on his feet, all energy and adrenaline.
We’re faster. Cleaner.
More us .
I catch Finn feinting left and I’m already stepping in to support. Theo slips a flat pass behind the dummy runner and Rory’s already there—clean hands, clean take. No pause. No doubt.
They don’t even see it coming. The B-team’s center shouts too late, and Rory’s already past him.
We reset as Coach yells again, this time toward the sideline.
“Lineout! Fifteen metres out! B-team throw!”
Theo jogs back into place, shirt clinging to his back, hair a mess, and that slow, smug smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Finn,” he calls, voice syrupy with mischief. “Let’s make it look pretty.”
Finn groans without turning around. “Why is it always me you want to lift?”
“Because you’re bendy and look good in slow motion,” Theo says, crouching behind him with a little too much enthusiasm. “Also, I like grabbing your thighs.”
“I hate this dynamic,” Finn mutters, already stepping into position. “I am a serious athlete.”
“You’re a sentient bicep with a rom-com face,” Theo replies, adjusting his grip with exaggerated care. “Just accept your destiny and soar for the camera.”
Frankie’s crouched low behind the tripod near the sideline, pretending to focus on exposure settings while very obviously not blinking. She’s wearing Finn’s oversized jacket; hood up against the wind, cheeks flushed, lip tucked between her teeth in concentration—
But when Theo cups his hands dramatically under Finn’s butt like he’s proposing marriage and shouts, “Up you go, my beautiful gazelle!”, she snorts .
Loud enough that Finn turns to glare at her over his shoulder.
“I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
Frankie lifts the camera a little higher, fighting a grin. “Not if the footage turns out. Try to look majestic.”
“I am majestic,” Finn huffs.
Theo plants his feet and mutters, “Not with that posture, you’re not. Squeeze your glutes, I’m not hauling dead weight.”
“This is harassment,” Finn deadpans as Theo lifts him again—clean and powerful, thighs flexing, form annoyingly perfect.
Frankie bites her lip harder. She’s not filming rugby content anymore—she’s filming a disaster comedy, and they all know it.
She’s been filming most of today’s training session. Just ‘little clips for socials’, she’d said; but I can see right through it: she’s not just filming—she’s watching us, tracking us.
Tracking me .
I feel her even when I’m not looking. Her scent’s in the air—stronger now that we’re all bonded and blended. She’s ours , and it’s wrapped around the breeze, soaked into the tackle pads, clinging to the necks of our shirts and the grip tape on our fingers.
It settles low in my chest, humming like a second heartbeat.
I don’t need to glance over to know she’s smiling. I feel it through the bond. That low, content buzz just beneath my skin—like she’s proud, like she’s settled .
And god, it feels good. Not just to be hers, but to know that we’re hers together . That it’s done.
There’s no more unspoken tension, no more waiting to see if we’ll implode. We’ve been through the fire, and we walked out bonded; all of us. The pack is solid, tied, complete—
And I didn’t realize how much weight I’d been carrying until it lifted.
This ? This is how it’s supposed to be.
Rory shouts the trigger word—“ Lift !”—and Theo and the front lifter explode upward, now hauling Finn into the air by his thighs and waistband. It’s clean and controlled, this time; a textbook back lifter technique used for actual play rather than social media content. Finn’s body straightens mid-air, and for a second, he just hangs there: arms stretched high, his legs locked tight.
I track his balance, watching Theo adjust the angle and noting the smirk twitch at the corner of Frankie’s mouth as she catches it all on camera.
“We do our own stunts!” Finn yells midair.
“Shut up and catch something!” Theo shouts back.
Laughter ripples from the B-team, but I can see the cracks starting. They’re watching us now—not with rivalry, but with something close to reverence. Or maybe unease.
They don’t know how to match it. Can’t smell it the way we do.
One of the younger Academy backs mutters to his teammate, “Is it just me, or does it smell like something serious out here?”
The other guy nods. “Yeah. Like... a bonded unit. Or sex. Or both.”
“It’s the smell of emotional maturity and extreme cardio, boys,” Theo calls back. “Try to keep up.”
Finn lands on his feet and immediately tries to bow. Rory groans under his breath while Theo smacks the back of his head.
Coach yells for the reset.
We move back to position, and I find myself glancing toward Frankie again. She doesn’t say anything—just lifts the camera slightly, tilts her head, and gives me the smallest nod.
A yes , without speaking.
A you're good. I see you. I feel you.
And I do.
I feel all of it.
Rory’s steadiness pressing through the bond. Theo’s cocky chaos vibrating at the edges. And Finn’s wild, infectious joy that makes you want to grin through the bruises.
Then there’s Frankie, at the center of it all: watching, waiting, and claiming us in her quiet way.
We’re not just training anymore—we’re becoming something bigger than the game. And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m trying to hold the line.
I am the line.
And they’re running it with me.
*
I can’t sleep.
It’s the kind of late where even the floorboards are tired. The house is silent, thick with the low pulse of bonded scent and settled instinct, but no matter how hard I try… I can’t settle. I never really can after days like this. There’s too much adrenaline in the bloodstream, too much weight on the mind.
Training was good . We’re as ready as we’ll ever be to face Denton Vale, and I’d go as far to say we have a good shot of kicking their asses and heading straight into the finals. The team’s tighter than ever this season, and our pack of four might be newly established, but we’re solid as can be and a force to be reckoned with.
Still, it’s not just rugby that’s on my mind. The threat of the OSC hangs over us all like weather; coming closer and darkening the air.
Everyone else is asleep, tucked up in their respective beds and out for the count. It’s no surprise, given we’re up early again tomorrow for even more training, and Frankie has her meeting with the board. Still, I find myself pacing the hallway more times than I can count, and eventually come to a final stop in front of her door before I can talk myself out of it.
I’ve never done this. Not without being invited first. Not without a clear reason.
But the bond tugs like a low drumbeat in my chest, and I need—I just need —to be near her.
The room is dim and warm. Frankie’s scent hits as I push the door open—lavender, warmth, the trace of us all wrapped through her. She’s in bed—
And so is Finn.
He’s on the far side, curled up with one arm slung loosely over her waist, snoring gently against her shoulder. Frankie’s head rests against his chest, hair spread across the pillow. They’re both half-tangled in blankets, bare legs knotted, breathing slow and steady.
I stop in the doorway. Something settles low in my chest, deep and quiet as I stand there, drinking it in.
Finn’s always been good at this. The closeness, the reaching without needing permission. The way he shows up, open and soft and never ashamed of it. And Frankie—Frankie welcomes it like she’s never known anything different; like the way she holds space for him is just instinct, like letting someone rest against her heartbeat is no big deal.
It is to me, though. That kind of comfort… Well. I’ve never stepped into it without flinching.
I shift my weight, almost ready to turn back. Just the sight of them—that should be enough. Should carry me through the night. I don’t need to ruin it. Don’t need to risk—
She moves.
Frankie shifts under the blankets, then pushes herself up slowly, blinking the sleep from her eyes as her head turns toward me.
“Jax?” her voice is low, rough from sleep.
I freeze, then clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” she whispers. Her hand lifts, rubbing her eye. “Come here.”
I glance at Finn, still dead asleep. He mumbles something unintelligible and buries himself deeper into her side like a content, snoring parasite.
My jaw tightens. “You’re with—”
“I’m always with you,” she says, cutting me off gently.
Her voice doesn’t waver as she lifts the blanket, then gestures with her chin toward it.
A space between them. Just enough for me.
The quiet stretches out between us, and I can’t help it: I stare at her. Her hair’s a mess, her mouth soft and pink, her shoulder bare above the sheet. And there’s no pressure in her voice; no pity, no reluctance. Just… room .
I close the door behind me, cross the room in two steps, and slip under the blanket before I lose my nerve. Frankie shifts to make space as I climb in beside her, and Finn stirs again, but only to reposition himself, his fingers twitching against her stomach before settling.
I lie still on my side, facing her; closer than I thought I’d be able to handle.
But it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t burn .
She slides her hand across my bare chest.
“Hi,” she whispers. Her thumb traces a slow circle over my sternum, and my heart stutters. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I nod, then swallow. “Too much in my head.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” Then, after a beat: “But I wanted… this .”
Her hand doesn’t stop. Just keeps moving, soft and steady. I press my nose against her temple and breathe her in, and the noise in me—the storm that never shuts up, the one made of fists and fire and history I don’t talk about—goes quiet.
“I never do this,” I murmur.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know how to…” I trail off, swallowing the rest.
She leans in, her mouth brushing the edge of my jaw. “You don’t have to know. You just have to be here.”
“Is this… weird?”
“No,” she says. “It’s us .”
We lie there, facing each other in the dark, the space between us narrowing with every breath. Her foot nudges mine, and my fingers trail along the curve of her hip, slow and careful.
“You’re good at this,” I say quietly.
She blinks. “At what?”
“ This . Being someone people want to come home to.”
Her lips twitch. “You think this is home?”
I nod once. “Yeah. I think it is.”
Her fingers curl at the back of my neck, and I tilt my face toward her and kiss her. It’s nothing greedy—just a press of mouths in the dark, a question she answers by kissing me back.
She pulls away first, her nose brushing mine.
“ Stay .”
It’s not a request—it’s a promise.
“Frankie, I… I’ve never had this before,” I admit.
“I know,” she says again, her voice still gentle. “But you have it now.”
And god, I do. I have her , and all of them; this strange, fragile, perfect pack that somehow chose me .
The silence stretches again, and this time, it feels safe.
And when I nod, when I tuck her closer and feel Finn shift slightly to rest against both of us, something in me finally, finally exhales. This isn’t something I thought I’d ever have, but it’s mine now, and I’m not letting go.
I close my eyes as Frankie’s fingers curl around mine. Her breathing slows. Finn’s does too.
And eventually, so does mine.