Chapter Thirty-One
Finn
“L ook alive, boys.”
Rory’s voice cuts through the locker room like it’s carved from steel—sharp, grounded, and impossible to ignore.
He’s already stood up. Jersey on, sleeves pushed up, and tape wrapped tight around his wrists. He looks ready to lead a charge or start a war, and his boot hits the bench as he turns to face us, eyes locked, jaw set.
“This isn’t just a game. This is the game.”
Theo tosses a roll of tape into the air and catches it one-handed.
“ Someone’s been practicing his monologues in the shower.”
Rory doesn’t flinch. “Marcus Vale wants to make us look weak. Denton Vale wants to send us home. And the OSC wants to reduce us to a compliance issue with a headline attached.”
Jax cracks his neck as his mouth curves just enough to be dangerous. “Let them watch.”
“Let them choke on it ,” Ben grins from across the room.
“ Exactly ,” Rory says, stepping forward now. “They want to test us? Good . We don’t back down from pressure. We train in pressure. We’ve fought harder to get here than any team in this league.”
He looks around the room—at all of us. Theo, taping his fingers. Jax, silent and lethal. Me, breath in my chest like I’m already mid-sprint. Then he looks at the rest of the squad—the boys who’ve run drills with us every night for this.
“You’ve all bled for this shirt. You’ve taken hits for each other. Sacrificed for each other. And now we’re one game away from the final.”
He pauses, and I swear, the silence tightens .
“You win today? Then next time you play, you play for scouts . You play for contracts . You play for your future. ”
No one moves. Fuck, no one blinks .
“This is it. Eyes up, heads in, and hit every ruck like it’s the last one you’ll ever touch. Shut down Vale’s captain early, and keep their wings closed. Theo—”
“I’m already planning it.”
“Jax—”
“They’re not getting through me.”
“Finn—”
I nod. “Fast and wide.”
“That’s right. You want to be underestimated? Let them .” Rory grins now. “Then tear the ground out from under them.”
Behind me, Ollie laughs—all sharp and breathless. “Cap, I’m gonna run through a wall.”
Ben pounds his fist to his chest. “Let’s fucking go .”
Rory steps back, his voice dropping. “This pack? This team ?” He taps his chest. “It’s more than a system. More than a story. It’s ours. Now go make damn sure they remember it.”
The room explodes.
Boots slam, tape snaps, breath sharpens like knives; and the air is charged with adrenaline and determination.
Coach steps in behind Rory, a clipboard under one arm. “Focus stays tight. They’re going to come in hard —Vale’s already got a yellow this season for shoulder contact off the ball.”
“Can I return the favour?” Theo pipes up.
Coach doesn’t blink. “Not unless you want a sit-down with the board and a two thousand dollar fine.”
Rory rolls his shoulders. “We’ll keep it clean, but hard.”
“Hard’s the easy part,” Jax mutters.
“Speak for yourself,” Ollie comments, and the room erupts again.
We’re dressed, armed, and dangerous. Compression shorts, tight jerseys, bandaged knuckles and sweat already slick on skin. And the scent in here?
It’s not just pre-match adrenaline—it’s pack .
It’s us .
Coach claps once, sharp. “Tunnel in two. Let’s go.”
The room moves.
I stand, breath catching in my throat as I follow their lead. The second our boots hit concrete, the sound punches out from the crowd—chanting, stomping, the rising swell of Alderbridge supporters in full voice.
It’s packed .
The stands are totally full, with flags flying, kids on shoulders—and someone’s already started a “ Vale’s going home ” chant that sounds half-drunk and fully hopeful. We jog up onto the turf, boots pounding, shoulders jostling. Coach’s voice calls out behind us—last-minute orders, small corrections—but my head’s already narrowed.
Field. Ball. Contact.
Win.
Frankie’s just to the right of one of the barriers. She’s wearing a team jersey with a denim jacket over the top, phone in hand and Harper next to her holding a backup tripod and a laminated media pass in her teeth like it’s part of a ritual. Frankie’s watching us through the lens of her phone camera; her expression half-focused, half-fierce.
She’s gorgeous—utterly beautiful—and mind.
Something in my chest tugs sharp.
The OSC’s in here somewhere, too. I don’t know where, or who; but I know that they’re watching— judging .
Waiting for one of us to slip.
Whatever. I’m trying not to worry about it too much. After all, we’re clean, we’re bonded, and we’re better together.
Which means we’re going to win.
Rory’s already heading toward the center with the ref. Marcus Vale—Denton’s captain—is waiting there, arms crossed, expression sharp. He’s all smug build and empty grit; the kind of player who wins dirty and shouts about discipline.
The kind of player Theo despises .
The two captains shake hands—brief, but firm. The ref calls it down the line.
“Cleanside today—Denton, your kick. Alderbridge, you receive. Reset in formation.”
We jog into place. Me on the wing, Theo just behind the ruck line, Jax near the forward pod. Rory shifts to full view, giving quick hand signals, locking in our defensive wall.
He glances once over his shoulder—just once—and we all move.
The whistle hits.
The stadium erupts.
And the game begins.