Chapter Thirty-Two
Theo
I f Marcus Vale so much as breathes in my direction before kickoff, I might punt him into the next time zone
He’s already doing that thing he does—standing there with his chin up, arms crossed, all smug posture and fake poise. Rory’s now giving him the world’s most professional handshake while I’m actively imagining kicking him in the shin with just enough force to make it look accidental.
I hate that fucker more than anyone else. But this game?
This one’s mine .
The whistle blows, and we’re off.
They kick short— cowards —and Jax catches it without flinching. No drama, just full control. He hits the ground clean and low, and Rory’s already organizing the pod like we’ve got eyes in the back of our heads.
“Secure it! Clear the line!”
Ben hits the breakdown hard. I swing wide, waiting. Finn moves past me in a blur.
Ball’s out—Jax to Ollie to Rory—and then to me.
And god: there’s space .
I explode through the gap, boots digging into turf, arms tucked tight. One step, two, dummy left—defender bites—cut back inside. Another one’s coming, but he’s too slow. I’m already gone.
Twenty meters out. Then fifteen.
Marcus is coming straight for me, full tilt. I don’t stop, I don’t brace—
I drop the ball to my foot and send it flying .
It sails through the air at the perfect angle; no wind to fight against it. I watch with my heart in my mouth as it heads straight through the uprights.
The flags go up, the ref signals the score, and the crowd erupts .
“YES!” Finn screams behind me. “LET’S GO !”
Ben comes from behind and wraps his arm around me, laughing right down my ear as we jog back into place, all of us high on momentum from the early advantage. I glance toward the sideline—Frankie’s right there, phone raised as she captures the content she needs, her blond ponytail bouncing as she tracks me through the lens.
Her eyes lock on mine for half a second, and everything in me tightens.
Things have changed, now. I’m not just playing for the win anymore—I’m playing for her .
Marcus jogs past, muttering under his breath.
“ Fluke .”
I don’t even slow down. “Better than your entire career, man.”
“You won’t hold it.”
“Oh, I’ll double it.”
“ THEO ,” Rory snaps. “Eyes forward.”
“Just being friendly,” I mutter, grinning. “Team spirit.”
He glares, but Finn laughs. “Can we not start a fight before the second phase?”
“Then tell Marcus to stop pouting.”
I get into position as the ref signals the restart.
They try to come at us harder this time—a little chip kick down the side, hoping to beat Jax in the air.
Which is, of course, hilarious .
Jax leaps, snatches it, and lands like a fucking tank. One of the guy from Denton tries to strip the ball, and Jax growls .
Next thing I know, Rory’s crashing over the gain line. Ben’s dragging three guys into the ruck and somehow still shouting commentary, and then, the whistle shrieks.
Penalty .
Ref gestures to me, and I don’t even try to fight my grin. I nod, step up, and line the shot.
Thirty out. Slight angle. Crowd screaming.
I breathe once, then I kick.
It’s good. Again .
The crowd loses it. Frankie jumps behind the barrier—arms in the air, Harper squealing beside her. I run back, blood hot in my veins, adrenaline thundering in my chest.
Rory claps a hand on my shoulder. “You’re dialed in.”
I smirk. “I’m on fire.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Let me have this.”
Theo: 6. Vale: 0.
And we’re just getting started.
*
It starts subtle.
A late shoulder here. A boot left in the ruck just a second too long. One of their locks “accidentally” trips Finn as he peels out of a breakdown.
It looks small from the stands, but we know what they’re doing.
Denton Vale’s not playing for the scoreboard—they’re playing for blood.
They want to rattle us. Get in our heads and drag us into a brawl so they can claim we’re the threat; the dangerous ones, the unstable pack with the scent-matched omega and something to prove.
And the worst part? They’re almost good at it.
Finn gets clipped in the ribs again —off the ball, completely avoidable—and this time, he actually hits the ground. The whistle blows, finally , but still no card—just a ref with tired eyes and a vague gesture for cleaner play.
“ Clean ?!” I shout. “That was a cheap shot!”
Rory grabs the back of my jersey. “Theo— focus. ”
I turn to him, furious. “That’s the third hit! They’re targeting him.”
“I know.”
“We’re not just gonna take it, are we?”
“Yes.” He breathes once. “And then we’re gonna win. ”
I look toward the sideline.
Frankie’s standing now, her desire for footage apparently long forgotten, since there’s no phone or camera in sight around her.
Her eyes locked on Finn as he pushes himself up again, clutching his ribs. Her whole body is tense. Harper’s talking to her, probably saying something reassuring, but Frankie doesn’t look away.
And somewhere behind her—among the rest of the endless crowd in the sold-out stands—someone from the OSC is watching this. Watching us .
Waiting for one of us to snap.
I can practically hear their internal monologue now.
Unstable. Dangerous. Pack imbalance. Risk of escalation.
Nope . Not today.
I force my breath to steady and jog toward the mark.
It’s another penalty, at least; from a kickable distance, again.
I’ve made this shot a thousand times in training: thirty meters out, a slight angle to the left.
Around me, the crowd noise begins to fade. I place the ball on the tee, then take three steps back, and one to the side.
I don’t rush it. I don’t think about Marcus Vale.
No: I think about Frankie. About the way her fingers tighten on her phone when she’s nervous, and the way she kissed my cheek this morning and told me to show them what I’m made of.
I move forward, swinging my leg. It’s a clean connection—the perfect arc.
The ball goes straight through, and the crowd goes wild .
Both Tom and Coach cheer from the sideline, and Rory breathes out.
Marcus, though?
That bastard’s still fucking smiling.
Rory was right about Denton Vale, and the same applies to this asshole. He’s not playing for the win, either—he’s playing to push us until we give them a reason to shut us down.
Next restart—same story. Jax takes the ball in a clean break. He’s tackled legally, but when he hits the ground, one of Denton’s players “ slips ” and lands an elbow to the back of his neck.
This time, the whistle doesn’t even come.
Jax rolls to his feet at rapid speed before jumping back to his feet, his fists tight, jaw clenched. Rory steps in front of him fast.
“ No .”
“They’re gunning for us,” Jax mutters.
“They want you to retaliate.”
“They want a reason .”
“I know,” Rory says quietly. “Don’t give it to them.”
I see the moment Jax chooses restraint. He pulls back, turns away—
And then Marcus walks past, just slow enough for me to hear him.
“Nice leash.”
I laugh once, but it’s sharp, lacking any sense of humor.
“You better hope I never get let off it.”
He raises a brow. “What, you gonna cry into your scent-matched hoodie and kick another penalty?”
I step forward, moving until I’m toe to toe with him.
“We’re still winning.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. For now.”
Rory comes from nowhere and yanks me back. “ Theo. ”
I let him—but just barely.
Because this isn’t just about rugby anymore.
This is about pride. It’s about Frankie. It’s about us .
And if Denton Vale wants to play dirty?
Fine .
Let’s make them bleed for it.