Chapter Thirty-Six
Theo
I wake up with one leg over Finn, my head half-buried in Frankie’s hair, and Rory’s knee jammed into my back. It’s not exactly the wild, blackout-drunk celebration I might’ve imagined after beating Denton Vale, but honestly?
It’s perfect .
Jax is on the far side, breathing steady, one hand resting on Frankie’s hip. Finn’s drooling into the pillow, while Rory’s already half awake, pretending he’s not.
Frankie, though? Yeah, she’s completely out. Warm, soft, and wrapped up in the middle of us all.
I’m still high on the fact that we won yesterday. Not just the match, but the message. The OSC saw it, and the fans felt it, too. Denton Vale tried to bait us, break us, humiliate us—and we walked out with the win, the pride, and the girl.
My phone buzzes somewhere under the pillowcase, vibrating beneath my head. I twist just enough to dig it out and squint at the screen.
The group chat is absolutely feral .
BEN: someone tell Theo his thighs are trending again OLLIE: 2 b-team lads still missing, last seen doing shots off a traffic cone NATE: if you find my left boot behind the bakery pls return it no questions asked
I smirk and fire off a thumbs up, then I open the camera roll. There are about twenty blurry photos of Ollie’s abs, a video of my trending thighs, and what might be Harper threatening a bouncer with lipstick.
My shoulders relax as I sink back against the pillow.
Honestly, I could stay here all day. I could quite happily burrow back under the covers, steal Frankie’s warmth, and let Jax and Rory argue over breakfast logistics while Finn tries to microwave protein powder.
But I can’t .
I don’t see my father often—by design. He doesn’t live in Alderbridge anymore. Moved years ago to a town about forty minutes out, between here and Denton Vale. It’s a nice place; full of old money and too many fountains. He texted me last week asking if I’d stop by, and I promised I’d go.
So despite everything in me screaming that I should stay right here, comfortable and content in bed with my pack, I ease myself out of it slowly, prying Frankie’s fingers from around my bicep with surgical precision.
She mumbles something incoherent. Possibly “ mine .” Possibly “ coffee .” Hard to say.
I brush a kiss to her hair anyway. “Back soon, sweetheart.”
Rory shifts, then sits slightly upright. “You good?”
“Yep,” I lie, already moving to stand.
Jax doesn’t open his eyes, but says, “Call if you need backup.”
Finn lets out a soft snore and rolls onto his side, taking half the duvet with him.
The house is quiet by the time I get dressed into something my father will deem appropriate and head downstairs. My keys are in the dish by the back door, and my hoodie’s still damp from someone spilling Prosecco on it, but whatever.
It’s fine.
It’s all fine.
*
By the time we sit down for dinner, I’ve already hit my limit.
Brunch had been stiff, but fine. He’d spent most of it talking about hedge funds and foreign policy. Golf was worse—nine holes of thin compliments and thick silence, of veiled jabs about my form and not-so-veiled ones about my future. I beat him by five strokes. He said nothing.
Now, we’re at his dining table—some polished marble monstrosity that probably cost more than I make in a year. The cutlery’s heavy, the napkins are monogrammed, and the whole room feels staged and sterile.
A woman in soft-soled shoes clears our salad plates with practiced silence. We’ve had three courses, and barely spoken ten words that weren’t about wine pairings or the weather in Westminster.
Then, finally—
“You’ve bonded, then?” he asks, like he’s asking if I remembered to renew my car insurance.
I nod, steady. “I have.”
“So you’re officially a pack, now?”
I nod again. “Yes.”
He lifts a brow. Not in horror, necessarily; just... mild surprise. I think.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “That’s... decisive.”
I wait for more. For a smile. For a you seem happy.
None comes.
Instead, he says, “You know, your mother and I bonded when we were twenty-one.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You’ve mentioned.”
He nods, as if that settles something. “Bonding young can be... tricky.”
“Well, I’m not twenty-one,” I remind him. Then, because I can’t help myself, “And I’m not you.”
He sighs. “And the girl?”
“Frankie.”
“Yes.” He waves a hand. “The omega. The one with the… internet presence.”
My jaw tightens. “She’s the club’s social media manager. She works full-time. She’s exceptional at it.”
“She’s very online ,” he notes, like that’s a diagnosis. “And you’re trending again.”
“What can I say? People enjoy watching rugby,” I shrug. “And, apparently, my thighs.”
I swear to god, he shudders . “Please don’t say that at the dinner table.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Forgot the chandelier was sensitive.”
“Theo,” he sighs. “You’ve always had potential. But this… showboating . The OSC, the gossip sites, that ridiculous video of you lifting another man in the air like you’re auditioning for a musical—”
“It was a lineout.”
“It was theatrical.”
And there it is.
I don’t know why I’m still hoping to impress him. I’m an only child—the sole heir to the legacy of a man who sees optics where I see joy, who treats sport, my job like a hobby you outgrow when it’s time to get serious.
A man who doesn’t understand that this is my serious.
We just beat Marcus Vale’s team—the guy whose father tried to sink my dad’s entire campaign. We humiliated them in front of a full crowd and the OSC, and it still doesn’t register.
Because it’s sport. Because it’s less .
Because I’m less.
“Look, I’m just saying ,” he starts again, swirling his wine. “You’re articulate, presentable, and people like you. You could do so much more.”
“What, like you ?” I ask.
He looks up.
“Finance? Law firm? Maybe follow you into politics?”
“It wouldn’t kill you to spend a few weeks shadowing me. Just to see.”
“I already know .”
“You think you do.”
“No,” I say, voice lower now. “I know who I am, and who I’m not.”
He sips his wine, watching me, and in that moment, I feel it again—that weight I’ve carried since I was a kid. The quiet disappointment in his eyes, the missed meetings, the conversations that turned to critiques. The times he showed up to games but checked his phone more than the score.
The understanding that being enough would always be just out of reach.
It’s not the politics, not the disapproval—hell, it’s not even the way he says “ omega ” like it’s a brand risk. It’s the fact that no matter how hard I try—how cleanly I kick, how well I play, how loved I am—he’ll never really see it.
“I’m not saying you don’t know who you are, Theo. But if you want to be taken seriously—”
“I am taking something seriously,” I say. “This life. That team. Her .”
He stares, and I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice lower now. “You keep talking like it’s just a phase. Like rugby is a detour before I come running back for a briefcase and a thousand-yard stare. But this isn’t temporary. I love this. I love her .”
I watch him swirl his wine. So calm, so polished; so fucking cold .
“Mother left,” I say softly. “And I don’t blame her.”
His eyes flick to mine—sharper now.
“She was difficult,” he says.
“No. She wanted to be seen,” I shoot back. “And she wasn’t.”
He stares me down for a long moment. “I’m starting to think that you’re not so different.”
“I hope I’m not,” I scoff. “Because at least she chose what made her happy.”
The silence that follows is long and unmoving. Finally, he speaks; his tone equal parts measured and diplomatic.
“When it all comes crashing down—when this pack implodes, when public sentiment turns—you know where to find me.”
“I do,” I nod. “But I won’t need to.”
“You’re still young,” he says, as if that’s an answer.
And to him, maybe it is.
I stand slowly, my appetite gone. “Thanks for dinner.”
He nods. “Drive safe.”
And as I walk out the door of his perfect, expensive, emotionally bankrupt house, I realize something:
I’m not angry. I’m not heartbroken.
I’m just done waiting for applause that was never coming.
I know who I am, and this time, that’s enough.
*
The road back to Alderbridge rolls out in front of me—quiet, golden, too damn peaceful for the way my head’s spinning.
I should be thinking about Frankie; about the way she curled up under my arm last night, dead asleep with her cheek on my chest and her hand on my heart like it was hers. Instead, all I can hear is my father’s voice.
You could do more. You could be more.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. We just beat Denton Vale in front of a sold-out crowd. The club’s socials have blown up. I’ve got three bonded alphas and the woman I love wrapped in my pack.
And it’s still not enough, because I’m not pushing papers or giving press statements. Because I didn’t choose his version of success.
My phone buzzes in the center console.
CALL: RYAN // STRATEGY & DIGITAL - DAD’S OFFICE
I frown, swipe to answer, and put it on speaker.
“Ryan?”
“Hey, man. You got a second?”
“Driving, but yeah. What’s up?”
There’s a pause, and a rustle of papers or keys or something on his end. “It’s about the IP stuff. The accounts you flagged.”
“You found something?”
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I’ve been running deeper traces since you first sent me the list. Some of those burner accounts were more sophisticated than I expected. A few had layered proxies, VPN masking—someone put actual effort into hiding their trail.”
“But not enough.”
“Not enough,” he confirms. “I’ve isolated a cluster. Same device type, same traffic pattern. Same geolocation.”
I already know I’m not going home. “Where from?”
“...I’d rather walk you through it properly. With the logs and trace data.”
My turn signal’s already on. “You want me to come by?”
He exhales. “Yeah. Might be better if you see this in person.”
“I’m twenty minutes out,” I say, turning off toward the highway.
“Cool. I’ll pull the files.”
I hang up.
The music’s still playing low through the speakers—something mellow and upbeat from Finn’s playlist that doesn’t match the chill running down my spine. Frankie’s been on a content ban for a few weeks now. She creates the content, edits it, posts it—and then walks away. Harper filters everything .
And still—somehow—the comments have gotten worse. Nastier. More personal.
It’s Denton Vale. It has to be. The timing, the tone, the way it ramped up right before we humiliated them in front of a full crowd and the OSC—it fits. It’s all teeth and cowardice, just like Marcus. And when I get the confirmation? When I finally have the proof?
I'm going to bury them. Not just on the pitch— permanently . I’m going to make sure every sponsor, every scout, every committee and league official sees them for what they are: petty, insecure, and fucking dangerous .
And I won’t stop until that entire club’s reputation is circling the drain.
They came after her , and they don’t get to walk away from that.
Not on my watch.