Chapter 91
WREN
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Theo’s voice rumbles from behind me. He sneaks into the space with us, filling the extra seat we’ve been given alongside the match-day reserves.
Rather ironically, these seats are only just below the place where we had been positioned for the first half of the game, so we didn’t have to relocate very far.
My rugby angels—who I now know are named Ted, James, Sione, Lui, and Gabriel—have flanked Nikita, Gabbie, and me, forming the equivalent of a thousand-pound security detail against any unwanted attention.
“Oh, my god. You’re here.” I let out a long breath and reach discreetly between us to link my pinky finger with his. “I didn’t want you to panic, and I was more worried that Connor or Atlas would feel me freaking out.”
“All I need is names.” He growls.
“Got them right here, Mr. Brennan, sir,” Sione says while patting his pocket. “On film and everything.”
“Those vultures.” Gabriel shakes his head.
The others nod and murmur their agreement and creative insults in everything from Tongan to French.
“There was something about Brett too. I think he’s been conspiring against you. The anonymous tip to the board isn’t so anonymous.”
Theo stares out at the floodlit pitch for a long moment, his brow creases.
“I had my suspicions, after his attitude at the gala… coming to Wolves functions when I knew he had no interest in the game.” He drags a hand over his mouth.
“All his mother’s habits were there in plain sight, I suppose I didn’t want to admit to myself how much he might be just like her. ”
“You did your best. You couldn’t have known this was how he’d choose to act.”
Theo gives me a tight smile.
“We’ll be able to press charges against the reporters,” Theo assures me. “I can guarantee our GM will offer every resource to have them blacklisted around the country—”
Whatever he was about to say next is overshadowed by a horrified gasp from the crowd that rolls around and around the stadium.
We can’t do anything but watch as Maddox goes down with a nasty injury.
PTs rush to his side, talking rapidly into their radios.
He clutches his knee on the ground, writhing in agony.
There was no foul play involved. In fact, this game has been fiercely contested, but a true battle between teams exhibiting pure skill.
Not the thuggery of last week’s match. No, this was just terrible luck.
It was the result of nothing more than a regulation play, a perfectly normal tackle, but the way he landed wrong has twisted it and left him lying on the grass as the referee halts play.
“Fuck. That’s his knee busted.” James leans forward, voice filled with concern.
“Is he going to be alright?” Gabbie’s tone is hardly above a whisper.
“I’ve had that same injury. If it’s his ACL that’s him out for next season, too,” Ted says gravely.
“That’s awful.” Nikita is solemn; the stress of finding out about what happened in the elevator, and the game now being in New York’s favor, seems to have kept her much more toned down.
The only change in the score since halftime has been a penalty kicked by the opposition, with their lead now inching out to two points.
That slim margin has us all chewing our fingernails.
We’re all tense, and with the clock crawling steadily toward the end of the game, this is a massive loss for the team.
“Can’t they put the other goal kicker back out there?” Nikita asks.
Theo shakes his head. “Not for an injury like that. If it were a prop, then yes, Coach can send them back on the field. But we’ve emptied our bench, and one of the backline going down at this point in the match, just means we have to make do with who is left out there.”
“Shit,” Gabbie exhales.
Nikita grabs my hand. “What do we need to win? A try? A penalty?”
“Either of those will do.” I bite my lip.
We’re on the edge of our seats with the game mostly just a war of attrition on halfway.
The Wolves get the ball and manage to crash up in a few rucks, the forwards doing the heavy, tiresome work of repeatedly picking up the ball and driving headfirst into oncoming tacklers.
Except, the slow pace only gains them a few yards at best, before exhaustion wins out and a ferocious tackle sends the ball skidding across the grass.
The referee waves to play on. No penalty. But that means New York gets possession and is hot on the attack once more.
We groan, all of us eyeing the giant clock on the screen at the end of the stadium. There is hardly any time left. Less than five minutes before the full-time whistle blows.
Scores are 14-12, and it’s either going to be a win or a loss when eighty minutes are up. There is no scenario where they can draw to send it to golden point extra time.
Tension pours off Theo, and I know he’ll be living and breathing every single moment on the field. His knee bounces, and I’m beyond giving a fuck about anything but my Alpha at this stage. I rest my hand there in an attempt to anchor him.
“They can do it.” I swallow the rocks in my throat. I’m trying to press every positive boost of confidence I can in the direction of Connor and Atlas. I have no idea if they can feel me among the noise and the bright lights and high-stakes pressure cooker of this moment.
I have to hope.
“Yes! Murphy!” Suddenly, the bench is up on their feet, and the guys beside us scramble to leap to theirs also.
My brother rips the ball in the tackle, stealing it from the attacking player, and he charges up the middle of the field.
“Finch! Gogogoyoubloodybastard!” Nikita hollers.
Gabbie has both hands clapped over her mouth.
Theo and I are right alongside every other person in this stadium, chanting for my brother to go all the way. He crosses into their half of the field, sprinting like a demon, and the roar of the entire crowd is overwhelming.
Their fullback closes in on him, covering as a sweeper in the last line of defense.
Even though Finch is speedy, his fend off can’t help evade the inevitable.
He’s chopped down around the 10-meter line.
Other players from both sides pile in, joining the ruck.
Connor and Atlas are the first Wolves to arrive, being right there to back him up.
I hold my breath. The clock says two minutes. If the other team successfully gets a penalty from a ruck infringement right at this moment, then that will be game over.
The referee’s arm shoots in the air, whistle blasting shrill and long.
It’s a penalty… and it’s awarded to the Wolves.
Nikita and Gabbie fall into each other’s arms. Theo tugs me against his side. We’re long past the point of caring if anyone is watching us. All we’re concerned about is the team on the field.
“Wait!” Nikita clutches my arm. “The kicker… his knee…”
“Who’s gonna take the penalty kick?” Gabbie asks.
Our eyes scan the field, watching as Finch holds the ball, head bowed with his captain, and they appear to be figuring out a plan.
Theo squeezes me tighter. “They’re deciding what to do. Whether to take a shot at goal and risk that if it misses, we’ll have lost the game… or whether to kick for a lineout and then roll the dice to see if they can score a try.”
Nikita lets out a near howl of pain. “There are far too many variables in whatever you just said.”
The stadium chants are at a fever pitch. Everyone is on their feet. We all know this next decision will seal the fate of the championship.
Finch turns and holds out the ball.
He hands it to Connor.
“Holy… shit… Scotland?” Nikita shakes my shoulder. “Is he about to do what I think he’s about to do?”
“He’s gonna win us this game,” Theo says with quiet confidence.
My teeth dig into my bottom lip so hard, I’ll probably draw blood.
Air doesn’t reach my lungs as I see him raise his hand in the direction of the bench, and the referee points at the sticks.
Everything turns to slow motion as the trainer runs the kicking tee out for him, and he goes down on one knee to run through his preparation.
Every kicker has their own little routine. Normally, Maddox would be handed the task. The immeasurable pressure this puts on Connor has my nerves on edge.
“Come on, baby,” I murmur, watching him place the ball on the kicking tee, then take a couple of steps back and to the side.
As he does so, the siren for the end of the game resounds loudly, and a wild sort of noise rises from the crowd, now that it’s confirmed this is the final play of the match.
He steadies himself, lining up the shot on a challenging angle, as all around us, the jam-packed stadium goes silent as a graveyard.
With a step back, head down, and leading foot planted, my Alpha punts the ball with the type of kick that sails through the night sky. It splits the uprights. The flags go up.
The referee blows the full-time whistle.
We won.
The Wolves are cup champions.
Everything happens in a blur. I’m swept up in a rush of bodies as we all storm the field.
Theo easily hurdles the barricade before turning to lift me and the girls over.
Tears blur my vision. I’m being led blindly by my hand, and there are bodies flying in every direction as players slam into each other with hugs, and their loved ones are racing for them in exactly the same way we are.
My Alphas are here somewhere, and as I run across the grass, I see them. Connor and Atlas are in a tight embrace with my brother at the spot where he took the kick from.
The second they break apart, Finch is swallowed up by a pile of teammates, dragging him off to a different part of the celebration.