Page 127 of Scrum Heat

“Poor bastard,” Jax mutters.

He adjusts the bar for his next lift as Theo flops down beside me on the mat and lets out a dramatic sigh.

“He’s just jealous he doesn’t get to be the little spoon.”

“Iam the little spoon,” Finn announces from the floor. “And I regretnothing.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then Jax, deadpan as ever: “You’re six foot two.”

“Yeah, well,emotionally, I’m five three.”

We fall into rhythm after that—weights, reps, quiet spots and chaotic jokes—and somewhere between the third set and Theo trying to convince Jax to let him film a “Pack Gym Thirst Trap” series, I glance at the water bottles lined up in the corner.

Four bottles. Four names.

One pack.

For once, I’m not the anchor—I’m just one of the four.

And I’ve never felt stronger.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jax

The 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 notus.

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, butright.

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.

Moreus.

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.”

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