Page 154 of Scrum Heat

Andthere 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, myjoblike a hobby you outgrow when it’s time to get serious.

A man who doesn’t understand that thisismy 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 crowdandthe OSC, and it still doesn’t register.

Because it’s sport. Because it’sless.

BecauseI’mless.

“Look, I’m justsaying,” he starts again, swirling his wine. “You’re articulate, presentable, and people like you. You could do so much more.”

“What, likeyou?” 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 alreadyknow.”

“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 beingenoughwould 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 reallyseeit.

“I’m not saying you don’t know who you are, Theo. But if you want to be taken seriously—”

“Iamtaking 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 loveher.”

I watch him swirl his wine. So calm, so polished; so fuckingcold.

“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.”

“IhopeI’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.”

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