Page 159 of Scrum Heat

“Protein,” he says cheerfully, dropping down onto the grass beside us. “Also, I’ve had five hours of sleep and a flute of champagne. You’re lucky I didn’t bring mustard.”

Frankie pushes up on her elbows and eyes him. “That better be real cheese and not the dusty kind from a tub.”

Finn lifts the bag and crinkles it proudly. “Freshly grated. I have standards.”

“Debatable.”

He flops onto the grass dramatically, head landing right next to Frankie’s hip, and drops a strawberry in his mouth. His arm drapes lazily over her shin, and he doesn’t even glance at me as he says, “You good?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t push; just flicks a berry into the air and catches it in his mouth.

“Still riding the high,” he says through a mouthful. “That game was—Jesus. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rory tackle someone with that much emotional trauma in his eyes.”

Frankie snorts, collapsing back onto the grass beside me again.

“He nearly broke Marcus Vale in half,” I murmur.

“My brothers were there,” he adds. “At the match. They haven’t stopped texting me since. Apparently they went out drinking with the B-team last night and taught them a drinking song that got them banned from karaoke.”

Frankie snorts. “I’d ask what song, but I feel like I don’t want to know.”

He grins up at the sky. “They’re so proud of me. I think one of them cried. Or maybe he was just choking on his beer.”

“Same thing,” I say.

Frankie’s hand finds mine again. Her other one trails through Finn’s curls as he sighs dramatically and rolls onto his stomach.

“I love you guys,” he announces to the lawn.

Frankie lifts an eyebrow. “Is this a cheese-fueled confession?”

“Everything I do is cheese-fueled,” he says seriously.

I shake my head and lean back, letting their voices roll over me.

Soft. Familiar.

Pack.

Frankie leans back, resting her weight on her elbows. “Where’s Rory?”

“Still out cold,” Finn says, waving a hand lazily toward the house. “Last I checked, he was starfished across the bed muttering about set pieces in his sleep.”

“He deserves it,” she says.

“He does,” I agree.

There’s a long, quiet beat. The kind that doesn’t feel empty.

Frankie runs her fingers through Finn’s curls, and he hums like a cat. I stretch out a little further, legs crossed at the ankle, my arm brushing hers.

We feel...good.

“Do you think Coach is still drunk?” Finn asks suddenly.

“Almost definitely,” I say.

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