Page 3 of Scrum Heat

“Great,” she says briskly, then moves to stand. “Let’s do a quick tour. The team just finished training—you might meet a few of the boys.”

“Perfect,” I lie.

Because I have a terrible feeling that 'the boys' equals a horde of half-dressed alphas fresh from sprint drills, vibrating withtestosterone and rut tension, which isexactlywhat every scent-sensitive omega wants to stumble into.

I smile anyway.

Because I am brave.

And stupid.

We step into the hallway, and that's where it happens. I smell him before I see him, which is, frankly,rude. I’m pretty certain there are laws in place against that.

I amtryingto be professional. I am trying not to drool. I am trying not to go full feral in an open-plan corridor—

But his scent hits me hard.

Pine. Crushed spice. Leather. It screamsrip off your panties or run for your life, and I'm completely torn.

And thenheappears.

Theo Blake.

He's the Alderbridge RFC kicker, and the team's all-round star player. With damp, dark hair, a towel around his neck, and tan skin glistening; he's 6’3 of shirtless alpha arrogance poured into black compression shorts that could be classed as an omega rights violation.

He looks directly at me with intense brown eyes—all confident, curious, and predatory—and my instinctsscream. I try to sniff something neutral instead, but it’s too late.

My body chooses violence.

I tip forward, knees folding, mouth forming a panickedoh no—

And then, dear reader,

I faint.

*

I wake up horizontal, warm, and lay out on something firm that smells like grass and testosterone.

My brain may be buffering, but my senses are not, and I frown at the sound of a deep, unfamiliar voice.

“Sh! She’s coming to.”

Oh no. Ohno no no.

My eyelids flutter open, and Theo Blake’s face is the first thing I see.

His stupidly gorgeous, smug-yet-concerned face.

He’s all devastating cheekbones with that look alphas get when they sense a weakness and think,hmm, I could fix that by pinning you to a wall.

Another face looms beside his: broader and darker skinned, with a sharp jaw and frowning like it’s a full-time job.

“Careful,” Knife Jaw growls.

His voice is the deep, gravellykind that comes with a deadlift record and an emotional repression kink, which feels unnecessary given that I’m currently horizontal, shame-buzzed, and physically incapable of doing anything but vibrate with embarrassment.

Evie appears then, moving them out of the way and holding out a bottle of water.

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