A figure steps up beside me. Too close. I feel the shift in air before his voice reaches my ears.

  “The chant is cute. Shame it’s wasted on someone who’s just warming the bench, Mrs. Wall.”

  I freeze at the sound of his voice.

  He grabs a toothpick and stabs an olive. He chews with deliberate calm as if this is just another cocktail hour, and he didn’t just twist a knife.

  Tyson chuckles. “He actually thinks he’s coming out of retirement after all this time?”

  He glances sideways at me, his blue eyes cold and gleaming.

  My jaw clenches so tight it aches. I want to scream. I want to dump my wine down his smug face and throw my plate at the wall behind him. But I don’t move.

  Not yet.

  He’s doing what he always does—antagonize in a public place where he’s certain you won’t cause a scene. I can’t yell or fight or kick him in the dick here. Because there are eyes. People. Teammates’ wives. Coaches’ partners. Friends. David.

  He knows that. He counts on it.

  I’m forced to swallow the terror because God forbid, I cause a commotion.

  I glance around, and no one is looking at us. They’re sipping, laughing, cheering at the latest replay on the screen. And I know what he thinks—that I’ll keep shrinking.

  But he doesn’t see it yet. I’ve had it with him and I’m done living in fear.

  My heart thunders, but I lift my chin and speak out anyway—clear, loud, and sharp enough to slice through the chatter.

  “Why don’t you tell everyone here what you’re doing, Tyson?”

  His chewing slows. Stops. A flash of something—not fear, not quite—but surprise flickers across his face.

  Heads turn in our direction. Conversations stall.

  I step away from the buffet and raise my voice again, letting it carry across the suite.

  “Or should I? Should I tell them about the stalking? The threats? The way you’ve been harassing Alex and me for months? The way you corner me, believing I won’t react because I don’t want to cause a disturbance?”

  “What are you doing?” he whispers.

  A hush falls over the room.

  Tyson’s smile falters, and I keep going.

  “Tyson McRae has been stalking me. Now he’s cornering me in this suite to harass me while my fiancé is on the pitch and not here to keep him away from me. He thinks I’ll keep quiet to avoid embarrassment.”

  “Magnolia—” he says my name low, warning, but I cut him off.

  “You think I won’t scream in a room full of people? Try me.”

  A few of the men rise from their seats toward us, and Tyson’s eyes flick around the room. Nate strides over, broad and steady. His gaze goes straight to Tyson, unflinching. “Alex’s missus has spoken. You need to leave her alone. Now.”

  Tyson shifts toward me, but Nate steps in, broad-shouldered and immovable. “You haven’t played on this team in years, McRae. You’ve got no business in this suite.”

  “How’d you even get in here?” someone calls out.

  The room stills around us, every conversation going quiet, every gaze locked on him.

  Tyson straightens his shoulders, trying for some dignity, but it doesn’t stick. The weight of eyes on him is too heavy.

  “See you later, Mrs. Wall,” he whispers.

  He walks out, and I stand there—plate in one hand, the other clenched so tight my knuckles ache.

  Silence ripples behind him, broken only when someone clears their throat.

  Julia is the first to move. She steps close, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, but I’m trembling. “I’m fine… but I’m done letting him intimidate me.”

  A few others gather and I’m surrounded by murmurs of concern. Hands brushing my arm. Offers to walk me out. Someone brings me a fresh glass of wine.

  It begins to sink in—the warmth, the support, the small, fierce circle rallying without hesitation.

  I’m not alone. Not anymore.

  A few of the wives close in around me, arms brushing mine, eyes sharp with concern and quiet fury.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Did he touch you?”

  “That guy’s always been a snake.”

  “Do you want me to grab security? We can have him banned from the stadium.”

  My chest tightens—but not with fear this time. With gratitude.

  “I didn’t know how everyone would react, but I had to do it. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Heads nod around me. A woman I haven’t met yet says, “You’ve got more people in your corner than you know. You’re a rugby wife now.”

  For the first time since Tyson slithered his way into our lives, I don’t feel like I’m fighting this alone.

  People saw. People heard. And now they know.

  A man can walk off a kick to the dick. But humiliation among his peers? That sticks.

  And here’s something I’ve figured out—people might overlook what he’s done to Alex, because he’s a man.

  But I’m a different story. They won’t ignore him crossing lines with me.

  Chapter 16

  Alex Sebring

  The locker room smells of sweat, frustration, and stale adrenaline.

  Nobody’s talking. Not really, only a few curses muttered under breath. A slam of a locker door. Tape ripped from bruised skin. But mostly that weighty, quiet kind of defeat that settles behind your ribs and stays there long after the scoreboard’s gone dark.

  I don’t bother showering. I wasn’t in the game, only suited up on the sidelines, headset on, trying to stay sharp. Trying not to think too hard about how close I’m getting.

  But tonight… yeah. That was brutal.

  Our half-fly had an off night. Bad reads, messy kicks, hesitation in every play. I can already predict what people will say: he cracked under pressure, he’s pissed I’m back at practice breathing down his neck, he’s already halfway out the door and doesn’t realize it yet.

  There’s truth to all of those things.

  Thoughts get in your head. Threats. Doubts. You second-guess yourself and then you’re two plays behind and bleeding confidence with every drive. I’ve been there. Hell, I’ve lived it.

  So no, I don’t judge him.

  But I know what it means. The talk is already starting. Coaches whispering. Journalists sniffing around. Fans posting clips of old games with my name in the captions.

  His poor performance tonight may push me back into the game sooner rather than later.

  It’s a weird thing to feel sorry for the guy.

  I lean against the edge of my locker, hands braced on either side, and take a long breath. This isn’t the way I want this to happen. I don’t want my comeback to be someone else’s collapse. But that’s the game. It doesn’t wait. It doesn’t care.

  And I want back in.

  My body’s still making its comeback. It’s close. Almost ready. My lungs are stronger. My ankle holds. The fire in my chest is lit again—and I’m starving for it. Not the glory. Not even the pay. Only the game. The brutal, beautiful rhythm of it. Contact. Movement. Precision. Sacrifice.

  I want to earn that spot again. Not inherit it because it was once mine.

  The room clears out, and a few guys head toward the showers. A couple throw on clean shirts and make their way to the post-game lounge where the wives and families are waiting.

  I’m not sore, not battered, not bruised. And somehow, that stings more than it should. But I’ll be back. Not in theory. Not in whispers. For real.

  Soon.

  When I am, I won’t be the shadow on the pitch. I’ll be The Wall again.

  The hum of the post-match lounge hits before I even walk through the double doors—laughter rolling low, glasses clinking, the occasional cheer rising from one of the flat-screens replaying highlights from the game. Music plays loud enough to fill the space but not loud enough to drown out the conversations buzzing across the wide, open room.

  It’s familiar and easy. What you’d expect after a home match, win or lose. But tonight, the vibe’s different. Duller at the edges. Everyone’s trying a little too hard to pretend the scoreboard didn’t say what it did.

  No one says it out loud, but I know what’s in the air.

  Disappointment. Discord. Doubt.

  I spot her before I even step all the way inside. She’s standing near one of the tall cocktail tables, glass in hand, laughing at something Julia just said. Megan, next to her, nods along.

  Magnolia is radiant. Unbothered. Her eyes scan the door just as I walk in, and the moment she sees me, she lights up, her entire body shifting. She crosses the floor, and when she reaches me, she doesn’t hesitate. Arms around my neck, lips on mine.

  She kisses me like I just came back from war.

  I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in tighter, breathing her in—vanilla and red wine and something that’s only her.

  The crowd fades. The noise softens. For a second, it’s just us.

  When she pulls back, she smiles up at me, hands still looped around my neck. “Hello… The Wall.”

  I huff a quiet laugh. “You heard that, huh?”

  “Umm… everyone heard that. You’re still the one they chant for.”

  “I just hope I don’t let them down when I’m back on the pitch.”

  “Not possible.”

  I press one last kiss to her forehead before she takes my hand and leads me toward the corner where the other wives have gathered.

  “Is Bradley okay?” she asks, tipping her head toward the screen across the room, where a replay of the hit is already looping.

  I snort. “He’ll feel that hit tomorrow, but he’s fine. Bit rattled maybe, but he’ll walk it off.”

  Her brows lift. “That tackle looked brutal.”

  “Yeah, well… he was running his mouth before the whistle. Picked the wrong forward to talk shit to and got flattened for it.”

  She hums. “Ah. Got it.”

  “Consider it a lesson in consequences.”

  “Do you talk shit when you’re playing?”

  “We all talk shit.”

  “Getting your clock cleaned… is that something I should start preparing for?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  She smirks, but then her gaze shifts, something sharper flickering behind her eyes. “Speaking of talking shit… there’s something I need to tell you.”

  I go still, and my stomach tightens. “Please don’t tell me that fucker was in the suite during the game.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell you that fucker was in the suite during the game.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter, jaw clenching. “What did he do this time?”

  Magnolia takes a slow breath, setting her glass down on the high table behind us. “He came up while I was getting a drink.”

  My pulse is already thudding at the base of my neck.

  “He made some stupid comments—something cheeky about how you’re retired and it’s cute people are still chanting for you.” Her mouth curves in a humorless smile. “Typical Tyson. Same shit but different words.”

  I bite down on the urge to ask what else he said. I already know it gets worse.

  “A thought occurred to me. He always does this—finds us in some public place, surrounded by people. He counts on us keeping quiet. Not making a scene. But why are we the ones staying quiet when he’s the one harassing us?”

  Crowds are his favorite MO.

  “So, this time, I didn’t stay quiet. I raised my voice. I said everything I’ve been biting down for months and called him out in front of everyone. Told them he was threatening us. Stalking us. And I made sure they all heard me.”

  Well, hell.

  “Tyson couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He didn’t enjoy being the one on display. Didn’t care for people seeing what he really is. I think I found the one thing he hates more than you—being exposed. Being humbled.”

  I look at her. Really look at her. And all I can feel is awe.

  “Are you embarrassed I made a scene in front of everyone?” she asks, searching my face. “Because if you are⁠—”

  “No.” The word is immediate. Absolute. I step in, press my forehead to hers. “Embarrassed? Babe, you could never embarrass me.”

  My voice goes rough. “You stood up to him and protected both of us. You told the truth, and that was brave as hell. I’m proud of you.”

  Her eyes glisten a little, but she doesn’t cry. She just breathes deeper, my words giving her permission to stand taller.

  “You are so fucking sexy right now.” I brush a thumb under her jaw and lean in, voice dropping. “You want to get out of here?”

  She nods, soft and sure. “I sure do.”

  I smile. “Good. Because I want to take you home…” My mouth grazes hers. “And fuck you until the sun comes up.”

  A breathless laugh. “Promise?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  No goodbyes. We leave hand in hand, no need for words.

  There’s only one place we’re headed, and we both know it ends with her beneath me, moaning my name.

  Chapter 17

  Alex Sebring

  Magnolia pads into the kitchen wearing a pale pink silky pajama set, its bottoms teasing me with a peek of her cheeks with every step she takes. The matching top has tiny buttons barely holding on, the fabric pulled tight enough across her tits that one good breath might pop them clean off. It’s a miracle of physics, and it’s begging for failure.

  Damn. That kind of outfit was designed for ruining a man’s Saturday morning golfing plans.

  Her legs go on forever, smooth and bare. Her hair’s a wild mess tamed into a bun, like she just rolled out of my dreams instead of our bed, and that sleepy little grin she gives me? It’s lethal.

  She hums softly, opens the fridge door, and bends over to grab something from the bottom—shorts riding up in a way that makes me want to cancel my day of golf with Elias and take her back to bed.

  “What time are you leaving?” she asks, voice casual, pretending she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing to me.

  “Tee time is in an hour.”

  “Do you play golf with Elias a lot?”

  “Every few months. He loves to pretend he stands a chance.”

  She sips her coffee, lips pursed in mock thought. “Has he ever beaten you?”

  I flash her a grin. “Hell no.”

  “So this isn’t a friendly game between brothers?”

  “It’s eighteen holes of brotherly ego and passive-aggressive shit talk. My kind of fun.”

  She sets her mug down and strolls over, mischief in her eyes. “You know… I’ve never seen you play. Only heard the stories.”

  “What stories?”

  She lifts her brow, already smiling. “Your dad says you slice like a drunk pirate.”

  I laugh under my breath. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” I shake my head. “He talks a lot of shit, but the truth is he’s good. Always has been. I get a lot of my skills from him. Athleticism, drive, competitive streak that won’t quit.”

  Her eyes soften a little. “So you’re saying you’d impress me?”

  I step closer, dropping a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m saying you’d fall in love with me all over again.”

  “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “It is.” I grab a spare visor off the hook by the door and toss it her way. “Get dressed, sweetheart. You’re coming with.”

  “Wait—really?”

  “You think I’m gonna say no to having you witness me crush my brother in real time?” I pause, smirking. “Besides, having those big hazel eyes on me? That’s something I need in my life.”

  She laughs, already walking to our bedroom. “If you lose, you can’t blame me for being a distraction.”

  “You’re always a distraction.”

  “Damn right I am.”

  The sun’s warm enough to feel good on my shoulders. Not a cloud in the sky. This morning was made for a perfect game—and if I’m lucky––a little showing off for my bride-to-be.

  We swing by the pro shop before heading to the tee. Magnolia eyes the women’s section, running her fingers across the rack of skorts and sleeveless tops. She holds up one tiny white set, brow cocked. “Too much?”

  I give her a slow once-over, let my eyes drag from her bare legs to the tight curve of her waist. “Never.”

  She smirks. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  Ten minutes later, she struts out in that outfit, ponytail high, lip gloss shining. The top hugs her tits in ways I’m not strong enough to ignore. And the skirt? Short enough to qualify as cruel and unusual punishment. All I can think about is how fast I can get us back home after eighteen holes.

  Elias is already waiting at the first tee box, club in hand, smirk locked and loaded.

  “Well, well. Wasn’t aware this was a spectator sport.”

  Magnolia lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “I’m here to see if the legend of Alex-Bagger-Vance-Sebring lives up to the hype.”

  “Legend, my ass.” Elias chuckles. “Have you heard about his slice?”

  “You love telling that story, don’t you?” I grin, stepping up to shake his hand, our ritual before playing.

  “What can I say? Dad tells it like it’s gospel.”

  “The worst slice of my life. But give me a break—Magnolia had just gone back to the States, and I didn’t know when I would see her again.” I glance back at her with a mock-wounded expression. “I was emotionally compromised.”

  She laughs from the cart, sunglasses tipped down just enough to meet my eyes. “Hey, don’t blame me for your tragic golfing skills.”

  I chuckle and turn back to the tee. “I’m the happiest man on earth now. Which means you’d better be ready, little brother.”

  I nod toward the tee box. “You’re up first.”

  He steps forward, tees his ball, and glances over at Magnolia. “You might want to avert your eyes, teine. Watching greatness can be overwhelming.”