The clouds above me hang low and pale, and somewhere behind them, the Sydney sun is trying to break through. Kind of like me, I guess. Not quite back. But almost.

  “All right, Grandpa, you gonna die or what?”

  I lift my head enough to glare at Rhys, who’s standing over me with a smug-ass grin and zero sympathy. Typical. “Is that your way of flirting? Because I’ve had better.”

  He barks out a laugh and tosses me a towel, which I catch with more effort than I want to admit. “Don’t be late to your wedding tasting, Sebring. Isn’t it today?”

  I check my watch.

  Shit.

  “I’m already late.”

  “Better get moving then, lover boy.”

  I stand—sore, bruised, and happy––because I’m here on this pitch with my boots on, my lungs burning, my eyes on the future again. And I get to be with Magnolia when the day ends.

  There’s something about that—knowing she’s waiting for me, not because she needs something, not because she expects anything but because she wants me.

  Just me.

  For years, I had no one to come home to. No one to call when training ended. No one who understood what kind of ache lives in a man who gives everything to the game. Now I’ve got all of that—and more—in the woman I’m about to marry.

  I hit the showers fast, scrubbing away the sweat and adrenaline, but nothing cuts through the buzz in my chest. I sling my duffel over my shoulder and head for my G-Wagon, ignoring the pulse in my knee and the sharp tug in my ribs.

  By the time I open the door to Chloe’s restaurant, my knee’s barking and my ribs are reminding me I’m not twenty anymore. But none of that matters because she’s here.

  I spot her through the narrow window of the private dining room. She’s already seated, radiant in that quiet, effortless way that floors me every damn time. Her hair’s pinned up, loose strands falling just right. One hand wraps around a glass of something bubbly. Her eyes flick to the door the second it opens, and her smile knocks the breath out of me harder than any tackle ever has.

  The door clicks shut behind me, and all I can see is her. I cross the room.

  “You look beautiful, favorite.” I lean down and kiss her, catching a taste of champagne and something sweet on her lips. “You’re far too patient with a man who kept you waiting.”

  She hums against my mouth. “You’re not that late.”

  I slide into the chair across from her. “Still, you’re a woman who should never be kept waiting. Unfortunately, this is your first real taste of rugby-wife life––me showing up late, usually sweaty.”

  “Sweaty can be sexy,” she says, casual as ever.

  I raise a brow as I sit. “Sexy?”

  She lifts her glass. “Not always—but in the right moment? It’s undeniably sexy.”

  God, I love her.

  I glance at the tasting menu spread out between us, trying to focus on it, but my eyes keep drifting back to her.

  “How was your day?” I ask, settling in and catching my breath—for real this time.

  She doesn’t answer right away, and there’s a small pause, long enough to set every nerve in my body on alert. I know that pause. I’ve lived through it. It’s the pause that means something’s wrong.

  My jaw tightens. “What is it? Did he do something else?”

  She sets her glass down, fingers still curled around the stem. “I need to tell you something. It’s a lot to take in.”

  My pulse kicks. “Okay.”

  “I had lunch with Celeste.”

  Not what I was expecting to hear. “How did that happen?”

  “Well, technically, we didn’t have lunch. I lured her to a restaurant under false pretenses. I had Krishna set it up. She wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

  I stare at her, blinking. “Why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to tell her to back off. To draw the line for good and dare her to cross it.”

  I lean back, a little stunned. “Damn, my girl’s a baddie.”

  “She showed up, and to my surprise, sat down. Then she said something I never saw coming.”

  My stomach knots.

  “Celeste said she doesn’t want you. The things she’s done recently weren’t about you. It was all Tyson.”

  Now I’m fully upright. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Magnolia’s voice softens. “They dated for a while, long enough for her to trust it was real. But he was using her the whole time to get information about you. He recorded interactions between them… private moments, nudes, sex tapes. And he’s been holding it over her ever since. Alex, he’s been blackmailing her.”

  I try to process her words. “Bloody hell. There’s no end to his tyranny.”

  “She said he told her to cause problems, to wedge herself between us. Everything she did—Soul Sync, the party, the dress—he told her to do it. Said if she didn’t, he’d ruin her.”

  I shake my head, the words sinking in. “What the actual fuck?”

  My thoughts splinter. Tyson. Again. He’s always lurking, always finding a new way to poison the well.

  “Celeste is afraid of him, Alex. You should’ve seen her—she was trembling. Said he’s not just manipulative… he’s dangerous.”

  “I knew he was bitter and hated me. But sex tapes and blackmail? What kind of monster does that?” I shake my head, trying to wrap my mind around it. “I wasn’t aware they dated, but it sounds like the same thing he tried with you… except he made it a hell of a lot further with her.”

  “Alex, his obsession with you goes deeper than any of us realized.”

  She’s right. This isn’t just hate. It’s obsession.

  And suddenly, I’m not thinking about rugby or wedding tastings or anything except the one question I can’t shake: how the hell do we stop him?

  I lean back in my chair, jaw clenched, hand fisted on the table. Because everything else? It’s tilting. Warping. Becoming something darker than I imagined.

  “Years of sabotage and stalking my life. Why?”

  Magnolia’s eyes flick down to her glass. “He told me he grew up with nothing. That everything he had in life, he had to claw for. Said you had it all handed to you and the final straw was you taking his job.”

  “We were teammates once. He was my mentor. Everything was cool between us.”

  “You’ve never told me that.”

  “It didn’t last long.” And it was a million years ago.

  Tyson was the starter. I was second string. The rookie. Green and hungry. And he took me under his wing. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

  He gave me tips on positioning, ran extra drills with me after practice. Told the coaches I had potential. I figured he was just a good bloke. A leader. Someone who saw something in me and wanted to help sharpen it.

  He was always around—encouraging, helpful, always showing up with advice or a pat on the back when I got it right. I thought he was looking out for me.

  But now I wonder if it was something else. Not mentorship. Not even kindness.

  Control.

  Like if he could stay close enough, he could shape me into what he wanted—or keep me small enough that I’d never outshine him.

  And when I didn’t stay small, when I stepped up and took the spot he thought was his forever, was when things shifted. That’s when the smiles started feeling strained. When the silence between us got heavier.

  I didn’t stay in the mold he carved out for me––second place.

  I let out a sharp breath. “Fine. So he’s bitter. So he thinks I had it easy. But none of that explains this level of obsession. None of that explains blackmailing Celeste, stalking you, threatening people I care about.” I meet her eyes. “This isn’t anger. This is something else. Something disturbing.”

  The private dining room door eases open. Chloe sweeps in with Frederick behind her, both of them carrying trays with the first course.

  “Well, well,” Chloe says, arching a brow at me. “Big Al finally shows up.”

  I lift a hand, half a grin forming. “Blame the coaches. Practice went long.”

  She smirks. “As long as you didn’t show up still dripping sweat, we’re good.”

  “I showered. You’d have kicked me out of here if I hadn’t.”

  She laughs and sets the plate down in front of me with a little shake of her head.

  “No worries,” she says. “Just glad you made it.”

  Frederick moves behind her, placing Magnolia’s dish in front of her with a quiet smile before stepping back.

  Chloe stands near the table, posture easy, hands settled one atop the other at her waist. “All right, lovebirds. We’re starting with a compressed watermelon and feta salad dressed in a basil-lime vinaigrette, finished with a dusting of candied macadamia and micro mint. It’s bright, summery, and not too fussy. Perfect for an early evening garden reception.”

  She says it like poetry. And knowing Chloe, it kind of is.

  “We’ve paired it with a citrus-forward riesling that’ll show up again with the third course, if you like it. Let me know what lands—and what doesn’t. Nothing’s locked in.”

  “Looks delicious as usual,” Magnolia says.

  She lingers a beat, eyes flicking to Magnolia’s, then mine. “I’ll give you a few minutes to try it and check back in before the mains.”

  She slips out with Frederick, the door clicking shut behind them.

  I stare at the salad in front of me, but my appetite’s gone flat. And that’s saying something—because I’m not a man who turns down food. Especially not Chloe’s.

  “There has to be more,” I say, pushing my fork into the edge of the watermelon but not lifting it. “Something we’re missing.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” But I wish to God I did.

  Before my mind has time to race too much, the door swings open. Chloe strides in with a fresh tray in her hands. “All right, lovebirds. Ready for the next round?”

  Magnolia sits up a little straighter, smoothing her napkin. “I think you’ve outdone yourself.”

  Chloe describes the next dish—some kind of slow-roasted duck with charred figs and rosemary jus—and I nod along, throw in a joke about how I’ll need to run laps tomorrow just to earn it.

  On the surface, we pass for normal. But under the flicker of candlelight and the hum of Chloe’s voice, the unease has gone nowhere.

  The food’s incredible. The woman beside me is everything I ever wanted.

  But the shadow Tyson’s created?

  It’s darker than I imagined.

  And it’s not going away on its own.

  Chapter 15

  Magnolia Steel

  The suite buzzes with laughter and the low hum of conversation. Beer bottles clink against tumblers of something darker. Someone passes a tray of chipotle steak skewers and sweet potato rounds with whipped feta. I grab one, more out of curiosity than hunger.

  Megan is curled up on one of the plush love seats, a throw blanket draped over her lap, her expression half amusement, half focus as she chats with two wives I’ve only met once.

  It’s cozy up here—too cozy for what’s happening down below.

  I glance at the pitch. The crowd’s thundering intensity spikes with each phase, never letting up even between scrums and lineouts.

  I tuck my feet beneath me on the low couch, sipping my wine, listening to the rhythm of the room. There’s a language here. A culture. Wives passing inside jokes like wine glasses. Stories that start with bruises and end in laughter. It’ll take time, but I’m learning the rhythm, one match at a time.

  Megan leans toward me, nudging my elbow. “You good?”

  I nod. “Just taking it all in.”

  “Welcome to game night. In this suite, it’s wine, snacks, and screaming at the ref as if he can hear us.”

  I smile, but my eyes drift back to the screen mounted near the bar. The camera cuts to the sideline—and my heart pulls the way it always does.

  Alex.

  He’s in full kit, headset on, one knee propped on the bench as he talks to the trainer beside him. He looks good. Strong. Steady. That unreadable game face in place.

  The announcer’s voice comes through the overhead speakers, clear and booming. “And there he is—Sebring himself. Former team captain and defensive powerhouse Alex Sebring is back on the sideline after a season-ending injury almost three years ago. He’s back and training with the team, expected to make his official return at the start of next season.”

  The reaction is instant.

  The stadium roars.

  Applause. Cheers. Then, a chant builds—not only in the stands but in the suite too.

  “Build the Wall! Build the Wall! Build the Wall!”

  I blink.

  And they start to sing––loud and off-key––joy spilling from every corner of the room.

  “Solid as granite, born to brawl.

  Our fire, our fury, our Sebring Wall!”

  Megan throws her head back, laughing. One of the wives beats her fists on the plush armrest in time to the song.

  I turn toward her, stunned. “I can’t believe y’all are singing about Alex.”

  Megan blinks and smiles. “You’ve never heard The Wall chant?”

  “Never.”

  She gestures toward the screen. “Because he used to stop everything. Nobody could break through him. He was a legend even before the captain’s band. That chant started in the stands years ago.”

  I stare at the screen again. At my fiancé, who never once mentioned that he had his own song.

  He told me about the game. About the bruises and surgeries and the sacrifices. But not this. Not the way an entire stadium rises to its feet, roaring his nickname like a battle cry.

  It hits me.

  He’s not just my Alex.

  He’s theirs too.

  And somehow, he’s carried all of that weight and still remains a humble man who tucks a blanket around my legs when I fall asleep on the couch. A man who kisses me like I’m something sacred. A man who’s never once made me feel second to anything.

  He’s so much more than I ever realized. And somehow… he still chose me.

  The cheers fade into the pulse of the game again, the screen flickering between the pitch and crowd shots. Megan tips back the rest of her wine and points to one player in the thick of it—broad shoulders, jersey pulled tight across his back, boots slicing through the turf.

  “There’s my Bradley,” she says with a little smile, proud and anxious all at once. “Number fourteen.”

  I squint at the screen, catching the number as the camera zooms in. It’s a storm of limbs and grit, very little time to breathe between collisions.

  Then one of the opposing players goes down hard. A collective hiss cuts through the suite, a mix of empathy and experience.

  “Oof,” someone says. “That’s gonna hurt tomorrow.”

  But the guy gets up—shaking it off as if it’s nothing—and the wives around me settle again.

  A few minutes later Bradley takes a hit––a brutal, shoulder-first slam to the ribs that sends him flying backward. Megan’s hand shoots to the back of the couch, her wine glass clinking against the side table as her knuckles go white.

  He doesn’t get up.

  The screen zooms in. He’s curled on his side, one hand gripping his hip, the other planted in the grass. A ref bends toward him, and another player yells for the med staff.

  No one in the suite is laughing now, the silence thick with tension and unsaid fear.

  It takes a few minutes, but Bradley rises––limping, wincing––but on his feet.

  Megan exhales. Her eyes are glassy, but she doesn’t cry. She nods and sits back.

  Around her, the wives shift. Someone reaches for her hand. Someone else says, “Tough bastard,” with affection. They’ve all seen this before. They understand the choreography of pain and pride. And how to hold each other together when it frays.

  I watch the big screen, and in my chest, something drops. Not in fear but in clarity.

  This is how it’s going to be––loving someone who plays a brutal game. Watching the person you love get knocked to the ground, not knowing if this is the time he won’t get back up. Pretending not to break while your whole body goes cold.

  Megan stands and folds the blanket that was in her lap. “I’m going to check on him.”

  “You want me to go with you?” I ask, not knowing if it’s the right thing to offer or not.

  She shakes her head. “I’ve got it. He’ll be fine. I just need to see it for myself.”

  She walks out, leaving a quiet ripple of her absence.

  I stay seated, half staring at the door she just walked through, half lost in the whirl of thoughts spinning behind my eyes.

  Bradley’s hit plays on a loop in my mind, along with Megan’s controlled exit—her soft-spoken strength and the quiet, desperate edge beneath it.

  That’s going to be me someday.

  Not maybe. Not if. Not probably.

  It’s part of the package—this game he loves. The bruises and breaks. The danger stitched into every kickoff. I knew that going in. Alex never sugarcoated it. He’s told me about the days he couldn’t get out of bed, the nights his ribs ached so badly he couldn’t sleep.

  But it’s different watching it happen. Different when the sound of impact echoes through a suite and your stomach drops with someone else’s gasp.

  Alex is strong. Built strong as steel and stitched together by pure grit—but he’s not invincible. And every time he takes the field, he’s choosing this.

  Choosing the pain. Choosing the risk. Choosing the thing that took him out once before.

  Because he loves it… and I love him. Which means someday, I’ll be the one leaving the suite, heart in my throat, pretending I’m not afraid of what I might find on the other side of a locker-room door.

  But not tonight.

  I make my way to the back of the suite where the drinks and food are. I reach for a wine glass and grab a plate. Something cold. Salty. A skewer of charred lamb. A handful of olives. Something to do with my hands while I try to steady the thoughts spinning in my chest.