Page 15

Alex Sebring

The turf still smells like sweat and grass. Like grit. Like home.

I drop to the ground, back flat on the pitch, and let the burn in my legs settle. It’s not a bad kind of pain—it’s the kind that confirms you’re fighting your way back. Slowly. Gratefully. One sprint at a time.

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.