Page 16

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.

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.