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The stadium erupts.

I feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my hands tightening into fists as I watch from the sideline.

But Utah isn’t done.

They come back just as hard, pushing into our half with relentless pressure. For ten straight minutes, we defend like our lives depend on it, repelling phase after phase, scrambling, tackling, holding the fucking line.

Then, a turnover.

Carter rips the ball in the ruck, and our fly-half boots it downfield, forcing Utah to retreat.

Time is slipping away.

With two minutes left, we win a penalty just inside their half.

Brandt steps up beside me, exhaling sharply. “It’s out of range.”

I nod. “Unless Carter thinks otherwise.”

Dominic glances at the posts, then at the clock. The smart play is to kick for touch, set up a lineout, and try to grind out a final score.

But instead?

He points at the posts.

The crowd roars.

I clench my jaw, but I don’t say a word.

He lines it up.

Steps back.

Breathes.

And then he strikes it clean.

The ball sails through the uprights.

The ref blows the whistle.

15-12, Tigers.

The final horn sounds and the stadium erupts.

We did it.

Barely.

The players celebrate, bodies slamming together in exhaustion and adrenaline, but I stay still, watching them, breathing it in.

Brandt lets out a low chuckle beside me. “That was too close.”

I huff out a breath, shaking my head. “A win’s a win.”

He nods. “And Carter?”

I exhale, watching our captain stand in the middle of it all, eyes fierce, chest heaving, taking it all in.

“He’s exactly who we need him to be.”

And as the team leaves the field, as the adrenaline fades, I feel it creep back in.

The other fight.

The one off the field.

The one waiting for me in the team hotel.

Anastasia.

Because this war between us

It’s far from over.