Page 11 of Worth the Scandal
She rolls her eyes but looks genuinely excited by my offer. “Alright. I’ll take you to The Golden Sparrow. It’s kind of the place now. I’ll text you the address.”
“Pass me your phone, I’ll punch in my number.”
“Your dad already did. He’s very… prepared.”
Of course he did.
She blushes slightly, and for half a second, I wonder—was that a thing? Her and Dad?
No. Stop. I’d have to use a bottle of Pinot to burn my eyes out. Do not go there.
We turn off the main road and the stadium comes into view.The Ridge.
It is huge. Sleek and modern with towering lights, steel bones, and banners draped in Ridgebacks yellow. Even from the car, you could hear the hum of life around it—players shouting, coaches barking, studs pounding turf. It is electric. Alive.
This wasn’t the stadium I remembered as a kid. This was a machine. A sports cathedral. The pride of a once-forgotten town. The small silver benches have been replaced by towering grandstands, and the junior football was now grown men searching for a spot in the national rugby league – and my job was to get them there.
“Wow,” I whisper. “They really built a kingdom.”
Shelley pulls up beside the west gate. “This is your stop. Coach should be out on the training field already. He has done nothing but talk about you for as long as I’ve known him and he is so excited to have you back home Scar.”
I glance at her, genuinely grateful. “Thanks for the ride. And for being my new best friend.”
She smiles wide. “I’ll text you soon. And Scarlett?”
“Yeah?” I answer grabbing my canvas tote from the floor behind her seat.
“I think you’re going to shake things up around here, and that makes me excited. Give the old bitties something to gawk at, other than these men.”
I wave goodbye to Shelley as she pulls away and stand dumbfounded taking in my new surroundings.
The Ridgebacks’ home field sprawls out in front of me like something out of a movie. It’s sleek, manicured, and buzzing with purpose. There’s no mistaking it—this place isn’t just a stadium. It’s an empire.
I pull my phone from my pocket as I make my way toward the large stands, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun. 2:45 PM. I scroll, checking my notifications. Texts. Emails. Nothing urgent. No fires from Sydney, no panicked athletes needing handholding. Which means I can spend the practice scoping out the local talent and the up and comers.
My roster’s solid right now. The players I agent are all behaving—thank God—and most of them are sitting on long-term contracts. It’s the sweet spot of the job. Less negotiating, more marketing. Branding. Securing sponsorship deals. Posing for red carpets and magazine spreads. I’ve earned the calm after the storm, even if I don’t fully trust it yet. Let’s call it the eye of the hurricane because in PR world there is always some big scandal waiting around the corner that needs handling – especially when you’re dealing with young impressionable athletes.
I slide my phone back into my bag and lift my eyes—just in time to spot him.
My father.
Ted “Tear You Down” Walker.
Wearing a Ridgebacks training polo and a pair of wraparound Oakleys like it’s 2003 and he’s singlehandedly keeping Oakley in business. He’s pacing the sidelines like a man possessed, barking orders at players twice his size and more than half his age who respond like well-trained police dogs—quick, sharp, obedient. A whistle hangs from his neck, and every time it sounds, bodies scatter and move with precision.
It’s poetry.
I don’t interrupt. Not yet. Watching him like this is something I didn’t know I missed until this exact moment. At home, he’s all grumbles and folded newspapers, but out here? He’s power. He lives in the pulse of the game, thrives in it. He’s not a religious man by any means but this is his church. Hissanctuary. The players are his congregation and the fans, they’re the disciples.
I make my way toward the edge of the training field, stepping lightly across the concrete steps that curve around the stadium like a grey crescent moon. I sit mid-row, half in the shadows, half in the sun, with a perfect vantage point.
From up here, I clock the almighty hierarchy in seconds.
The starting side are easy to spot—polished, cocky, fluid. They move like they own the field, like they’ve been here long enough to forget how lucky they are. Then there are the reserves, the cup players—restless, eager, just a touch off the rhythm, still learning the choreography of belonging and finding where they fit in this museum of muscle, talent, and testosterone.
My attention shifts almost immediately from feeding time at the zoo as Coach Ted thunders at one of the starting players across the field.
“Collins! The moment your boot touches grass, your ass better be moving!”
