Page 36 of Worth the Scandal
I sit straighter. My stomach does this weird thing where it feels like it bubbles and fills with air, like I could float away at any minute on a cloud of anxiousness. I am insanely nervous for Asher, and I hope that doesn’t translate to him somehow. I’ve seen him train though and if he plays anything like he trains he will be sweet.
Asher jogs onto the field, mouth guard in, shoulders squared. No flair. No fanfare. Just focus. He does a quick full body shake; it’s captured on the big screen and the muscles throughout his legs and arms ripple at the motion. All man, the view of him in that pair of shorty shorts is leaving nothing to imagination—the crowd of women in front of me agree because they’re all screaming as he makes his way out. They’ve left their dignity at the stadium gates because they’re absolutely swooning over this man like a couple of toddlers at a Wiggles concert—and who can blame them? He is 6’2 of stone-cold muscle, a light tan, piercing blue eyes and rough hair, if he wasn’t a football player he could make it as a Disney Prince, or bag a spot onHome and Away.
First tackle: clean ball to Jace who’s playing in the forwards. Straight up the middle, a beautiful block play. That’s my big boy. I chuckle to myself thinking back to the way his cheeks heated when the waitress playfully (desperately and hungrily) nicknamed him that. A small twang of jealousy stings the thought, like c’mon I was sitting right there.
Second tackle: he’s behind the play the ball, he does a quick scan left and right and the Redcliffe Ravens have left themselves open for a quick play here, the markers are offside. Asher’s quick to take advantage and the ball is scooped up from dummy half, he runs himself, smart move—and I know in an open space he has speed to burn, he’s running, ball wedged under his left armand his right arm is swinging viciously to gain pace, his legs are lighting and he’s run straight down the middle through a gap they’ve carelessly left open. He’s made about 50 metres. He’s only got one player left to out manoeuvre. Drawing close to the sideline, he strategically decides to step left and bring it in 20 metres from the line and positioned in front of the last player standing—he takes on his opponent and direct rival, the Ravens fullback—dammit, tackled just before the line. The crowd loves that one. Not only is he playing well, but he’s also an entertainer too. The quick decisions he makes and ability to read what is going to happen next are a rare talent.
By the third tackle, he’s fully in rhythm. It reminds me of someone else I watched as a young girl very long ago—Ted. Unapologetic, vicious, and insanely talented.
Two minutes left on the clock, final tackle.
He throws a dummy, rolls right, then plants and rockets a pass straight to Collins off the right wing, he has broken the line and is off, he isfast. Like stupidfast.
Collins is absolutely full speed down the last 10 metres of the sideline.
I don’t even notice that I’m standing up out of my seat, until someone yells at me something about being made of glass. He is going to make it. Like an acrobat he launches himself in the air and with athletic precision hurls himself over the line. Placing the ball down with one hand. Holy shit, that’s what I’m talking about Collins. Can’t forget that pass from Asher either though, perfect assist. He’s came on the field and changed the trajectory of the game. If I had to guess I’d say he’s cemented that spot over Caleb right about now.
Next kick off—the ball goes up, it’s an insane kick from the opposition, oh no it’s got bounce. One, two,—oh my god someone get under the fucking ball—Peyton is under the third bounce. It falters forward, nicks his fingertips. Knock on. He’sinstantly beating himself up and the team all huddle around him throwing high fives and back slaps of encouragement. Even if he caught it, they weren’t going to win, but it’s a silly fumble at this level of play. I’ll put that down to nerves.
The Redcliffe Ravens crowd roars, and the clock runs out mere seconds later.
They lose.
Barely. But still—it’s a loss.
And yet, when Asher walks off the field, something has shifted. The lights glare and bounce off the grandstands and the air, it’s static. There’s a buzz around the grounds, like we’ve all just witnessed the beginning of something incredible. I feel like I’ve just jumped off a bungee platform 100 metres in the air—adrenaline is coursing through my veins and my mind is everywhere, it feels like it was me down there on that field—I’ve never been so nervous for someone that wasn’t dad before. Even my fuckwit ex Jason.
Collins is the first to meet him—claps a hand on his shoulder. Jace gives him a nod. Ted doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. His silence now feels… like approval. Ted knows a good thing when he sees it, that man can pick talent a mile away. I watched him as it all unfolded, and I could’ve sworn I saw the softest hint of a smile rising on his face. He’d never admit it; coach has a reputation to uphold. Only person he ever smiled at was mum and I. Mum, she would love what dad’s doing here, the life he is building – the happiness on his face when his team—his boys are doing well. Would she? She still did try and divorce him right at the end of it all. I shake the thought away because I know one thing, my mum and dad loved each other; they were that soul mate love.
I catch Asher’s eye from my seat a few rows back from the halfway line moments before he runs back into the tunnel. He’s spent a few minutes after the whistle blew signing autographsfor fans who pushed their way to the front of the grandstands, he even gave his jersey to a young boy who was more than shocked to see the big boys up close. That’s the thing about rugby league it’s got a way of bringing people together. These young boys and girls look up to these men like role models, and to get anything from one of them after the game is like meeting your hero in real life, which to these kids that’s exactly what they are. The Superman and Batman of their generations. The media can say what it wants about their rowdy nights out but when it all comes down to it, the community, they’re the only ones who matter and this community here in Dawson’s Ridge thrives on the Ridgebacks. It gives the locals something to look forward to, something to cheer for and a little hope.
Our eyes lock hard, I can’t help it I drink his bare, glistening body in. His shoulder is strapped and there’s some cuts and grazes around his torso. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t need to. He stares into me, his eyes burning with pride. The air suddenly turns cold—at least that’s how I explain the reaction I’ve had, after the goosebumps that have crawled up my spine and taken over my body.
He looks at me like he knows, he’s top spot this season—and he’s just earned it. He better sign my bloody contract.
That’s going to make our not dating, dating, manager, agent relationship more complicated than it already is.Yeah, I reckon.
Chapter Fourteen - Scarlett
The stadium has mostly emptied staff clearing cups from under seats, the floodlights casting long shadows over the empty grandstand. There’s a magic in the silence of a stadium this size after it has just been filled with cheers, screams and men running full pelt at each other, if you listen carefully, you can still hear the echo and the buzz from the die-hard fans that are long gone now. Kind of like when you put a shell to your ear at the beach and it plays you the hush of the ocean. Something tells me he’s still here and he didn’t sneak out the side door without me catching so much as a glimpse. After that performance I know he’d be soaking it all in somewhere quietly by himself.
He always is the last to leave every training session, every event. He lingers and stays behind, like he’s got nothing else to go back to—rugby leagueishis world. He stays back hours after training ends, working on extra technique, going straight into the recovery spa, or soaking up whatever he has going through his head. A managers dream, andmydream. I know I’ll find him here. I start my Asher search in the most obvious place—the sheds.
I push open the dressing shed door, I’ve got an all access pass you know, coach’s daughter privilege and all. This feels like an agreeable time to use that advantage.
The lights are low—just the main overhead neon strips buzzing faintly. The air smells like sweat, grass, and soap. There’s always a weird breeze in here with high humid condensation, the concrete walls definitely do not help. I walk around the edges where the player names are hung over their designated changing stations, I run my fingers along the names—imagine the feeling in your stomach down here warming up, getting strapped and mentally preparing to run through that tunnel out onto the field. The rest of the team is gone. But he’s still here. Just like I knew he would be.
Asher sits on the bench in front of his spot, half-dressed, shoulders bare and gleaming with the last remnants of the game. A towel hangs around his neck; his training shirt tossed onto the floor. He’s staring into the crevice of his change station like it’s a window to something I can’t see. I know his mind would be playing back every movement, every run and pass. He’s a perfectionist. Another attribute that makes him manager catnip.
He doesn’t notice me right away. He’s really caught up in his thoughts.
“You played well,” I say softly.
His head turns. He has a sadness in his eyes. The blue in them is almost grey as the light bounces off the moist outer layer.
There’s something unreadable in his expression. Some mix of pride and frustration. Ofalmostbeing enough. He’s very hard on himself. I wish I could show him what I’ve just watched through my eyes. The beginning of a legacy.
“Didn’t win,” he says flatly.
