Page 75 of Worth the Scandal

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Asher’s reading their defence like he’s already seen the ending—like he’s reading the pages of a playbook no one else can see. He’s commanding the field from his position like a seasoned pro.

Ted claps once up in his box, sharp and hungry.

“That’s it, boys! Keep turning the screws!” I can see his mouth moving and read his lips when they pop him up on the big screen.

Final minutes. The score is locked. 24–24.

I’ve got my hand in my mouth—chewed nails and chipped polish, but I don’t care.

The butterflies have moved from my stomach to my hands, and I’m sweating through my dress.

My chest tightens. My throat dries. I swear I might be sick.

Ridgebacks. Thirty-five metres out.

They need the try. This is it.

No time. No second chances.

This is the kind of pressure that breaks players—turns stars to shadows.

But Asher?

He stands tall, alone behind the play. Wipes sweat from his brow. Looks up at the scoreboard. Then out at the crowd.

And then… he finds me.

A heartbeat. A look.

The whole stadium fades away.

I nod once.

He nods back.

A silent promise.

“Cmon boys!”

Dummy half feeds him the ball—Asher dummies left—then tucks the footy neatly under his arm.

Steps off his right. Bursts through a gap.

It’s a solo run. A fullback’s nightmare. A tied games dream.

He spins off the first defender, palms away the second, shoulders drop—he ducks a swinging arm like he’s smoke in the wind. That would’ve hurt if it connected.

Fifteen metres.

Ten.

Five—my heart is in my throat—

He launches himself into the in-goal like he was born to be airborne—and just as he grounds the ball, a forward slams into his ribs mid-air.

The whistle pierces the air.

“That’s a penalty, send him off!” I scream, rising from my chair. I catch a glimpse of Shell, she’s impressed by my passion.

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