Page 9 of Worth the Scandal
Istill can’t believe I’m doing this.
Dawson’s Ridge, the sleepy little town that borders New South Wales and Queensland, no beautiful beach to wake up to. No Uber, just cattle, country and well at least there’s sport.
God help me.
The hometown I promised myself I’d never step foot in again. Where Friday night football is religion, gossip spreads faster than a bush fire, and tradition is sacred—even when it’s toxic.
And now? I’m moving back in with my dad. Temporarily. To “save money” and “regroup” and all those mature, financially responsible things.
But mostly because I miss her.
My mum.
Gone just over two years now.
When mum and dad left for Sydney, it was supposed to be forever. Big city lights. New beginnings. Then she passed, and Dad… broke. Quietly. The kind of heartbreak that doesn’t scream but lingers in the corners of old photographs, her clothes hanging in wardrobes and half-washed coffee cups she sipped out of. He took a job offer back in Dawson’s shortly after. Said it was a great opportunity, but I know the truth—he wanted to be near her. Near the echoes of a life, they built, where memories lingered in footpaths and on the faces of the people, they both knew well.
No one goes back to Dawson’s Ridge unless you’re either chasing a shot at the National Rugby League… or you’ve got unfinished business. Maybe I’m both.
The Ridgebacks—Dawson’s pride and joy. Once the laughingstock of Aussie rugby league, now basically local and national royalty. A decade of clawing their way up, and now they’re contenders. Big ones. And they’re part of my plan.
I’m launching my own agency. Maroon Management.
Half my former clients from Confine Sports are sticking with me, and I’ll fly to Sydney monthly to keep my name in the game. But the rest of the time? I’ll be in sleepy little Dawson’s—scouting, signing, and building something that’s mine, all mine. I’ve already got my eye on the Ridgebacks’ upcoming season. I can feel it—there’s talent brewing, and I want to be the one to bring it to light.
It’s risky. It’s bold. It’s exactly what I need.
And sure, it’s a boys’ club. Sports always has been. But I’ve never had a problem making space where I’m not invited. I’ve got the banter, the strategy, the rizz, as the reserves would say. I can walk into a room full of six-foot-something front rowers and hold my own—and they listen. Because I see the game behind the game. I always have.
This time, I’m not just playing it.
I’m running it.
“Oh my god stop looking so sad, anyone would think you were moving countries.” I turn to find my beautiful best friend standing in the doorway.
“Okay but you’ll be an 8-hour car ride and a 1-hour plane ride away so I may as well.” Jen stares at me and I can see she’s holding back tears.
“It’ll be good for you Scar, back with your dad a break from the city life and the barren desert of men here.” she winks at me.
“Girl, not this again I told you no men I’m focused on growing Maroon.”
“When are you going to get over Mr no name, it’s been what 2 years? He’s not coming back for you. Dawson’s better have some eligible bachelors because lord knows you need some lovin”
“Hey hey this has nothing to do with my Cinderella one night stand” I shoot her a look. “This is really just about having something that’s mine you know.”
“Well, if you say so, but please for womankind, get laid,” she comes in for a huge hug, which feels weird because we aren’t the outwardly affectionate type. “Make sure you find the best bar in town too for when I come to visit.” she adds leaning back to take me in one more time. Jen’s the one who’s acting like I’m moving countries. I don’t know what she’s going to do here in Bondi without me.
* * *
The flight in was something out of a horror movie, you know the ones where they find out the plane crashed, and they come to on some deserted island.
Turbulent the whole way through. My white-knuckled gripon the armrest hadn’t loosened until we hit the tarmac in Dawson’s. I mean really, if we were meant to be in the air, wouldn’t we have wings? Then again—I do love boats, and I wasn’t born with fins either. Touché, universe. Touché.
At least the ride dad had organised waiting for me outside was a silver Audi with leather seats and aircon cold enough to freeze regret. Not bad, especially for Dawson’s Ridge.
Behind the wheel sat a woman with shiny auburn hair, a silk blouse the same soft blue as her eyes, and a smile that was too polished for a small town like this.
“You must be Scarlett,” she said, hopping out and opening the back door for me like some kind of high-end valet.
