Page 12 of Worth the Scandal
Collins—a tall, broad-shouldered centre I remember from every game he dominated last year and my Instagram sleuthing—winces and breaks into a sprint. I make a mental note to stalk his management. He can run, but he’s not sharp enough yet. Not under pressure.
Ted’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. Gruff. A little strained. That rasp he developed over the years is deeper now. Too many games. Too many seasons. Too much yelling and not enough listening to his daughter’s advice about vocal rest and a healthy diet. He’d never give up the beers, but he could benefit from a salad every now and then.
But the man doesn’t believe in moderation. He is full force all or nothing always. Back in the day he played in the same manner. Body on the line, like a soldier on the front line with a mission that only involved a stitched ball and the grass beneathhis strides. This one time when I was about 6 or 7 I watched mum get into a full-on fight on the sideline defending something vicious dad did on the field. She was always his number one fan, throughout his professional career and when he decided it was time to give it up. If she could see him coaching today and the empire, he’s building here the last few years she’d be so damn proud.
I stay put, eyes scanning the players. Anderson’s here. Smith, too. All the usual suspects. Anderson is still with the team on a fat five-year contract—two million a year. Ridiculous money for someone who fumbles under pressure. Can’t half tell I’m a coach’s daughter.
And then… there’s someone new.
Mr. Bandana.
Wearing a black tight compression top, shorts slung low on lean hips, and a strip of dark cloth tied around unruly hair. His arms glisten with sweat, tattoos curling down his forearms like smoke. He moves with a strange kind of grace—not flashy, not trying to show off—but with the relaxed confidence of someone who knows exactly how good he is. He is built for the sport, and I hope the body matches the talent on game day.
I don’t recognise him. At first anyway.
Interesting.
He doesn’t move like a rookie, but he’s not listed on any of the rosters I’ve memorised. A new ring in? A last-minute transfer? I watch him dodge through a drill, fast and calculated. Controlled power. He’s got that slow-burn kind of athleticism—nothing wild, just effortless.
I lean forward to check my phone again, just as a voice breaks the silence around me.
“Incoming!”
I barely register the warning before—donk.
A football nails me square in the forehead. Pain shoots through my skull and I blink back tears from the sting. Lucky it was a soft kick, too soft. Like it was intended to get my attention but not leave a mark.
Are. You. Kidding.
I look up, holding my head with one hand and pure rage in my eyes.
And there he is.
Tall. Tan. Troublemaker energy. Jogging toward me with a lazy grin and zero remorse.
The Bandana Guy.
“Seriously?” I glare at him. “You just going around concussing spectators now?”
He smirks.Smirks.
“Well,” he says, voice annoyingly smooth, “guess we’ve confirmed you’re not great at football.”
“Wow. Did you practice that line, or are you just a pretentious asshole?”
He slows, hands on hips, grin widening like he thinks he’s charming. (Spoiler: he’s not.) “If I’d known I was about to nail the coach’s daughter in the head, I might’ve kicked softer.” He lingers on the word nail.
Before I can serve him, a scathing comeback laced in sarcasm and glittering threats, my dad’s voice booms across the field like thunder.
“Kingston! You better not be flirting with my daughter! That’s ten laps, son.”
Kingston. Never heard of him.
He turns to Ted, then looks back at me.
And that’s the moment it happens.
Recognition, as a smile flares across his stupidly handsome face.
