Page 22 of Worth the Scandal
And I swear, for one suspended hour of our lives, we weren’t strangers at all.
I remember the way she said don’t stop, over and over. How her body moved with mine like we were made for that moment, like the universe hand picked each star in the sky that night just for us. I remember the scratch of her nails against my back, the way she arched beneath me, how she said, God, you feel like home—and I knew then I was fucked.
Totally. Completely. Royally.
And when it was over, when we lay tangled in sheets with our hearts racing like mine usually does in an intense pre season, she pressed her forehead to mine and whispered, “This was supposed to be simple.”
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
And I never stopped thinking about her. Lost time one too many times getting lost in that night, with a girl who’s name I didn’t even know.
The water’s still cold, but I’m overheating—there’s no relief, she’s got me insatiable. I drag a hand through my wet curly hair and mutter, “You idiot,” to myself.
I towel off, still half-hard, still ruined, still haunted. Long night ahead.
It’s been hours laying here pretending to try and sleep, I grab my phone without thinking, and what I do next will probably haunt me for the next 48 hours.
Chapter Eight - Asher
I have had a shocker. Worst training session of my life. Every pass was off. Every run too slow. A kick spiralled straight into Coach and flung his phone smack out of his hands, and another one nearly took out one of the photographers from The Ridgeback Report. Would’ve been a mercy, honestly—she’s always on my ass about “attitude” and constantly asking me out to dinner. We’ve spent a night or two together but it’s never been serious and never will be either.
Coach didn’t even yell today.
Just stared. That kind of stare that strips the layers off you and lets you know exactly how much of a disappointment you are without needing a single word.
Chest tight. Head pounding. Muscles screaming.
And I know why.
Scarlett. Fucking. Walker.
I still can’t wrap my head around it, that she’s just here. Back in my world. Sitting up in the grandstand with that Ridgebacks cap, acting like she wasn’t the girl who undid me with a single drunken laugh and a half-whispered secret.
Sheshouldn’tbe here.
Not in this life. Not after everything that happened. I was only half the mess I am now, that first time we met.
Especially not withhimwatching me, waiting for me to slip up so he can bury me back in the past, as if I don’t live there every day anyway.
I’m peeling strapping tape from my wrist when Caleb’s shadow darkens the dressing shed, his presence so thick with tension I can practically feel it in my teeth. His cologne lingers between the stale smell of sweat and dirt. Why the hell does he spray so much?
He doesn’t say my name.
He never does.Can’t say I blame him.
“You know her,” he says, flatly, no eye contact just contempt layered in his voice.
I look up. “What?”
“Scarlett,” he clarifies, arms crossed, voice clipped. “Don’t act stupid, dickhead. You froze the second she walked onto the field. Then threw a pass like you were trying to knock her out. Real subtle champ.”
I yank my hoodie over my head, jaw clenched. “It’s nothing.” I hate when he calls me champ like that and he knows it.
Caleb laughs—but there’s no humour in it. Just bitterness.
“Fuck off,” he spits. “You don’t speak to anyone for over a year, and suddenly you’re out here looking like a total wanker when she shows up? Come on. I know you, Kingston. Or I used to.”
The wordusedstings harder than I want it to. Could’ve been a time we were friends and more than teammates, now it’s more likely the old bitties won’t stop us for a selfie on Main Street than me and Caleb shacking up.
