Page 33 of Worth the Scandal
“You’re even hotter in person—how is that legal?”
“I saw the thirst trap this morning—my husband did not appreciate it.”
Flash. Flash. Selfie. Snap.
I smile. Barely. Just enough to not be an ass. I sign a cap, take a few photos, wave politely, duck inside. I’ve learnt that’s the best way to control the narrative, squash anything that might rear its head every now and then after the accident.
* * *
Dressing Shed. Sanctuary. Silence.
I head to my spot on the wall, hands shaking slightly. I dig through the side pocket, pop an anxiety med, and chase it with water from the cracked bottle I’ve been reusing for a week.
My phone buzzes.
MUM calling…
I answer—reluctantly.
“Hey.”
“Oh my god, sweetheart! You’re alive! I thought Dawson’s Ridge swallowed you whole.”
I let out a breathy laugh. “Still breathing. Barely.”
Dad’s voice cuts in the background. “Tell him I said to get his ass on a plane!”
“Your father says hello,” Mum translates sweetly.
I rub a hand over my face. “How are you guys?”
“Oh, you know. Still running the business. Still wondering when our son is going to stop playing fantasy football and come run the damn company like he was meant to.”
“It’s the NRL” I state flatly.
I hear Dad grab the phone.
“Asher,” he says, voice booming. “You’ve had your fun. You’ve done the athlete thing. You’ve proved yourself. Now it’s time to come home. The family legacy doesn’t run itself.”
I glance around the dressing shed. The family business was Ben’s dream, not mine. He was the oldest, he was supposed to inherit that shit show.
Rows of metal. Sweat. Dirt and mud. Heartache.
“Dad, I’m not ready for that,” I say quietly. I’m practicing the responses, and the breathing points my therapist has been drilling into my brain.
“You think I was ready when I took over? That’s not how legacy works. You earn it. You carry it. You just fucking get on with it son.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Can we not do this right now?” I’m not biting back.
He’s silent for a beat. “We miss you, son.” Therapy success, either that or mum has got him by the ear. For as long as I can remember mum was always the buffer with Dad and me. The moment he realised my Saturday sport hobby might be more than just a hobby he tried to stop me from playing. Ben was still alive then, Ben was set to takeover, but I was still expected to be clean cut, business like, help him out. Nothing I ever did was good enough, I thought surely the moment I got picked up by a state team to play one under grade he’d give up. Nope. Got worse really, he’d go from cold shoulder silent treatment to abuse, to guilt, to blackmail. Then when Ben passed away, well that was a free pass for him to go to town on the whole football isn’t a career wagon, finally got mum to jump on board too. I just distanced myself since, they lost two sons that year. And one of them was still alive.
“I know.”
He hangs up without another word. I finally take a full breath. I make a mental note to tell Doc one of his methods worked but I still held my breath the whole time.
I sit there, body aching, heart heavier than it’s been in weeks. The weight of what’s expected of me pressing down, same as italways has. I miss my brother. I miss a lot of things from a few years ago.
I came to Dawson’s to breathe. To build something of my own. To figure out who I am without a last name like a damn brand logo. Footy is mine, I’ve worked hard at it, earned it, my last name hasn’t gotten me any free passes here, or the tragedy that came with being the brother of a dead tycoon. I don’t hate football for any reason than the fact that it’s why my dad hates me.
