Page 74 of Worth the Scandal
But no one’s buying it. Not in Dawson’s Ridge. Especially not today.
* * *
The sun is shining hard over the stadium as the Ridgebacks take the field, home jerseys deep maroon with sharp gold detailing, Asher’s new boots gleaming. The crowd is buzzing—town folk, family, reporters. The kind of crowd that’s here for one thing, awin that proves this team is still alive and breathing without a scandal in its lungs. They’re here for football.
Ted stalks the sidelines in a Ridgebacks cap whilst the team runs their pre game training drill, barking out directions like a general marching to war. His voice slices through the noise—sharp, commanding, precise.
“Let’s see some goddamn heart, gentlemen!” he roars. “You want to prove ‘em all wrong? Earn it, leave it all out there!” He stalks off into the tunnel and on his way up into his air conditioned official coaches’ box.
Shell nudges me from the chair to the right—we’ve picked a sideline seat again, I guess at away games we will sit in the box but home this is where the action is, she’s everything—her Ridgebacks bomber jacket slung over a cropped tank, sunglasses hiding the glint in her eyes. “Your boy looks locked in.”
I follow her gaze to the field.
Asher Kingston, fullback, number 1.
They’ve got him up on the big screen, he’d be feeling all the pressure today he knows what’s at stake. The scandal of Caleb and the quick switch weighing on his shoulders like a full stocked school backpack on a kindergartener. He’s pacing at the 40-metre line, tossing warm-up passes with Collins. He’s all power and poise, muscles taut, jaw set like stone—I’m thinking last nights pregame ritual wrapped in my bed sheets, has more to do with his form than the rigorous training regime he’s on here thanks to Teddy boy. Jace runs a play a few metres out, cutting sharp corners like he’s drawing blood with boot studs. The whole team is switched on; they’ve lost both of their first two games.
Asher’s not just focused. He’s dangerous.
“He always looks locked in, and sexy.” I murmur.
Shell smirks. “Nah. This is different. This is revenge.”
The Ridgebacks pile back into the sheds to collect their jerseys, ready to run on and get this party started. The team song crackles through the speakers and the crowd is so locked in. The atmosphere in here is like lightning, and I just know today’s game is going to be a showstopper.
The whistle blows.
Asher commands the line like an afternoon thunderstorm in footy boots. His voice is low but carries across the field—measured, confident, unshakeable.
The ruck is a blur of limbs and breath—Kingston darts from dummy half, eyes scanning like a sniper.
He sells the inside ball with a slick dummy—defenders bite.
Jace arcs wide, dragging the defensive line out like a stretched rubber band.
But it’s Collins—shoulders square, legs churning—who explodes from the back line, up the middle.
Asher sees it. Feels it. Fires.
A flat bullet pass slices through the air—timed to perfection.
Collins doesn’t just catch it—he claims it, at full tilt, splitting the line like a thunderclap.
40-metres of raw speed and pounding boots. The crowd rises—then collectively gasps—
He’s hit. A brutal, rib-shaking tackle slams him into the field. Grass flies. Bodies tangle.
And just like that, the stadium holds its breath.
It’s a Ridgebacks penalty; Collins is up straight on his feet. Tough as nails.
The crowd erupts. Dawson’s Ridge is on their feet, and I tell you what, the boys, the Ridgebacks they sure know how to entertain the spectators and fans.
Shell jumps to her feet smacking me in the back with excitement. “Yes, Collins!”
Next set. Same fire.
The Ridgebacks grind forward, play after play—bullet passes, clean lines, bone-jarring contact. The opposition digs in deep, but it doesn’t matter. We’re breaking them down, one brutal metre at a time.
