Chapter 1 Ant
ONE
ANT
The ball thuds off my thigh, bounces once, and rolls off towards a clump of low grass. Henry groans dramatically, flinging himself onto the field like he’s just taken a slide tackle from a world-class striker.
“Daaaad! That was your shot to save,” he calls out, still sprawled like he’s auditioning for an ad campaign. “You didn’t even try!”
“I’m forty, mate,” I say, jogging after the ball. “You can’t expect me to throw myself about like I’m in the Premier League.”
“You’re thirty-nine.”
“Thirty-nine and three-quarters, thanks very much. I round up now. Saves disappointment.”
Henry grins from where he’s lying flat on his back.
The sun’s peeking through the trees, casting those flickering shadows across his freckled face.
His cheeks are red, hair damp and curling from the heat, and there’s that glint in his eye I haven’t seen much of the past few weeks.
Not since we packed up everything and said goodbye to Canberra.
This—this is what we needed.
The park’s mostly empty, just a couple of other kids climbing the rope frame off near the playground, and a bloke with a border collie throwing a ball so obsessively, I reckon the poor dog’s going to start charging him for personal training.
There’s a salty breeze wafting in from the ocean, cooling things just enough that I’m not dripping in sweat, though my T-shirt’s definitely seen better days.
It’s proper summer still—end of Jan, hot but not suffocating—and I can smell someone’s late barbeque from a few houses away.
This part of the Sunshine Coast is leafy and quiet, all big gum trees and the occasional whiff of frangipani.
Not too far from the beach, which means that air’s always moving, thank God.
It’s the kind of place where you can breathe a little easier.
“Should we keep score?” Henry asks, finally springing back to his feet. His knees are grass stained. So are mine.
“We’re already playing for your honour. What more is there to win?”
“My honour doesn’t count. I want actual numbers so I can rub it in when I beat you.”
“Wow. Ruthless. All right, then. You’re on one. I’m on zero, but only because I let you score while I was momentarily distracted by that bird over there.”
Henry doesn’t even look. “Sure you were.”
I kick the ball to him, and he traps it under his foot with the kind of confidence only ten-year-olds and English Premier League players have.
I let myself just watch him for a second.
He’s growing into himself—taller lately, and with those long limbs he doesn’t quite know what to do with yet.
I already know I’m going to blink and he’ll be a teenager, rolling his eyes at my dad jokes and wanting me to drop him off three streets away from school.
Not that he’d ever admit it, but I think he’s glad we’re here. New place, new start, new everything. It’s not easy, but it was needed.
“Reckon your new teacher’s gonna be nice?” I ask as he starts dribbling the ball towards me.
Henry shrugs, not meeting my eye. “Dunno. Hope so. Dunno anyone.”
“You’ll make mates. You always do.”
“Yeah.” He bites his bottom lip, then lines up another shot. “But what if they’re all into Minecraft and I’m the only one who likes actual soccer?”
I lunge half-heartedly to the left, but the ball rolls past me to the right and bounces into the goal we’ve fashioned out of two faded thongs we kicked off earlier.
“Mate, you love Minecraft.”
He grins. “Yeah, but not as much.”
“You’re a complex man of many interests.”
“Stop being weird.”
“Never.”
He laughs and goes running after the ball again, and just like that, the shadow of worry passes.
That’s how it’s been lately. Little flickers of uncertainty in between the usual Henry-ness.
I try not to overanalyse it too much. He’s handling everything better than I had any right to hope.
Still, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting a bit—how easily my ex decided to pack up and fly to another country.
“It’s just a year,” Owen had said, like we were still on the same team. “The uni wants me in Vancouver, and you’re the better parent anyway.”
As if that’s a compliment.
He didn’t say it to be cruel—Owen rarely is—but the comment stuck with me. I’m not better. I’m just here. Always have been. The school runs, the dentist, the packed lunches, the fevers in the middle of the night. I did those things because they mattered. Because Henry matters.
I hate that Henry might feel like a leftover after Owen went chasing opportunity.
But I don’t let any of that show. Not out here in the sun, when he’s kicking arse and laughing like the weight of the world isn’t perched on his skinny shoulders.
“Two–nil,” Henry calls out. “Your defence is weak, Dad.”
“Mate, my defence is an overworked, underpaid casual employee. What do you expect?”
He snorts. “You’re just making excuses.”
“And you’re clearly a future Matilda. I’m proud of you.”
“Matilda? That’s the women’s team.”
“Exactly. They win.”
He groans in mock agony. “You’re such a dag.”
“Better than being a sore winner, Henry the Hammer.”
That gets me a little snort of laughter, and then he’s off again.
We go a few more rounds, me pretending to give it my all, him pretending he believes I am.
The sun starts to dip low, casting long shadows across the field, and I can feel that end-of-day calm settling in.
One of those moments where everything feels… right. Not perfect, but grounded.
Eventually, he flops onto the grass again, chest rising and falling fast, and I drop beside him with a grunt.
“I’m gonna ace school tomorrow,” he says, looking up at the sky. “Like, first day, instant legend.”
“I’ll alert the local news,” I reply, bumping his shoulder with mine.
He gives me a sleepy sort of grin. “You think they’ll let me play soccer at lunch?”
“Mate, it’s Queensland. I think it’s a requirement.”
He nods thoughtfully, then is quiet for a beat. “You sure this was the right move?”
That one hits somewhere under my ribs. I answer honestly. “I reckon it was. For both of us. New start. New beach. New bakery that sells those custard tarts you like.”
He smiles. “With the burnt sugar on top?”
“Exactly. But you’ve gotta promise not to judge me when I eat four in one sitting.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Accurate.”
He laughs again, and this time it’s easier, lighter. He doesn’t say anything else, just leans into me for a moment—quick, barely there, but it’s enough. I press a kiss to the top of his sweaty head and then push myself up.
“Come on,” I say, holding out a hand. “Let’s go home, make toasties, and you can show me again how to not suck at Mario Kart.” Hell, it’s not even his Nintendo, but he still manages to kick my arse.
“You mean I play Mario Kart while you fall off every course.”
“That’s a baseless accusation.”
“It’s recorded.”
“Fake news.”
He cackles and grabs my hand. I hoist him up, then pick up the thongs that served as goalposts and two half-drunk water bottles.
Tomorrow it all begins—school, routines, responsibility. But for now, it’s just me and my boy, walking through golden light, pretending everything’s already okay.
“Look, Dad.”
I turn to see Henry doing knee-ups with his soccer ball instead of just walking to the car like a normal human. Apparently, a straight line is too boring.
He’s not bad either—his obsession with footie and the English Premier League means the ball’s practically glued to his foot most days.
Usually, he’s pretty good.
I wince as one knee bounce goes too high, veers wildly left… and right into the path of an oncoming cyclist in the shared bike lane.
“Watch ou—” I yell, too late.
The ball clips the guy’s helmet with a solid thwack. He jerks sideways, tries to correct, but the back wheel fishtails, and he slams onto the grass shoulder, arms flailing.
“Shit—” I’m already running. “You okay? Are you hurt?”
The bloke groans and rolls onto his back, pulling off his black helmet decorated with a small Pride flag sticker.
He blinks up at me, squinting against the sun.
His face is flushed, jaw tight, short hair damp with sweat.
He’s in his mid-thirties maybe, lean and solid, and one of those types who looks annoyingly fit without trying.
Not that I’m noticing. Not really.
“Did I just get sniped by a rogue soccer ball?”
I huff a guilty laugh, crouching beside him. “More like taken out by an overenthusiastic ten-year-old. I’m so sorry. My son’s ball-handling skills are usually less… homicidal.”
Henry skids to a stop behind me, breathing hard. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to! Are you bleeding?”
The guy props himself up on one forearm and checks his elbow and knee. A smear of dirt, a torn thread on his shorts—nothing too tragic. He glances at Henry, then back at me.
“No blood. Just a bruised ego.” He eyes the ball now sitting innocently on the grass like it didn’t just try to end his life. “Do you two do this often? Ambush unsuspecting locals?”
“Only on Sundays,” I deadpan. “It’s part of the Sunshine Coast welcome wagon.”
His lips twitch, and he finally sits all the way up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good to know. I’ll start wearing body armour.”
Henry offers him the water bottle he’s holding. “You want some?”
The guy glances at me as if to check I’m not some psycho, then accepts it with a small nod. “Thanks, mate.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask again, just in case. “You went down pretty hard.”
“I bounce well. Occupational hazard.” He takes a long drink, then hands the bottle back. “Besides, I’ve had worse. Once rode into a bin chicken trying to cross the road.”
I blink. “Please tell me that’s not a metaphor.”
“Nope. Actual bin chicken. The smug bastard walked away. I needed physio.”
That gets a laugh out of both me and Henry, who’s now visibly relaxed, like the guy’s warm tone gave him permission to stop panicking.
“I’m Ant, by the way,” I offer, standing and holding out a hand.
He hesitates a beat, then takes it. “Eli.”
His grip’s firm, a little warm, and the moment stretches slightly longer than it should. Then he lets go and pushes himself to his feet with a small grunt.
Henry stares up at him. “You really okay?”
“I’ll live,” Eli says. “But you owe me one penalty shot next time I see you. Fair’s fair.”
Henry nods solemnly. “Deal.”
“Henry,” I say, introducing him after he’s already offered up water and guilt. “Starting Year 5 tomorrow.”
“New school?”
“New town,” I say, sliding my hands into my shorts pockets. “Just moved up from Canberra.”
Eli raises a brow. “Big change.”
“Yeah. Needed it.” I shrug and rub my hand over my forearm when I notice a streak of mud. “Fresh start, fresh weather, less frostbite.”
“I can’t argue with that.” He pauses, right before his gaze drops to my left hand. “I’m a local. Born here. Escaped for a while. Came crawling back.”
“So, you’re the welcoming committee, then?”
“Well, I was going to offer restaurant recs, but you’ve already taken me out with a soccer ball, so I might reconsider.”
“Fair,” I admit. “But if you change your mind, we’re currently surviving on toasties and supermarket sushi.”
“Dangerous combo.”
“Living on the edge.”
He smiles, then rubs his knee again and winces slightly. “Okay, I’m definitely going to feel this tomorrow.”
“Do you need me to drive you home? Or to the physio? Or a full-body scan?”
He chuckles. “Nah, I live close. I’ll survive. But maybe next time, warn a guy before the ambush.”
“I did try,” I mutter.
He starts wheeling his bike towards the path, limping just a little.
Henry watches him go. “You think he’s mad?”
“Nah,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure. “I think he’s just mildly concussed.”
We head for the car, the moment already turning into a story we’ll probably laugh about later. Unless Eli turns out to be my new neighbour or—worse—the school principal, which would be equally mortifying.
But then, as I open the car door and glance back, I catch him looking over his shoulder too. Just briefly.
And he smiles.
It’s small, crooked, but there’s something in it.
Something that says this isn’t the last time we’ll see him… if I’m lucky.