Chapter Twelve - Asher
I sit in the back booth of the protein bar across from the gym, hoodie pulled low, hat even lower, trying to look anonymous—which is hilarious in a town like Dawson’s Ridge.
The café sighting really threw me and probably everyone in there too because it’s been a rare sighting to see me anywhere in public since all the crap went down.
Across from me, Darren Wexley is pretending to give a shit. Not that I expect much less from the man whose game plan during the fall out was—hide, relax, just switch off your phone it’ll blow over. Man knows nothing about small towns that’s for sure.
He’s on his phone, half-listening, tapping through Instagram stories he probably scheduled for my account. Ones of me shirtless in a Ridgebacks hoodie pulled up to one side with the caption: “Put in the work. Stay in the silence. Let the results speak.”
Cringe.
He’s been using my abs as a scandal scapegoat for what well over 12 months now.
I clear my throat.
“I’m thinking of switching agents.”
He looks up like I told him I was growing a second head. “What?”
“I haven’t made a decision yet. I just… wanted to be honest.”
His expression twists. “You can’t switch. You’re locked in with me for another six months minimum. There’s a clause in your brand management contract—we still have deliverables. Metrics. You break it, I get damages.”
Right. The clause. I remember the page. The legalese. The price of being too damn exhausted to read the fine print when your life is on fire and someone promises to “take care of everything.” Which we just discussed he did not.
“I’m not trying to break anything,” I say. “Just giving you a heads-up. You’ve been more focused on turning me into a thirst trap than building a long-term career.” I mimic Scarlett’s words. She’s so smart, she’s right she is good at her job.
“I’m not a protein-shilling influencer—I’m a footy player.”
He sighs. “And you’re hot. Stupid hot, you know how rare that combo is? You’ve got girls lining up for pictures outside the gym, man. You’re a brand. That’s what we do.”
I stand. He’s pissing me off, take out your headphones and listen you fucking tool.
“That’s not what I do.”
I leave him mid-sip of his overpriced matcha, pushing open the gym doors just in time to be swarmed by what feels like every woman in Dawson’s Ridge between the ages of sixteen and forty-five. Two outings to the strip in one day, they probably think it’s Christmas.
“Oh my god, it’s Kingston!”
“Can I get a pic? My sister’s obsessed with you!”
“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 it always 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.
The dressing shed door creaks open.
Coach.
He walks in like he owns the oxygen in the building. Which he probably does. Especially preseason, we run on coach’s time, rules, and regulations.
“Kingston.”
“Sir.”
He motions me into his office without another word.
We sit. The silence is loaded.
“You’ve been off.”
I nod. “I know.”
“You’ve also been working your ass off. I see it. Every session. Every play. Every goddamn sprint.”
I stare at the floor.
“I know what you’ve been through, Asher. With the time off and the injury.”
I flinch. The “injury” is what anyone outside of my lawyer and the parties involved in the accident, thinks kept me off the field the last year or two.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I’m not here to ask for confessions or blood samples. I’m here to tell you this… you’ve got a spot this season. You’re not just playing. You’re leading. I’m putting my faith in you. And I don’t do that lightly. First trial match is a big one and you’re going in.”
My throat tightens. This will be my chance to show coach why I’m the better pick over Caleb.
“Don’t make me regret it,” he says. “And don’t let anyone—not the media, not Caleb, not your injury—make you think you don’t deserve it.”
I nod once, jaw locked tight.
He stands. “Go do what you need to do. Get your head right.”
I leave the office numb. The guilt crawling up my spine like a thousand tiny spiders.
He trusts me.
He’s giving me the chance of a lifetime.
And all I can think about is the way Scarlett tasted on my lips. The way she turned to me like her body remembered mine. The way I wanted to push her against the café wall and do unspeakable things.
Coach’s daughter.
My maybe-soon-to-be agent.
And all I want to do is break every rule I’ve ever been handed just to have her again.
I grab the football off the bench, throw it hard against the padded wall.
Over and over.
Until I’m breathless.
Until I forget her name.
For all of five seconds, that is.
The sound of the ball hitting the rubber starts to drown out as the boys all slowly storm the sheds one by one ready for a pregame training session.
My mind is still focused on my next move, and my invisible plan when a big slap hits me on the back.
“Get out of your head Ash, we’ll have you to thank for the crackin’ season we are about to have,” Collins says roughing my hair up on the way through.
“You’ve got this mate.”