Chapter Thirteen - Scarlett
The stands are almost full—it’s just a pre-season trial game—but the energy crackling through the stadium says otherwise.
PR reps, and management firms are scattered across the rows like vultures with their devices, eyes hungry for blood—or a fresh brand deal.
The media’s all sitting pretty sending out the live coverage to all the footy fans.
Footy season is back. I sit near the halfway line, iPad in my lap, Maroon Management lanyard clipped over a tailored black blazer.
Shell’s watching from the box, perks of being the Coaches PA, not perks of me being his daughter because I want to do this on my own without the name Walker behind me.
Which means I’m just sat with all the other media and management in the lower stands.
I like the view from here anyway if I’m being honest, makes you feel like you’re a part of the action.
Today’s agenda is clear, I’m here to keep eyes on Collins and Jace, (the latter being the reason Shell insists on watching the games too even though coach gives her the games off).
Two of our rising profiles. But I can’t pretend I’m not also…
watching someone else. Asher’s on the bench.
I’m still waiting for him to give me his answer; about the offer I made to get him on the Maroon Management books.
I have a full view of him. Arms crossed, nerves at bay, jaw tight as Caleb takes the field in his position.
A part of the rivalry between the two of them, I’m sure. It can’t all be about me.
Caleb, who’s barking orders like he’s already captain.
Caleb, who’s been making noise about being “the future” of the Ridgebacks.
He’s a little more self absorbed then the Caleb I knew when we were ten.
I guess people change when they get into the spotlight too though.
Anyone who plays rugby league at this level is a celebrity here, so can’t blame them for changing—comes with the job description.
Ted stands up from his seat in the box, and I can see him muttering something into his earpiece down to the bench.
He’s tense, jaw clenched, and arms folded like a steel beam.
He hasn’t given anything away all game, the man could wipe out a table in a round of Texas Hold ‘em with that poker face. But you can feel the tension radiating off him. He is watching, assessing, picking weak points and plays. This is his office, his domain, the stats from today will determine his rankings and project the season they’ll have.
He concentrates hard with the occasional throat clear and tap of the Ridgeback’s cap brim he’s sporting, otherwise he is unreadable, it’ll be the only time all season he’s not showing his emotion front and centre.
Too much focus, too much at stake making sure the right players are getting their shot.
By half time, it’s clear,
They’re losing.
Bad.
Caleb’s passes are sloppy, mistimed. One sails completely over Collins’ head, it’s slow, lazy for his level and the pass is intercepted straight into the arms of the opposing team.
May as well have been gift wrapped for them.
He blames Collins, waving his arms and barking at his teammate like it was a route issue, and he should have leapt into the air like a gazelle. But it wasn’t.
I glance down, jot a note on my iPad. My mouth is tight. I’m taking notes for me, and Maroon but I’ll also weigh in on dad’s notes later too, give him some clearer insight into what he’s dealing with here.
From a few seats over, a woman in a stiff grey pantsuit leans toward me. Her name tag reads Cobbs and Hayes Agency—one of the biggest sports agencies in the country, their players are numbers and dollar signs. Everything built from the culture I’m not trying to create here at Maroon.
She smirks. “Maroon, huh? Cute little passion project you’ve got going.”
Okay bitch, I hear you.
I turn my head slowly. I swear I hear ACDC’s Highway to Hell play somewhere in the distance—fitting because I am about to act like my father’s daughter.
“Excuse me?”
She nods toward the field. “You’re Scarlett Walker, right? Former intern? PR darling turned CEO. Good for you. We need more female-led ventures.” Okay she’s back pedalling, as she should. “Even if they’re… temporary.” She places a huge emphasis on the ‘Walker’ motioning to Ted in the coach’s box.
Oh, you bitch, I blink hard. “Temporary?” Making it very obvious that I’m looking her up and down in her uptight designer suit, that I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Just because something has a designer label in the collar doesn’t make it flattering or aesthetic—clearly something they never taught little Miss uptight at Uni.
She shrugs. “Startups come and go, sweetheart. Especially in this industry. Real athletes don’t just want media training and something pretty to look at—they want strategy, legacy. Your agency’s what—not even two years old? You’ll burn out. They always do.”
I smile, tight and sharp. “That’s funny,” I say, flipping my iPad cover closed.
“Because the athletes I work with are too busy winning and making those big bucks thanks to me to give a damn about who’s in the stands.
” She opens her mouth to no doubt fire off another back handed insult, I cut her off “me being hot is just a bonus I guess.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, do the most over exaggerated eye lash flutter, and give her a wink.
I’ve got huge names in three sports so she can choke on her fucking pen lid for all I care.
This confirms what I already know though, people are talking about me, and any publicity is good publicity right?
Wrong. Athletes need to know I’m the real deal not here to take a quick win and ride on the coat tails or the back of the boots of Ted “tear you down” Walker.
I want to earn my name in this space, and I am.
Out on the field, the second half starts.
And Ted? He’s on the big screen now, and he is pissed. I can only imagine the spray the boys copped from him at half time and truthfully the way they were playing they deserve every last bit of it.
It’s mere minutes into the second half and Ted loses it. There goes that trial game composure we were practicing, and he was passing like an A+ student. The fans love seeing his passion though, the players wouldn’t call it “passion” I can tell you that much.
After Caleb throws another botched pass—this one nearly knocked on—Ted yanks aggressively at his earpiece finger pushed hard to his ear and rips off his Ridgebacks cap, hurling it at the glass window of the box. I told you he was deeply passionate about his job.
“ENOUGH!” he screams. “Bench him!” I’ve lip read this man’s rage enough to know exactly the tone and the decibels he’s screamed that at too. I’d hate to be in that box and the sideline receiving end of these instructions.
The sideline jumps into action.
Moments later, the stadium speaker crackles.
“Substitution at fullback. Number 16—Kingston.”
I sit straighter. My stomach does this weird thing where it feels like it bubbles and fills with air, like I could float away at any minute on a cloud of anxiousness.
I am insanely nervous for Asher, and I hope that doesn’t translate to him somehow.
I’ve seen him train though and if he plays anything like he trains he will be sweet.
Asher jogs onto the field, mouth guard in, shoulders squared.
No flair. No fanfare. Just focus. He does a quick full body shake; it’s captured on the big screen and the muscles throughout his legs and arms ripple at the motion.
All man, the view of him in that pair of shorty shorts is leaving nothing to imagination—the crowd of women in front of me agree because they’re all screaming as he makes his way out.
They’ve left their dignity at the stadium gates because they’re absolutely swooning over this man like a couple of toddlers at a Wiggles concert—and who can blame them?
He is 6’2 of stone-cold muscle, a light tan, piercing blue eyes and rough hair, if he wasn’t a football player he could make it as a Disney Prince, or bag a spot on Home and Away.
First tackle: clean ball to Jace who’s playing in the forwards.
Straight up the middle, a beautiful block play.
That’s my big boy. I chuckle to myself thinking back to the way his cheeks heated when the waitress playfully (desperately and hungrily) nicknamed him that.
A small twang of jealousy stings the thought, like c’mon I was sitting right there.
Second tackle: he’s behind the play the ball, he does a quick scan left and right and the Redcliffe Ravens have left themselves open for a quick play here, the markers are offside.
Asher’s quick to take advantage and the ball is scooped up from dummy half, he runs himself, smart move—and I know in an open space he has speed to burn, he’s running, ball wedged under his left arm and his right arm is swinging viciously to gain pace, his legs are lighting and he’s run straight down the middle through a gap they’ve carelessly left open.
He’s made about 50 metres. He’s only got one player left to out manoeuvre.
Drawing close to the sideline, he strategically decides to step left and bring it in 20 metres from the line and positioned in front of the last player standing—he takes on his opponent and direct rival, the Ravens fullback—dammit, tackled just before the line.
The crowd loves that one. Not only is he playing well, but he’s also an entertainer too.
The quick decisions he makes and ability to read what is going to happen next are a rare talent.
By the third tackle, he’s fully in rhythm. It reminds me of someone else I watched as a young girl very long ago—Ted. Unapologetic, vicious, and insanely talented.
Two minutes left on the clock, final tackle.
He throws a dummy, rolls right, then plants and rockets a pass straight to Collins off the right wing, he has broken the line and is off, he is fast. Like stupid fast.
Collins is absolutely full speed down the last 10 metres of the sideline.
I don’t even notice that I’m standing up out of my seat, until someone yells at me something about being made of glass.
He is going to make it. Like an acrobat he launches himself in the air and with athletic precision hurls himself over the line.
Placing the ball down with one hand. Holy shit, that’s what I’m talking about Collins.
Can’t forget that pass from Asher either though, perfect assist. He’s came on the field and changed the trajectory of the game.
If I had to guess I’d say he’s cemented that spot over Caleb right about now.
Next kick off—the ball goes up, it’s an insane kick from the opposition, oh no it’s got bounce.
One, two,—oh my god someone get under the fucking ball—Peyton is under the third bounce.
It falters forward, nicks his fingertips.
Knock on. He’s instantly beating himself up and the team all huddle around him throwing high fives and back slaps of encouragement.
Even if he caught it, they weren’t going to win, but it’s a silly fumble at this level of play. I’ll put that down to nerves.
The Redcliffe Ravens crowd roars, and the clock runs out mere seconds later.
They lose.
Barely. But still—it’s a loss.
And yet, when Asher walks off the field, something has shifted.
The lights glare and bounce off the grandstands and the air, it’s static.
There’s a buzz around the grounds, like we’ve all just witnessed the beginning of something incredible.
I feel like I’ve just jumped off a bungee platform 100 metres in the air—adrenaline is coursing through my veins and my mind is everywhere, it feels like it was me down there on that field—I’ve never been so nervous for someone that wasn’t dad before. Even my fuckwit ex Jason.
Collins is the first to meet him—claps a hand on his shoulder.
Jace gives him a nod. Ted doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to.
His silence now feels… like approval. Ted knows a good thing when he sees it, that man can pick talent a mile away.
I watched him as it all unfolded, and I could’ve sworn I saw the softest hint of a smile rising on his face.
He’d never admit it; coach has a reputation to uphold.
Only person he ever smiled at was mum and I.
Mum, she would love what dad’s doing here, the life he is building – the happiness on his face when his team—his boys are doing well.
Would she? She still did try and divorce him right at the end of it all.
I shake the thought away because I know one thing, my mum and dad loved each other; they were that soul mate love.
I catch Asher’s eye from my seat a few rows back from the halfway line moments before he runs back into the tunnel.
He’s spent a few minutes after the whistle blew signing autographs for fans who pushed their way to the front of the grandstands, he even gave his jersey to a young boy who was more than shocked to see the big boys up close.
That’s the thing about rugby league it’s got a way of bringing people together.
These young boys and girls look up to these men like role models, and to get anything from one of them after the game is like meeting your hero in real life, which to these kids that’s exactly what they are.
The Superman and Batman of their generations.
The media can say what it wants about their rowdy nights out but when it all comes down to it, the community, they’re the only ones who matter and this community here in Dawson’s Ridge thrives on the Ridgebacks.
It gives the locals something to look forward to, something to cheer for and a little hope.
Our eyes lock hard, I can’t help it I drink his bare, glistening body in.
His shoulder is strapped and there’s some cuts and grazes around his torso.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t need to. He stares into me, his eyes burning with pride.
The air suddenly turns cold—at least that’s how I explain the reaction I’ve had, after the goosebumps that have crawled up my spine and taken over my body.
He looks at me like he knows, he’s top spot this season—and he’s just earned it. He better sign my bloody contract.
That’s going to make our not dating, dating, manager, agent relationship more complicated than it already is. Yeah, I reckon.