Chapter Four - 2 years later - Scarlett #2
Shelley giggles, and for a second, the ice breaks between us. She is warm, kind. Too kind to be dealing with my dad’s temper and micromanaging. She probably meditates and journals and takes deep breaths in between his tantrums. It’s the only way she’d have stuck around for this long.
“What do you do around here when you’re not answering to Ted’s every whim?”
“There are a few good bars now. Some rooftop spots. Pilates in the park on Sundays. And a couple of restaurants that actually serve decent food.”
“Rooftops? In Dawson’s Ridge? Look at this town getting boujee.”
She grins. “It’s no Sydney Harbour, but it’s not bad.”
“Want to show me around tonight? I literally know no one anymore. All my high school friends bolted years ago. I guess congratulations are in order—and we can celebrate” I put together my best warm smile and deliver the lines on a laugh.
Shelley laughs back with me. “I was going to have a quiet night in with Netflix…but what are we celebrating?”
“Perfect, you are becoming my new Dawson’s bff. This’ll be even more exciting. Let me guess—you’re a red wine girl?”
“Pinot noir,” she says, smirking.
“Knew it. I’ll bring the sass, you bring the Pinot, and we’ll traumatise the locals together.”
She rolls her eyes but looks genuinely excited by my offer. “Alright. I’ll take you to The Golden Sparrow. It’s kind of the place now. I’ll text you the address.”
“Pass me your phone, I’ll punch in my number.”
“Your dad already did. He’s very… prepared.”
Of course he did.
She blushes slightly, and for half a second, I wonder—was that a thing? Her and Dad?
No. Stop. I’d have to use a bottle of Pinot to burn my eyes out. Do not go there.
We turn off the main road and the stadium comes into view. The Ridge.
It is huge. Sleek and modern with towering lights, steel bones, and banners draped in Ridgebacks yellow. Even from the car, you could hear the hum of life around it—players shouting, coaches barking, studs pounding turf. It is electric. Alive.
This wasn’t the stadium I remembered as a kid.
This was a machine. A sports cathedral. The pride of a once-forgotten town.
The small silver benches have been replaced by towering grandstands, and the junior football was now grown men searching for a spot in the national rugby league – and my job was to get them there.
“Wow,” I whisper. “They really built a kingdom.”
Shelley pulls up beside the west gate. “This is your stop. Coach should be out on the training field already. He has done nothing but talk about you for as long as I’ve known him and he is so excited to have you back home Scar.”
I glance at her, genuinely grateful. “Thanks for the ride. And for being my new best friend.”
She smiles wide. “I’ll text you soon. And Scarlett?”
“Yeah?” I answer grabbing my canvas tote from the floor behind her seat.
“I think you’re going to shake things up around here, and that makes me excited. Give the old bitties something to gawk at, other than these men.”
I wave goodbye to Shelley as she pulls away and stand dumbfounded taking in my new surroundings.
The Ridgebacks’ home field sprawls out in front of me like something out of a movie. It’s sleek, manicured, and buzzing with purpose. There’s no mistaking it—this place isn’t just a stadium. It’s an empire.
I pull my phone from my pocket as I make my way toward the large stands, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun.
2:45 PM. I scroll, checking my notifications.
Texts. Emails. Nothing urgent. No fires from Sydney, no panicked athletes needing handholding.
Which means I can spend the practice scoping out the local talent and the up and comers.
My roster’s solid right now. The players I agent are all behaving—thank God—and most of them are sitting on long-term contracts.
It’s the sweet spot of the job. Less negotiating, more marketing.
Branding. Securing sponsorship deals. Posing for red carpets and magazine spreads.
I’ve earned the calm after the storm, even if I don’t fully trust it yet.
Let’s call it the eye of the hurricane because in PR world there is always some big scandal waiting around the corner that needs handling – especially when you’re dealing with young impressionable athletes.
I slide my phone back into my bag and lift my eyes—just in time to spot him.
My father.
Ted “Tear You Down” Walker.
Wearing a Ridgebacks training polo and a pair of wraparound Oakleys like it’s 2003 and he’s singlehandedly keeping Oakley in business.
He’s pacing the sidelines like a man possessed, barking orders at players twice his size and more than half his age who respond like well-trained police dogs—quick, sharp, obedient.
A whistle hangs from his neck, and every time it sounds, bodies scatter and move with precision.
It’s poetry.
I don’t interrupt. Not yet. Watching him like this is something I didn’t know I missed until this exact moment.
At home, he’s all grumbles and folded newspapers, but out here?
He’s power. He lives in the pulse of the game, thrives in it.
He’s not a religious man by any means but this is his church.
His sanctuary. The players are his congregation and the fans, they’re the disciples.
I make my way toward the edge of the training field, stepping lightly across the concrete steps that curve around the stadium like a grey crescent moon. I sit mid-row, half in the shadows, half in the sun, with a perfect vantage point.
From up here, I clock the almighty hierarchy in seconds.
The starting side are easy to spot—polished, cocky, fluid.
They move like they own the field, like they’ve been here long enough to forget how lucky they are.
Then there are the reserves, the cup players—restless, eager, just a touch off the rhythm, still learning the choreography of belonging and finding where they fit in this museum of muscle, talent, and testosterone.
My attention shifts almost immediately from feeding time at the zoo as Coach Ted thunders at one of the starting players across the field.
“Collins! The moment your boot touches grass, your ass better be moving!”
Collins—a tall, broad-shouldered centre I remember from every game he dominated last year and my Instagram sleuthing—winces and breaks into a sprint. I make a mental note to stalk his management. He can run, but he’s not sharp enough yet. Not under pressure.
Ted’s voice cuts through the air like a whip.
Gruff. A little strained. That rasp he developed over the years is deeper now.
Too many games. Too many seasons. Too much yelling and not enough listening to his daughter’s advice about vocal rest and a healthy diet.
He’d never give up the beers, but he could benefit from a salad every now and then.
But the man doesn’t believe in moderation.
He is full force all or nothing always. Back in the day he played in the same manner.
Body on the line, like a soldier on the front line with a mission that only involved a stitched ball and the grass beneath his strides.
This one time when I was about 6 or 7 I watched mum get into a full-on fight on the sideline defending something vicious dad did on the field.
She was always his number one fan, throughout his professional career and when he decided it was time to give it up.
If she could see him coaching today and the empire, he’s building here the last few years she’d be so damn proud.
I stay put, eyes scanning the players. Anderson’s here. Smith, too. All the usual suspects. Anderson is still with the team on a fat five-year contract—two million a year. Ridiculous money for someone who fumbles under pressure. Can’t half tell I’m a coach’s daughter.
And then… there’s someone new.
Mr. Bandana.
Wearing a black tight compression top, shorts slung low on lean hips, and a strip of dark cloth tied around unruly hair.
His arms glisten with sweat, tattoos curling down his forearms like smoke.
He moves with a strange kind of grace—not flashy, not trying to show off—but with the relaxed confidence of someone who knows exactly how good he is.
He is built for the sport, and I hope the body matches the talent on game day.
I don’t recognise him. At first anyway.
Interesting.
He doesn’t move like a rookie, but he’s not listed on any of the rosters I’ve memorised. A new ring in? A last-minute transfer? I watch him dodge through a drill, fast and calculated. Controlled power. He’s got that slow-burn kind of athleticism—nothing wild, just effortless.
I lean forward to check my phone again, just as a voice breaks the silence around me.
“Incoming!”
I barely register the warning before—donk.
A football nails me square in the forehead. Pain shoots through my skull and I blink back tears from the sting. Lucky it was a soft kick, too soft. Like it was intended to get my attention but not leave a mark.
Are. You. Kidding.
I look up, holding my head with one hand and pure rage in my eyes.
And there he is.
Tall. Tan. Troublemaker energy. Jogging toward me with a lazy grin and zero remorse.
The Bandana Guy.
“Seriously?” I glare at him. “You just going around concussing spectators now?”
He smirks. Smirks.
“Well,” he says, voice annoyingly smooth, “guess we’ve confirmed you’re not great at football.”
“Wow. Did you practice that line, or are you just a pretentious asshole?”
He slows, hands on hips, grin widening like he thinks he’s charming. (Spoiler: he’s not.) “If I’d known I was about to nail the coach’s daughter in the head, I might’ve kicked softer.” He lingers on the word nail.
Before I can serve him, a scathing comeback laced in sarcasm and glittering threats, my dad’s voice booms across the field like thunder.
“Kingston! You better not be flirting with my daughter! That’s ten laps, son.”
Kingston. Never heard of him.
He turns to Ted, then looks back at me.