Chapter Four - 2 years later - Scarlett #3
And that’s the moment it happens.
Recognition, as a smile flares across his stupidly handsome face.
Mine too.
No.
No freaking way.
The realisation hits like another football to the head.
The smirk. The wink. The arrogant charm. The air of familiarity I couldn’t quite place until now.
Kingston is him.
Mr. Mysterious.
The guy from two years ago. The one-night stand I never forgot, well until now but he looks so different and the ball to head was hard.
The one who left before the sun came up.
The one who said no names. No futures. Just one night.
Okay that was my dumb idea, but he happily went along with it. Player.
And now?
He’s standing in front of me. Sweaty. Smug. His hair grown out and new tattoos encased over his arms and legs. In my hometown. On my dad’s damn field. In my dad’s damn team.
Put a fork in me and call me the Christmas roast.
Because I am well and truly done.
* * *
I spend the entire training session glued to my phone, aggressively texting Jen like I’m live vlogging a scandal. Because, in a way, I am.
It’s him. I got hit in the head with a football and it’s him.
Jen’s rapid-fire texts fly in.
WHAT.
THE.
ACTUAL.
Fuck.
We spiral for a full hour. We analyse every possible angle like we’re cracking a national security breach. She suggests I fake a fainting episode. I consider telling him I have amnesia. After much debate, we land on the most logical and emotionally stable Plan B imaginable:
Pretend I don’t know who the hell he is.
Genius, really. Flawless.
“It’s reverse psychology,” I type. “He thinks I remember. But I don’t. Except I do. But he won’t know I do.”
Jen replies: You are unwell. I love it. Commit.
I shove my phone into my bag with a sigh.
Right. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve only fantasised about this man’s tongue more times than I’ve checked my bank balance in the past twelve months, but no biggie.
No biggie? The instant heat rising in-between my thighs mocks me as I flashback to the best night of my life. This is indeed a biggie.
I gather myself in body, mind and spirit making my way toward the field, where players are packing up and filtering out one by one. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in my phone screen and suddenly feel weirdly self-conscious.
Which is not like me. I never care what I’m wearing especially around athletes.
Except… today, apparently.
To be fair, I look hot. My dark blue flared jeans hug all the right places, paired with a fitted white tee that shows just enough midriff to say confident, not desperate. My hair is loose, falling in soft waves past my chest. I even bought a Ridgebacks hat at the airport just to impress Dad.
Totally casual.
I spot him—Coach. Dad. Ted Walker. Looking like one of those proud football obsessed grizzled sports icon straight off a Netflix docuseries.
What do I even say to him? “Hi Dad, your daughter’s back in town and oh by the way one of your players has been closer to my downtown than my g string?”
Plan B remember deny, deny deny.
Before I can figure out how to casually re-enter his waking life, I’m ambushed from behind by two thick, muscular arms that wrap around me like I’m a human teddy bear. Well, there goes the neighbourhood and plan b.
“Scar Walker?! No freakin’ way!”
I’m lifted clean off the ground and spun with all the grace of a mechanical bull at the local bar in the Main Street of Dawson’s.
A laugh bubbles out of me as I’m released, heart racing from the whiplash and surprise. I turn—and blink.
“Caleb Farah?! Holy shit. You’ve tripled in size since we were ten. Last time I saw you, you had braces and bony elbows.”
We both burst out laughing. Big, full-body laughs. For the first time in over a year—maybe longer—I feel something like home. My Caleb.
Caleb had been my neighbour, my partner in crime, my not-so-imaginary-friend turned very real bestie. We spent our childhood building tree forts, riding bikes, and stealing Dad’s Gatorade stash. He was the Vegemite to my toast. And now? He’s a whole damn main meal.
He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You look good, Scar. Real good. Still bossing people around?”
“Always, why else would I be here of all places” I wink.
He grabs my hand like we never missed a beat. It’s instinctive. Platonic. Easy.
“Coach,” he calls out, “I’m taking Scar home. We’ve got about twenty years to catch up on.”
Dad gives him a small nod and one of those half-grins that says I trust you, but I’ll murder you if you think you’re anything more than a friend. Classic Ted.
Once again, the drive through Dawson’s is soaked in nostalgia and tinted windows.
The streets are familiar but shinier now—new cafés tucked between old bakeries, updated storefronts.
A few fresh murals, Ridgebacks colours proudly splashed across buildings like war paint.
The high school got a new sign. The record store (yep, we still had one of those) is now a smoothie bar.
The chicken place still stands; God bless it.
“This town grew up,” I say, watching kids skateboard past the servo.
“Yeah,” Caleb says, with a painful sadness in his eyes that are locked on the road. “Some things changed. Some stayed exactly the same, and some are frozen here”
“You stuck around; you don’t post much on your Instagram you know?”
He shrugs. “Left for university in Queensland, came back after. It’s home. It’s in my bones, but it-” He clears his throat and glances over to me for a split second.
“It’s somewhere Darcy loved, it’s where the accident happened so it’s where I feel close to her. I came back to be closer to her, and everyone thought after it all I would up and leave but now I don’t think I ever will.”
I nod and offer a reassuring half smile. I do understand but if I was Caleb and my long-term girlfriend passed like that I’d never want to come back here. I envy people like him—strong.
“So… no wife? No secret Dawson’s baby?” Real sensitive Scar.
Caleb snorts, appreciating my change of subject even if it was not the best subject to change to.
“Nope. Still single. Still a loner boy. You?”
“Same. Tragic twins.”
He throws me a devious look. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
We banter for a few more minutes before I casually—so casually—drop the bomb.
“So… for purely professional reasons,” I say, twirling my hair with fake nonchalance, “what do you know about Kingston?” So much for Plan B Scar.
He doesn’t even blink. “Asher Kingston? The one who kicked a ball at your skull?”
I whip my head toward him. “I knew that wasn’t an accident!”
“Oh, it was a hundred percent on purpose,” Caleb says, grinning with something dark in his eyes. “He’s been acting weird all week. Like… extra edgy.”
I laugh nervously. “Weird. I’ve literally never seen, met, or even heard of him before.” Smooth.
Caleb raises an eyebrow. “Okay…”
Damn it. That was too defensive. Note to self: work on casual lying.
“He’s a player,” Caleb adds. “Like, capital P. Ladies’ man. Serious charm. Not exactly relationship material. He’s had a few girls after him since he signed with us 2 years ago and they all end up gone within a few weeks.”
Yeah. No kidding. My uterus figured that out two seconds into eye contact.
“Besides he’s off-limits,” Caleb says, serious now. “Coach made it very clear that if anyone messes with you, they’re benched. No ifs, no buts.”
Oh wow. Dad’s playing full-time commander cockblock.
I smirk. “Well, for the record, I’ve got my eyes on all of you. Strictly business. Maroon Management is opening its first office right here in Dawson’s, and I think it’s about time the Ridgebacks got on my roster.”
Caleb whistles low. “Boss bitch moves; I did see your new biz pages.”
“You know it.”
The car slows to a stop in front of the house and my breath catches.
It’s… beautiful. More beautiful than I remember.
White weatherboard panelling. A wide wraparound veranda with rocking chairs that look like they’ve got stories to tell. Hanging baskets with blooming lavender. Slate-blue shutters. Warm porch lights already glowing golden in the late afternoon sun.
It’s too big for Dad alone. But I know why he is back here in our once family home.
This is the house Mum loved. The kind of place she’d sit out on Sunday mornings with coffee and a crossword, barefoot, wearing one of Dad’s old shirts.
My heart aches. But it’s a good ache. Familiar. Soft around the edges. Nostalgic.
Caleb hops out and opens my door. “Go on. I’ll let you settle in.”
“Thanks,” I say, lingering for a second. “I really needed this.”
He gives me a warm smile, accompanied by the biggest hug and soft kiss to the forehead. “Anytime, Scar.”
I watch as not so little Caleb Farah hops back into his black SUV. He’s still that blonde haired browned eyed little boy I loved. But now he towers at 6’3”. If I wasn’t already crushing over, thou who shan’t be named then Caleb would be the perfect person to spend my time with.
I head inside. My bags are already waiting neatly in the hallway. Of course they are. Shelley probably arranged it. She’s terrifyingly efficient. No wonder dad loves her, it must be nice to have someone looking out and after you, even if that’s what she’s paid to do.
I wander through the house—wide open living spaces, honey-toned floorboards, high ceilings. The walls are painted soft grey; with framed football jerseys and a few old family photos still scattered between the decor.
I pause at one—me and Mum, arms wrapped around each other, laughing.
God, I miss her.
I take a deep breath and make a mental note: I need to get it together. I’ve got a dinner date with Shelley tonight and there’s a high chance Mr. Mysterious/Kingston/Trauma-Incarnate could be out on the town. After all this town is small.
Which means I need an outfit that says unbothered, thriving, probably in a situationship with your teammate.
And a backstory. Fast.