Chapter Nine - Asher
I stare at the message. Still unread. Well, maybe read. But no reply. Left on seen.
Sweet dreams, darling. I know mine will be.
Was that too much? Too cocky? Too… Asher Kingston?
I run a hand through my damp hair and toss my phone across the bed like it personally offended me.
Because it has. Or she has. Or the whole damn situation has.
I’m losing my mind over this girl. How could I not?
The way her eyes pinched and glossed over when she spoke about her life two weeks prior to our meeting.
The way she cracked herself open for me like a crisp can of Coke—letting her secrets and her sadness spill out, and me returning the favour with my own stories of grief and sadness.
Talking about my brother so openly with someone who didn’t know me or pity me.
It’s nearly midnight and I’m lying shirtless in bed, body sore from training, brain stuck on repeat.
Scarlett Walker is less than a few kms from me, probably curled up in some oversized sweater, watching a crime doc, with a candle lit and sipping wine, one of her favourite past times she told me—one that became mine so I could feel like I didn’t lose the girl.
Or maybe she’s asleep. Or worse—maybe she’s not thinking about me at all.
I sit up, lean forward, elbows on knees, and glance at my phone again like it might’ve changed its mind and lit up with a notification.
Nothing.
No message. No “ha-ha” reaction. No ellipsis of hope.
Just… silence.
But earlier—earlier—she fire emoji’d my Instagram story. The one of me at training. Shirt off. Bandana on. Muscles on full display, courtesy of my manager’s twisted content plan.
“Post like a thirst trap, caption like a philosopher. That’s the brand now, Ash.”
Yeah, okay, whatever sells. I only agreed because I need the exposure. I need the sponsors. I don’t need the money, but it’s been a nice perk to support myself without the name attached to me. I do need this career to stay on track. And let’s be honest, I need to distract myself from… this.
From her.
Because one little flame emoji and I’ve combusted. Pathetic.
I groan, falling back onto the bed, one arm flung over my eyes. This girl is crawling into every corner of my mind, and she hasn’t even said anything to me since the car ride home.
Just a stupid fire emoji.
And now I’m questioning everything. Was it flirty? Passive-aggressive? A “you look hot but I’m still mad” emoji? A “yeah I remember what you looked like naked” emoji? A “maybe I’d like to see that again” emoji?
No. Stop. Don’t go there.
The room is too quiet, the fan above my bed spinning too slowly to drown out my thoughts.
I glance over at the dresser, where the little shopping list I took off her fridge two years ago is tucked inside the bottom corner of the mirror.
I don’t even know why I kept it. Or why I brought it here when I moved.
I think I just wanted a memento of the woman I’d met but wasn’t allowed to know.
I know how that sounds, very serial killer esque but her writing was so rushed and raw and chaotic how her letters changed depending on the word they were in.
Her font wasn’t uniform or delicate like the girl she was when she realised how much she opened up and was sobering up.
The writing on the shopping list was real and raw just like the tequila fuelled girl I’d met on the balcony.
Vegetables, meat, a bottle of gossips. Lots of wine.
I close my eyes and try to will her out of my head.
But all I see is that night. The way she laughed like she didn’t care, then cried like she cared too much. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I could be something else—someone else.
And I fucked it.
I could’ve asked for her name. Could’ve stayed. Could’ve tried. But I was moving. Dad hadn’t spoken to me; mum could barely look at me. I was barely holding my life together. And I couldn’t risk dragging her into the mess.
Now she’s here.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
Or the fact that one emoji just ignited every part of me I thought I’d buried.
I reach for my phone again. Start to type out another message.
You always fire emoji your enemies or just the ones you’ve seen naked?
Delete.
So, I’ve got your attention, but not your words?
Delete.
You good?
God. Lame.
I toss the phone again, face down this time. I am not about to double-text a girl who once made a no-names rule and then ghosted like a damn ninja after the best night of my life in a very long time.
Let her come to me.
Let her remember.
Let her wonder if I’m thinking about her too.
Newsflash, Scarlett: I am.
I grab the nearest pillow and pull it over my face, groaning into the silence.
She’s going to be the death of me.
And I’m already kind of okay with that.
* * *
It’s almost 1AM. Insomnia is one of my trauma side effects—well that’s what my shrink tells me.
The world’s asleep. Except me. And the glow of my screen. And the pit in my stomach that won’t quit.
I should’ve turned my phone off an hour ago. Should’ve taken the damn melatonin and gone to bed like a normal human. Instead, here I am—deep into the Instagram time warp.
Scarlett Walker’s profile. I told myself I’d only look.
But now I’m six months deep. Photos from work events.
Her grinning beside NRL stars I actually know.
Her in a power suit holding a trophy I didn’t know existed but now want to win.
Her at the funeral, black dress, red-rimmed eyes, a hundred comments of condolence beneath it.
And then I hit the older ones—back when she still lived in Sydney.
There it is.
The Party.
The night.
She’s leaning against a balcony railing, a red Solo cup in hand, hair falling over her face like a curtain.
It’s blurry, kind of a group shot, but I know it’s her.
I remember that damn cup. I remember how she laughed and told me not to tell her my name.
I remember her exact words when I handed her water and she spat out vodka.
She smiled like it was the first time in weeks. And I didn’t know what I was doing I just knew I wanted to keep her smiling.
I scroll again. A video.
Scarlett dancing, wild and alive, swaying with Jen to an old R&B song like they had the world on a string. I remember watching her dance. Remember thinking: God, don’t fall for this girl. Don’t want something you can’t keep.
And then, like a total idiot, my thumb double-taps the screen.
The little red heart glows like a spotlight on my stupidity.
Fuck.
No.
No, no, no.
I accidentally liked a year-old post.
From before we knew each other’s names.
From before she found out I’m Coach Walker’s golden boy with a ghost behind my eyes.
I don’t even get the chance to consider unliking before the screen lights up with a notification.
1 New Message – Scarlett Walker
Now who’s playing with fire, Mr. Hates Football…?
I sit up so fast I knock over the glass of water on my nightstand.
Your agent should give you a crash course in Instagram etiquette. Rookie move.
She sends another a second later.
Also… why didn’t you throw any stray passes at me today? Disappointed. I wore the team hat and everything.
A breath I didn’t know I was holding escapes.
I grin. Actual, real Cheshire Cat grin.
I was trying to avoid extra laps. Coach looked like he wanted to murder me yesterday.
Typing…
Besides, I couldn’t risk you thinking I was into you or anything. That’d be so unprofessional.
A beat. Then her reply:
Well lucky for you, I am a professional. And my agency currently has room for a Ridgeback on the books.
Maroon Management. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s the one with a really hot boss and strict policies against throwing footballs at her head.
Technically… it’s work if you meet me for a coffee to talk about management, right?
I rub the back of my neck, biting down a laugh. There she is.
Sneaky. You lured me in with the promise of caffeine and professionalism when we both know this is a trap.
She replies almost instantly.
You think I set the trap? Please. You thirst-trapped yourself. Training shirtless? The “just trying to focus on my goals” caption?
Even my dad liked the post. He doesn’t even know how to use Instagram.
I wince.
God. Tell me you’re joking.
Nope.
You’re officially team Ted-certified thirst bait.
I groan out loud, but I’m smiling. And for once, I’m not spiralling.
I’m okay.
I’ll meet you for that coffee. But only if we agree that you’re paying.
Deal. she replies. I’ll even bring a pen and a contract. Totally professional. Mostly.
I toss the phone beside me and let my head fall back into the pillow.
She’s talking to me. She remembers. She’s teasing.
And damn if it doesn’t feel like the first time in a long while I’m not walking around with regret clenched between my ribs.
Maybe this isn’t about rewriting the past.
Maybe it’s about writing something new.