Chapter Ten - Scarlett
What am I even wearing?
White tank. Check. Black blazer. Fine. Classic baggy jeans—ripped, but tasteful. Heels? Too much. Boots. Always boots. Safe. Practical. Can run if I need to.
He’s Coach’s player.
He’s the guy from that night.
He’s the literal face of everything I swore I wouldn’t get involved in again.
The man left a sticky note, with no name, no number. I know, I know that’s what we agreed to.
And I’m dangerously close to doing it all over.
I grab my Ridgebacks hat from the hook, roll my eyes at myself, and head downstairs.
I linger on the staircase for a moment tracing my fingers along the frames on the wall, photos of mum the way I remember her.
Nothing short of perfect. I stop and reach out to one of my favourites she’s wearing a striped blue and white sun dress with her arms folded at the beach.
I was only 6 at the time but I remember the day like it was yesterday.
Dad and I wanted to go boogie boarding and she had her heart set on checking out the vintage stores in Salt Bay, the small surf town we were visiting.
Obviously dad and I won but she got right in the ocean in that dress.
Nothing ever stopped her. I press my lips together forcing back the tears that have welled in my eyes as laughter floats up the stairs from the kitchen.
Shell’s already at the kitchen island, coffee in one hand, laptop in the other, her oversized glasses perched on the bridge of her nose like she’s starring in a Pinterest mood board titled Hot PA with a Secret Wild Side.
She looks up and smiles.
“Well, well, well. Don’t you look cute for someone just ‘grabbing coffee.’”
I snort. “This is my ‘I’m definitely not meeting a guy but also please tell me I look hot as fuck outfit’.”
Shell winks. “Approved. And if you accidentally want to wear it again tonight, I booked us a table at Osteria Rosa. Girls’ dinner.
You, me, wine, pasta. Jen’s coming too—already roped her in on FaceTime while I was doing my hair.
Which wasn’t hard because it’s her dad’s birthday so she’ll be in town for the weekend she said. ”
I grin, relief washing over me. Shell’s been helping me with Maroon things when Dad doesn’t need her and Jen has been holding down the Sydney fort, so they’ve been getting along quite well, which I love. “Perfect. I need wine. Possibly tequila. But not that night again. Not Golden Sparrow levels.”
“Oh please,” she says, laughing. “You thrived at Sparrow. Took down Brendan the Casanova and got VIP’d faster than you could say ‘Coach Walker’s daughter.’”
“Fair. That place has a chokehold on me now.”
Shell flips her laptop toward me. “Before you go—quick Ridgebacks thing. Marketing team needs a few tweaks approved for the media seminar next week. Your speech is the headliner, and the press are drooling to see the prodigal daughter return.”
“The press or the nosey senior citizens down at Lucy’s Café?” I let out a sarcastic gasp, tilting my head and raising one brow.
“Ted happens to be one of those senior citizens girl, he was telling everyone and anyone who would listen that you were coming back” she counters gesturing down at the laptop.
I scan the mock-up of my profile on the Ridgebacks’ website, my name bold under “Guest Keynote: Scarlett Walker – Founder of Maroon Management.” There’s a photo of me from an awards night, sleek bun, wine-red dress, winning smile I wore like a mask.
We scroll through the bullet points. Career stats. Appearances. A new blurb she added that reads: “Scarlett’s strategic athlete-first approach has revolutionised representation.”
“You wrote that, didn’t you?” I glance at her.
“Guilty,” she says, sipping her coffee. “Now go revolutionise someone else’s morning with your hot coffee date.”
I head to the door, tossing my bag over my shoulder—just as I hear a knock.
I pull it open and instantly regret it.
Caleb. Which means I may have forgotten that I planned to get breaky with him.
Keys in hand. Grin in place. Dressed like a goddamn golden retriever who thinks we have matching outfits and interests, particularly emotional love interests—which we do not. Unless he’s got a hard on for Asher too.
“Hey! Thought we were doing breakfast?”
“Oh… shoot.” I fake-shoot. “I forgot. I have coffee with a potential client.”
He raises a brow, sceptical of course because the only potential clients in this town are Ridgebacks. “Who?”
I flash a wink, casual but probably infuriating. “Can’t say. Confidential. Agent stuff.”
Caleb narrows his eyes, and I feel him loosen back up a bit. “You’re a menace.”
“And you like it.” Maybe more than like, who knows with our history.
He exhales, then points to his ute. “Fine. I’ll drive you. Can’t have Dawson’s finest agent walking the streets alone, now, can we?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal and hop in.
The silence in the truck is weird. Heavy. Like he knows.
Finally, Caleb breaks the silence. “A few of the boys said you were out at Sparrow’s the other night, caught a few eyes I heard” the thing with us Aussies especially small-town folk we shorten everything.
I fake a laugh “oh I wouldn’t say that much, it’s such a cool vibe though. Next time you should come, I like being around someone who knows me as well as you do Cal.”
He pulls up out front of the coffee shop, leans over the wheel, and spots Asher already waiting inside through the glass window.
Caleb’s voice is ice-cold. Like the words I’ve just spoken never made it to his ears “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Suddenly I’m hot, the blazer I’m wearing feels like too much and my baggy jeans are suddenly skintight feeling.
I open the door. “Thanks for the ride, Caleb.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he mutters. He gives his opinion loud and clear and I didn’t ask for it, don’t much care for it either.
I pause, turn to him. “Then maybe let me make it. It’s work and coffee, none of your business Cal.”
And I’m out before he can say another word.
Inside the café, two flat whites later…
Asher’s already sitting, black hoodie pulled over his curls, jaw clenched, arms crossed like he’s about to flee.
“Sorry,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him. “Got held up just as I was leaving.” I can tell he is unimpressed by my driver this morning and I can’t say I’m stoked about Caleb’s timing either.
He shrugs. “I shouldn’t have asked you here.”
I blink. “Okay… weird opener, but I asked you remember.” Tapping the contract in my hand.
The way he’s shrunk himself and is all moody and broody takes me back to the Asher I met after the balcony and the vodka water the one twisted in between my bed sheets who bared all and turned almost into a little boy when he spoke about his father and their difficult relationship.
It makes me want to comfort him instantly.
“I’m serious,” he says. “You shouldn’t trust me. I’m not—”
“Stop,” I say, holding up a hand. “I know your reputation. I’ve read the articles about the Rugby leagues ladies’ man. Seen the speculation. Talked to people. I’m still here.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Why?”
“Because I remember the guy who cleaned my apartment while I was passed out from grief and tequila. The guy who held me while I told him my mum had just died. You think I forgot that?”
“Besides I work in PR you don’t think I know when someone is putting on a show, c’mon now—don’t insult me, I’m very good at my job.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t know what you remember.”
“I remember everything,” I say softly. “And not just the good bits. I remember how you listened. I remember the way you looked at me like I wasn’t a project or a pity case. I remember the silence after, and how it didn’t feel awkward. It felt… safe.”
Asher’s eyes drop to the table.
“You told me that night,” I add, “that you didn’t even like football.”
He chuckles quietly. “It’s the truth, probably shouldn’t tell my potential agent that.”
“Oh, I know. But you meant it when you said you were good at it.”
He looks up at me then, really looks, and I feel the gravity between us settle again. Same way it did on that balcony. Like the world’s paused for just the two of us.
“I’m not just here for nostalgia, Asher,” I say, tapping my nails against my coffee cup and straightening in the booth—settling into cutthroat agent mode. “I’m here because I think you’re being mismanaged.”
His brows lift. I’m not sure he was actually expecting business today. Which is a good sign I’m sure, for our personal whatever we are but I’m actually here to help him and help me.
“Your agent has you posting thirst traps like you’re auditioning for Love Island,” I continue. “And maybe it’s working because you’ve got, what, two brand deals off it?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Protein powder and a hydration brand.”
“Right. That’s the bare minimum for someone with your profile, your stats. You should have Nike, Under Armour, big brands. But instead, you’ve got a half-functioning highlight reel and no narrative control.”
I lean in. He shifts in his seat; oh, he likes that.
“I can fix that.”
A pause.
Then his voice drops.
“So, this was a pitch meeting the whole time?”
“No,” I say. “It was coffee with someone I maybe shouldn’t be thinking about every night. But now that we’re here—yeah. I’d like to sign you.”
He grins, and I swear it nearly breaks me.
Our intimate moment is interrupted by “Ashley” as her name tag reads. Eyeing off Asher like a prize pig at the Dawson’s Ridge Annual Show.
“Another flat white for you, big boy,” she says leaning forward to grab his empty mugs and brushing her chest across his arm.
Okay Ashley, we all see you. Whole damn café can smell the pheromones and the desperation you are wearing like perfume right now.
I smile at Asher who is frozen like a statue inside, well two can play this card considering I’m sitting right here.
“I think we are done aren’t we baby, see I told you those shirtless thirst traps will get you too much attention.” I say rubbing Asher’s hand across the table, with a soft sneaky chuckle.
“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t realise The Ridges eligible bachelor was off the market.” Ashley says eyes drinking Asher in like she couldn’t give a fuck who I was, and like she isn’t working right now.
“Don’t worry he’s not, I’m just his manager.” I jive with a wink.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, big boobs toddles off with a confused look on her face and no doubt some news to spread around Dawson’s that’ll catch like wildfire before lunch rush hour.
Probably shouldn’t have played on that joke.
You know given the whole don’t date Scarlett blood pact coach had them all figuratively sign.
As we stand to leave, he reaches out, his ‘big boy’ hand grazing my waist.
All eyes in the café have noticed who’s under the hoodie and probably no thanks to Ashley and her big mouth.
“I should go,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Me too.”
How does he deal with this all the time? I see a table of men whispering and a table of young girls snapping pics on their phones.
He leans in to kiss my cheek. Safe. Harmless. Innocent.
But I turn at the last second, and our lips brush.
Soft. Still. Lingering.
It’s not wild. It’s not a repeat of Sydney.
It’s worse.
Because it means something. We both know it does. We both feel it does.
We hover there, frozen.
He pulls back first. Barely. Just enough to whisper:
“I can’t.” Eyes still on us, someone’s had the balls to let out a low whistle too.
“I know,” I whisper back.
Not if I’m going to represent him.
Not if he wants to stay on Coach’s good side.
Not if I want to keep my head and my job intact.
But God, do I want to kiss him again. Like actually kiss him.
He backs away, clears his throat, then gives me the faintest smile.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Hates Football.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
And I’m left wondering how many rules I’m willing to break for a man I met on a balcony with a bottle of fake (vodka) water and a heart full of secrets.