Chapter Thirty Four - Scarlett
It has been two weeks since Caleb made his abrupt and unexpected—especially for him—exit from the Dawson’s Ridge Ridgebacks.
Lucky for him, Asher didn’t want to press charges and ruin Caleb’s life the same way he’d tried to ruin his.
Asher said losing the contract and a year of eligibility was enough.
Said the rest would catch up with him eventually.
And maybe it already has.
Caleb’s agent has been spinning damage control to the media, calling it a “mutual parting” due to “creative differences” and “seasonal rest,” like he’s a luxury car, not a guy who sabotaged his teammate.
But no one’s buying it. Not in Dawson’s Ridge. Especially not today.
* * *
The sun is shining hard over the stadium as the Ridgebacks take the field, home jerseys deep maroon with sharp gold detailing, Asher’s new boots gleaming.
The crowd is buzzing—town folk, family, reporters.
The kind of crowd that’s here for one thing, a win that proves this team is still alive and breathing without a scandal in its lungs. They’re here for football.
Ted stalks the sidelines in a Ridgebacks cap whilst the team runs their pre game training drill, barking out directions like a general marching to war. His voice slices through the noise—sharp, commanding, precise.
“Let’s see some goddamn heart, gentlemen!” he roars. “You want to prove ‘em all wrong? Earn it, leave it all out there!” He stalks off into the tunnel and on his way up into his air conditioned official coaches’ box.
Shell nudges me from the chair to the right—we’ve picked a sideline seat again, I guess at away games we will sit in the box but home this is where the action is, she’s everything—her Ridgebacks bomber jacket slung over a cropped tank, sunglasses hiding the glint in her eyes. “Your boy looks locked in.”
I follow her gaze to the field.
Asher Kingston, fullback, number 1.
They’ve got him up on the big screen, he’d be feeling all the pressure today he knows what’s at stake.
The scandal of Caleb and the quick switch weighing on his shoulders like a full stocked school backpack on a kindergartener.
He’s pacing at the 40-metre line, tossing warm-up passes with Collins.
He’s all power and poise, muscles taut, jaw set like stone—I’m thinking last nights pregame ritual wrapped in my bed sheets, has more to do with his form than the rigorous training regime he’s on here thanks to Teddy boy.
Jace runs a play a few metres out, cutting sharp corners like he’s drawing blood with boot studs.
The whole team is switched on; they’ve lost both of their first two games.
Asher’s not just focused. He’s dangerous.
“He always looks locked in, and sexy.” I murmur.
Shell smirks. “Nah. This is different. This is revenge.”
The Ridgebacks pile back into the sheds to collect their jerseys, ready to run on and get this party started. The team song crackles through the speakers and the crowd is so locked in. The atmosphere in here is like lightning, and I just know today’s game is going to be a showstopper.
The whistle blows.
Asher commands the line like an afternoon thunderstorm in footy boots. His voice is low but carries across the field—measured, confident, unshakeable.
The ruck is a blur of limbs and breath—Kingston darts from dummy half, eyes scanning like a sniper.
He sells the inside ball with a slick dummy—defenders bite.
Jace arcs wide, dragging the defensive line out like a stretched rubber band.
But it’s Collins—shoulders square, legs churning—who explodes from the back line, up the middle.
Asher sees it. Feels it. Fires.
A flat bullet pass slices through the air—timed to perfection.
Collins doesn’t just catch it—he claims it, at full tilt, splitting the line like a thunderclap.
40-metres of raw speed and pounding boots. The crowd rises—then collectively gasps—
He’s hit. A brutal, rib-shaking tackle slams him into the field. Grass flies. Bodies tangle.
And just like that, the stadium holds its breath.
It’s a Ridgebacks penalty; Collins is up straight on his feet. Tough as nails.
The crowd erupts. Dawson’s Ridge is on their feet, and I tell you what, the boys, the Ridgebacks they sure know how to entertain the spectators and fans.
Shell jumps to her feet smacking me in the back with excitement. “Yes, Collins!”
Next set. Same fire.
The Ridgebacks grind forward, play after play—bullet passes, clean lines, bone-jarring contact. The opposition digs in deep, but it doesn’t matter. We’re breaking them down, one brutal metre at a time.
Asher’s reading their defence like he’s already seen the ending—like he’s reading the pages of a playbook no one else can see. He’s commanding the field from his position like a seasoned pro.
Ted claps once up in his box, sharp and hungry.
“That’s it, boys! Keep turning the screws!” I can see his mouth moving and read his lips when they pop him up on the big screen.
Final minutes. The score is locked. 24–24.
I’ve got my hand in my mouth—chewed nails and chipped polish, but I don’t care.
The butterflies have moved from my stomach to my hands, and I’m sweating through my dress.
My chest tightens. My throat dries. I swear I might be sick.
Ridgebacks. Thirty-five metres out.
They need the try. This is it.
No time. No second chances.
This is the kind of pressure that breaks players—turns stars to shadows.
But Asher?
He stands tall, alone behind the play. Wipes sweat from his brow. Looks up at the scoreboard. Then out at the crowd.
And then… he finds me.
A heartbeat. A look.
The whole stadium fades away.
I nod once.
He nods back.
A silent promise.
“Cmon boys!”
Dummy half feeds him the ball—Asher dummies left—then tucks the footy neatly under his arm.
Steps off his right. Bursts through a gap.
It’s a solo run. A fullback’s nightmare. A tied games dream.
He spins off the first defender, palms away the second, shoulders drop—he ducks a swinging arm like he’s smoke in the wind. That would’ve hurt if it connected.
Fifteen metres.
Ten.
Five—my heart is in my throat—
He launches himself into the in-goal like he was born to be airborne—and just as he grounds the ball, a forward slams into his ribs mid-air.
The whistle pierces the air.
“That’s a penalty, send him off!” I scream, rising from my chair. I catch a glimpse of Shell, she’s impressed by my passion.
Asher hits the grass. Motionless.
And I’m not breathing.
I can’t move.
My hands are shaking, and all I can think is—please, get up.
The video ref has called it a try.
He has got there.
Try.
We win.
The crowd erupts—stands shaking, thunder in my ears—but I’m not celebrating. Not yet.
Because Asher’s not moving.
He’s lying in the in-goal, face turned sideways in the grass. His chest rises, thank God, but he’s still.
Too still.
The orange-shirted medic sprints past the try line. Another follows. The trainers barking orders, but I can’t hear anything but the blood pounding in my ears.
My feet move before I realise it—shoving through bodies, ignoring security, the sideline, the rules.
I just run.
By the time I reach the sideline, the medic is lifting Asher gently, checking his pupils, tapping his shoulder.
He blinks. Winces.
The crowd quiets. Someone whispers, “Concussion.”
Then—Asher turns his head. Finds me again.
His smile is crooked, slow… but it’s there.
My knees nearly give way.
The medic holds two fingers up in front of him.
“How many, mate?”
Asher grins faintly.
“Two. And we just fucking won.”
The crowd roars.
And that’s when I let myself cry—not from fear, but from relief and joy, pure overwhelming joy.
Because that man—my man—just carried a whole team on his back and crossed the line bruised, breathless, and bloody brilliant.
They help him up, arm slung over a trainer’s shoulder, and he’s still laughing when he stumbles past me.
“I reckon you’ve bagged yourself the best fullback in the league Walker” he mutters.
And I don’t even answer, I just smile like a dumb ass because both on and off the field I know I have. They’ve sat him down on a chair just outside the tunnel, he’s refused to go in until the team does.
Shell’s used her PA pass and has made her way down, to meet me.
She screams beside me, jumping. Fans are on their feet. The whole of Dawson’s is relishing in the moment.
And then I see a beat up Ridgeback with an ice pack ragging himself towards me, and he does something I don’t see coming at all—he kisses me.
Hot. Bold. In front of everyone.
The crowd goes absolutely feral now.
“About damn time!” someone yells.
Shell screams “YESSSS!” and claps so hard I think she’ll bruise.
He finally pulls back, grinning, hair a mess, eyes on fire now blazing with desire, pride, and my reflection.
“So,” he pants. “You ready to meet my parents then? In Sydney.”
I laugh—hard and helpless. I hope this isn’t just the concussion talking. “Is that your idea of a reward for winning?”
“No,” he says, sliding a hand into mine. “That’s just foreplay, and I’ll let you decide if it’s a reward or punishment.” He rubs his hand over his face and laughs to himself, I think he is in disbelief of what he’s just proposed.
Before we can take in any more of the moment Asher is swarmed by press and as his manager this is the best thing to ever happen to the brand that is Asher Kingston.
But as his girlfriend the pride swells through my veins and straight to my own eye lids a tear rolling down my cheek.
I wish I could bottle this moment up forever so I can revisit whenever I want to—but this is real life and I’ll never get this moment back.
Instead, I stand there staring, watching on with a smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
And so much passion and love in my heart I don’t know how it gets any better than this.
I do know how it’ll get worse—I’ve got important news to share with Ash, and I’m not sure how he’ll take it.
It does feel like he’s almost read my mind with the Sydney trip though.