Chapter Thirty Seven - Scarlett
It has been two months.
Two months since I’ve seen or heard from Asher Kingston.
I’ve been the best manager he’s ever had; he’s got brand deals coming out of his ears. Still not good enough for him to call or message though. I understand, I do, I think. It would be hard to reach out right now.
Shell’s been holding things down in Dawson’s Ridge, officially running the Ridgebacks division of Maroon Management and thriving like I knew she would. She’s loud, loyal, quick-witted, and basically made to herd athletes and smack egos into place.
I should be celebrating the win. Our win. But instead, I feel like I’m standing alone in a crowded room at a very loud, very busy party where I know no one.
AKA: Sydney without Asher.
The city moves fast—but I move faster.
I don’t have a choice.
I didn’t come here to fall apart.
I came to build something.
To grow the business.
To prove I could do it without needing him beside me, even if every inch of me is screaming to turn around and go home. Home to Asher.
9:02 AM – Sydney Office, Barangaroo
Maroon Management’s temporary office is perched just off the harbour—a glass walled sun trap of ambition, caffeine, and late nights.
The energy here is electric. Every desk is stacked with media kits, collaboration proposals, and half-empty lattes.
We’ve doubled our client load in three weeks.
I’ve signed two new athletes, landed a last-minute Sports Illustrated feature for the Women’s League, and locked in a brand collab with a Gen-Z golfer who dances mid-round and has the internet wrapped around his club grip.
Merging this small agency going under was the best business decision I’ve made so far.
I should feel powerful. I’m doing what I’ve always dreamed of, I’m in the top spot right now.
Invincible.
Instead, I feel like I’m always scanning for something I can’t name. Maybe, someone.
Even when I’m in heels, striding through meetings like I own the room, my brain never stops whispering:
What would Asher say?
Would he be proud of this?
Does he still think about me?
At night, it’s worse.
When the office quiets.
When there’s no knock on the door with Thai food from the only Thai place Dawson’s had to offer and tired shoulders from being the last to leave practice. No Asher falling asleep beside me in his Ridgebacks hoodie, mumbling about practice while I trace the edge of his jaw.
I scroll his post-game interviews like they’re love letters.
I’ve got Google alerts set on his name.
I pretend the ache in my chest is just stress. Lack of routine, working too many hours. The pressure of being a woman building an empire in a world full of men.
But I miss him.
God, I miss him.
More than I should.
More than I can say.
7:12 PM – The Crab Claw Bar, The Rocks Sydney
He walks in like he owns the block, I expect nothing less.
Justin Moore, NBL star, walking headline, human flame.
He’s the kind of man who turns a room into an audience.
White tee, black bomber jacket, sneakers that probably retail for the price of a used car.
He doesn’t just enter—he arrives. I know, I know what you’re thinking—Asher.
But this is strictly business it only ever will be with Justin.
“You clean up alright, Scar,” he says, pulling me into a one-armed hug. “You tryna pitch me or distract me?”
“Both,” I smirk, sliding into the stool across from him. “We’ve got a brand to build.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, waving the server over. “Let me guess—tuna tartare, oysters, overpriced cocktails?”
He orders for both of us, of course. Spicy margaritas. Seafood. Something blackened and expensive. He’s charming in that exhausting, God-tier athlete way—quick to laugh, quicker to disarm. We’ve worked together for years, but this is the first time it’s just the two of us in the wild.
He already knows about Asher, “Mr Football” as he calls him. I didn’t hide it. He teases sometimes, flirts just to keep things interesting, but he’s never crossed a line. Tonight’s no different—he’s magnetic, but his eyes stay respectful. Mischievous, but safe.
Halfway through the meal, someone approaches our table.
“Mr. Moore?” A young guy, high school age, clutching a Kings cap like it’s holy. “Sorry—I’m a huge fan. Could I get a photo?”
Justin grins, stands up, signs the kid’s hat, and throws an arm around his shoulder. The camera flashes. Two other tables lift their phones to sneak pics, they probably don’t know who he is but know he must be famous.
When he sits down again, he shrugs like it’s nothing. “Man can’t even eat caviar without going viral.” He loves it, the smirk on his face says it all. Justin Moore was made for this life.
“You should be thanking them. That visibility’s what’s getting us the Underarmour deal.”
“Speaking of,” he says, wiping his mouth, “they want a commercial where I give a pair of custom sneakers to a CGI version of my younger self. I can’t.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Too forced. What if instead, you hand them out to real kids? From your old neighbourhood. No green screen. Real community. You’re from out west yeah?”
His brow lifts. “Damn. You’re good.”
“I’m building something real,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “It has to matter.”
He watches me. Not in a flirty way—just curious. “You always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Fire on the outside, heartbreak on the inside.”
I laugh, but it lands heavy. I lift my phone, trying to shake the feeling, and snap a quick picture of the table.
Our drinks. The seafood. A soft glow from the candlelight.
Justin’s hand is visible in the corner of the frame—tattoos, watch and casual power.
It wasn’t intentional I swear, I’m sure there’s been photos of us circulating talking business since I’ve been back.
I post it. No caption. Just the vibe.
“Let me guess,” he says, watching me. “Part of the aesthetic?”
“You’re the illusion,” I reply. “The brand is curated chaos.”
“And what’s the truth?”
I hesitate. “The truth is I’m here trying not to fall apart. And hoping he notices.”
“He will,” Justin says, no doubt in his voice. “And when he does, he’s gonna lose his damn mind.”
11:44 PM – Scarlett’s Apartment, Bondi
My phone buzzes. Once. Then twice. Then five times in a row. I grab it off the nightstand squinting my eyes as I adjust to the brightness.
ASHER:
Whose hand is that.
ASHER:
You serious right now?
ASHER:
Is this what you meant by space, one month to go and you couldn’t hold on?
ASHER:
Scarlett. Don’t do this.
My throat tightens. I stare at the screen. My heart thuds like footsteps in a quiet hallway. This is what I wanted.
SCARLETT:
It was dinner. With a client. You don’t get to flip on me now, I haven’t heard a fucking peep from you in 2 months.
ASHER:
You’re posting him.
While I’m here keeping my distance like you asked.
SCARLETT:
Exactly. You’re keeping your distance. You disappeared, Asher.
ASHER:
I didn’t disappear.
I backed off. I gave you space.
I’m waiting for you.
That doesn’t mean I stopped being yours.
That one makes me sit down.
And then the final message comes through.
ASHER:
I’m flying in tomorrow.
Don’t make any more dinner plans.