Ridgebacks Stadium–Game Day
The roar of the crowd echoes through the stadium as the Ridgebacks run out onto the field, maroon and gold flying high under the late afternoon sun. The whole town is here—Dawson’s Ridge doesn’t just watch football, they live it. There are scarves, flags, kids have their faces painted, the whole town turns golden.
I stand near the halfway mark, one hip cocked, sunglasses low on my nose, baby balancing effortlessly on my hip. Our baby—Leo, named after mum’s favourite star sign and Asher’s game-day fire—wearing a tiny custom jersey with Kingston stitched across the back and the number 1, just like his old man. My heartbeat quickens as we draw closer to kick off, I’m always fidgety and panicking before a game but today is a big one.
Leo is chewing on one of his toy footballs and drooling onto his collar, unbothered by the crowd. He has been around theatmosphere since before he left the womb so it’s no surprise now the calm he feels close to the action.
“You’re going to steal the show,” I whisper, adjusting his Ridgebacks cap. “Just like your daddy.”
Behind us, Shell leans against the railing with a giant iced coffee and a phone already full of pictures—she has become Leo’s personal paparazzi. No one’s more obsessed with baby K than Aunty Shell.
“I’m just saying, if I don’t get exclusive godmother content rights, I walk.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re literally the head of my PR firm.”
“And this is the biggest campaign of your life. I mean, look at that face.” She leans forward to squish Leo’s cheeks.
Leo squeals in agreement. He loves his aunty Shell.
My throat feels tight, we are getting close and the crowd swells louder, as the announcer booms across the field:
“Your new Ridgebacks captain… number one… Asher Kingston!”
I turn just in time to see him jog onto the field, curls bouncing along his forehead, focus razor-sharp—until his eyes flick toward us.
He always finds us in the crowd.
He points to his chest, then to me and Leo. A subtle gesture only I would understand.You are my reason.
Leo lets out a screech of joy and claps his little hands. The crowd goes wild. Probably for Asher. But maybe—just maybe—for us too.
I kiss Leo’s little head and whisper, “Your dad used to break the internet you know, with thirst traps. Now he breaks hearts out on the field and at daycare little man”
Shell snorts. “He’s going to get tackled in two seconds if you keep saying things like that out loud.”
The game begins. Dawson’s Ridge comes alive.
And as I stand there on the edge of the field, our son safe in my arms, my husband commanding the game he loves, my friends shouting from the box seats and my father waving from the glass box above them, I realise:
This was the story.
Not the scandal.
Not the headlines.
This.
Love that stayed.
Family that chose each other.
And a life that grew—one boot, one jersey, one game at a time.
