Fever Dream

CHAPTER 1

harrison

I t’s amazing what a difference a week can make. Just one week ago I was pondering my future, hoping, wishing, praying that the twelve-month residency program I was weeks away from completing would be extended with an offer of permanent employment with Tottenham Hotspur’s physiotherapy team.

Three days ago, that answer came-and boy was I not expecting this outcome.

As it turned out, I had been offered the position on Tottenham’s physio team, my literal dream come true. But life threw me a curveball, another opportunity, one that came with a choice that could completely uproot my entire life.

Two options. Two wildly different paths.

I’m still not entirely sure I chose correctly.

The thing is, I knew I could have happily stayed at Tottenham Hotspur when they offered me the job I’d spent years trying to make my own.

It is my literal dream job. I love the team, have made loads of friends there and have a great flat in London that was hard to find.

The medical team is incredibly well equipped and even better funded and it had been the best learning experience a fresh King’s College London university graduate could have hoped for.

The other choice? That was the stuff of the wildest of dreams—the kind you barely dare to chase. And the chance of fulfilling a lifelong dream was simply too good to resist. I mean, who wouldn’t grab at a chance for a fully funded, twelve-month secondment to work for a top Australian sporting club?

Sign me up, baby.

It’s just that nobody told me exactly how long this endless flight from London to Sydney was going to be. And I mean yes, my new Australian team have paid for business class flights so I can stretch out my six-foot-two frame legs so I know it could be far worse.

But still. Twenty-two hours and thirty minutes stuck in a flying steel cylinder is not the way I would have chosen to spend my day. No wonder all those Aussies who flock to London never leave. Who’d want to put themselves through this again?

The other, ever so slight drawback to this whirlwind adventure—the one that gave me exactly two days to farewell my friends and family and pack up my entire life to ship off to the far-flung colonies—is the very minor fact that I have never actually seen an Australian rules football match before.

That seemed to be less important than the actual reason for this dramatic and sudden life detour—that being my specialised sports physio skills and know-how that I have finetuned in Tottenham’s graduate program.

But it is right about now I’m thinking I probably should have investigated further before rifling through my drawers for my British passport and tube of SPF 50+.

So I did what any dedicated, professional, slightly football mad (in the English sense) guy would do and Googled the details on the layover in Singapore.

And excuse my French, but what in the holy mother of pearl have I just signed up for? Because let me tell you, the Australian game is brutal, basically a free-for-all with a confusing array of indiscernible rules and absolutely no protective gear whatsoever save for a flimsy mouthguard.

It’s certainly not the beautiful game I have grown up with.

No wonder they have a need for specialist physiotherapy skills.

As for my new team, they had apparently gone searching high and low for some kind of new, groundbreaking physio treatment for their new superstar recruit and landed on the work we have been doing at the Hotspurs.

Best in the biz is what they are calling Tottenham’s sports medic team.

It is no coincidence that the football squad’s on-field success has gone hand in hand with their impressively low injury rate.

The East Coast Fever is the Australian Football League’s newest franchise, based in the northeastern edge of Sydney in what is reportedly deep-seated Rugby League territory —at least according to every single webpage I have so far stumbled across.

The AFL were hoping to bring their brand of Australian rules football to the masses and are not afraid to take on the competing league for the hearts and minds of its citizens.

As for my client? That’s Casey Calloway, the club’s highest profile recruit, and the Fever are apparently prepared to spend whatever it takes to get their star midfielder in tip-top shape for season launch which is just over two weeks away.

Thus the reason for this mad dash across the seven seas.

It has just ticked over to March, and it has not escaped my notice that I have voluntarily left the wintery climes of the northern hemisphere just when the south is transitioning into their own brand of winter.

Still, it had been a miserly nine degrees when I had boarded the plane in London, and I feel my first smile of the past twenty-four hours when I finally, finally step out into Sydney’s balmy twenty-five-degree sunshine.

A gentle southerly breeze is blowing in from the ocean and I smell the freshness in the air combined with the distinct tang of salt.

Divine.

“Harrison Thornfield?”

I look up to find the smiling face of the most stereotypical Australian man approaching me—the kind of face that one might expect to find basking on the shores of Bondi beach. Sun-streaked blonde hair and glowing tan for miles.

“Sure is,” I answer with a smile.

“I’m Ben. Ben McLean,” he replies, thrusting his hand out for a warm and hearty shake. “We’ve been talking on the phone. Welcome to Sydney.”

“Thanks,” I reply, forcing back the wave of jetlag that suddenly threatens to hit so I can focus on my new line manager at the East Coast Fever.

Ben had been the one to contact Tottenham with the offer of a wad of cash in exchange for a twelve-month secondment of one of their finest residents and I had been the lucky beneficiary of that phone call.

“How was the flight?” Ben asks affably, reaching out to take my suitcase.

“Long,” I answer, and he chuffs out a laugh.

“Distance is second nature to the average Australian,” he replies, still with that beaming smile.

I have a feeling I’m going to like working with this guy.

He looks a little older than me, maybe thirty-five or so to my relatively fresh twenty-three and I am admittedly eager to learn from his experience and maybe exchange techniques with him too.

“Much like queuing to the average Brit, then?” I quip.

“Now you’ve got it,” Ben returns. “So listen, how about we get you over to your apartment and give you a chance to settle in. We’re two weeks out from season start so we’re going to have to hit the ground running tomorrow. That sound okay?”

“Sure, sounds great,” I reply, shrugging off that wave of tiredness again.

The Fever has really made this whole international move so easy for me, organising my work visa and an apartment not too far from the club’s home ground and training facilities.

I’d really only been left with the task of packing up my flat in London and boarding the plane.

The car ride from the airport feels like a blur of sunlit streets, palm trees, and road signs with unfamiliar suburbs.

Ben finally pulls up outside an apartment building, rising ten stories into the blue sky.

It doesn’t feel like home here—the bricks are too light, the windows too open, and the balconies are draped with unfamiliar plants.

Ben pops the boot and hauls out my suitcase and I am too exhausted to protest at the princess treatment. Besides, the man sure has a nice set of biceps and I don’t mind helping myself to a little cheeky peek as he leads me into the foyer and calls the elevator.

“I hope this place is okay,” Ben says as we step into the elevator. “It’s the best we could find on short notice.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I reply, staving off another yawn.

And yep, as soon as Ben fumbles with the key into my apartment on the seventh floor, he pushes open the door to a space that smells like fresh paint and new beginnings. I already love it.

“This is it,” he says, stepping inside and leaving the keys on the kitchen island.

“It’s great,” I reply, taking in the open living area that is already bigger than my entire flat back home in London.

Sunlight floods through the big open windows, stretching long golden beams across the wooden floors.

The ceilings are high, the space almost too open—none of the cozy, cramped corners of a London flat.

But as I step onto the balcony, the city unfurls before me—and I know I’m going to love it here.

***

Ben picks me up from the front of my apartment early the next morning. By this point I’ve been awake since three a.m., staring up at the ceiling fan and praying for more sleep. I’m pretty sure I’m operating purely on adrenaline.

It is also about now I am rethinking my abstinence of anything caffeine related but I’m hopeful the energy boosters I added to my green smoothie will kick in soon.

Everything is different here—even the light shining through my windows this morning is different, brighter somehow. The birds are louder, the sky is bluer and even the smell is different. It’s a strange blend of salty sea air, eucalyptus, warm concrete and a dash of humidity.

I ended up calling Henrietta to fill in the pre-dawn gaps because otherwise she’ll start bugging me at all hours of the day. Or night. My sister doesn’t believe in time zones which I take to mean that I must be available at whatever time and place she deigns to call me.

Of course, she spends the entire call lamenting about Charles and his broken heart and how he’s positively miserable without me. I take it because Heni is my big sister and I’ve been trained well by her, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of caring. Or responding.