CHAPTER 1 #2
Ben drives us straight to the Fever’s training facilities which are just around the corner from my apartment.
Ben parks his car in the underground carpark, and we take the lift to the club rooms. I can feel the newness of the training centre, almost smell the fresh coat of paint and the notable absence of the wear and tear I associate with most sports facilities.
There is a large, welcoming reception desk with the Fever’s big navy blue and silver logo, the space currently unmanned at this ungodly hour. There is a notable lack of trophies and other memorabilia, not surprising given the club is just entering its fourth season.
Ben points out all the various administrative rooms as he leads me into the engine room, using his security pass to lead the way.
He shows me the high-tech gym with its racks, turf zones, bikes and sleds right alongside the rehab and prehab zones.
We pass the locker room on the way to the theatre room, the leadership hub, strategy room and the chillout zone with its big cosy couches, play station, nutrition station and espresso machine. All very warm and inviting and fresh.
Our last stop is at the office of the Head Coach.
Mick Brabham is apparently a legend of the game—if the black and white photos lining the back wall of his office, showing a much younger version of the man in his AFL playing days, are anything to go by.
Mick wears the years on his face, softened with age, but those strands of grey hair lend a certain gravitas.
He’s no less intimidating as he rises to his full impressive height and thrusts out a hand.
“Thornfield,” he smiles as he shakes my hand, setting me instantly at ease. “Mick Brabham.”
“Nice to meet you, Mick,” I return, taking one of the seats he gestures to opposite his desk. Ben is still at my side, and I find comfort in that while sitting here in the presence of this impressive man.
“Thank you so much for coming out all this way,” Mick continues easily. “There was a lot of last-minute, increasingly frantic midnight phone calls to get this deal across the line with Tottenham. I know you were given hardly any notice at all, so we really appreciate your efforts.”
“That’s quite alright. It was not really an offer I could refuse,” I answer honestly.
“We were hoping to have you out here months ago, but nothing ever goes to plan of course,” Mick says, leaning back in his chair. “That being said, we’re now only two weeks from the start of the season so it’s going to be a rush to get our new star midfielder up to scratch.”
“Yes, I have been made aware,” I offer. “Casey Calloway, right?”
“Yes. Casey Calloway,” Mick nods, steepling his fingers.
“This will be only Casey’s third season in the league.
I don’t say this lightly when I tell you that signing Casey to the Fever was the biggest off field win in our club’s short history.
He’s only two seasons into his career but he’s the kind of player clubs are built around.
We see him as a once in a generation type of player which is why we’ll do anything to get him up to scratch. ”
“I understand,” I nod, taking everything in.
“Good,” he replies. I like how no nonsense this man is, how straight to the point. “What I will warn you though, is that Casey … can be rather … a lot .” Ben snickers at my side and I find myself sitting straighter in my seat. What does that mean?
“By that we mean Casey has this way of getting under your skin quite quickly and before you know it, you’re working for him instead of the other way around,” Ben adds.
“We love the kid to death, just to be clear,” Mick adds, an affectionate grin on his face. “He’ll be an absolute dream for you to treat given the passion and dedication and energy he brings every day to the club. You’ll also have all the support you need from the Fever to get him back to his best.”
“I appreciate that, and I can’t wait to get started,” I tell them both. Mick nods and Ben and I stand to leave.
“Renee from HR will meet with you this afternoon to give you a proper induction and sign all the forms and policies and all that bureaucratic stuff we’re forced to do,” Mick adds on our way out.
After we leave Mick’s office, Ben finishes our tour in the medical area with the physio treatment rooms, ice baths, spas and hydrotherapy pool.
There’s also a wellness room with infrared saunas and compression boots.
The medic office is right next door, and Ben shows me to the desk beside his that will be mine for the duration of my time at the Fever.
He introduces me to Emma Winston, the club’s junior doctor who is in the desk on my other side and to Tim Masters, the club’s chief doctor who occupies the corner office.
Collectively we are known as the High Performance Program and I have to admit I like the sound of that.
The Program is headed by Tim who is reportedly an absolute gun in sports science and injury management.
There is a sense of energy and excitement here at the club and I like the vibe of this place already.
Ben and I spend the next hour going through Casey Calloway’s medical records and current treatment programs.
“The most recent MRI was four weeks ago,” Ben continues, pulling out the MRI scans alongside the x-rays we have been studying. “This one suggests the adductor strain has moved up to second degree.”
“Yeah, I’d agree with that,” I say, scanning the imaging. “There’s definitely signs of edema and haemorrhage at the site of the strain but at least there doesn’t appear to be any bony injury which is good news.”
“So? Thoughts on treatment options?” Ben poses, leaning back in his chair with an expectant air. Right. This is where I come in, the reason for this dramatic shift in hemispheres.
My answer is cut short by a burst of laughter which is followed by the swift and sudden arrival of its owner at our door and my attention is instantly waylaid.
So, here’s a funny thing. Yes, I had only been given all of a couple of days to prepare myself for this move from the comforts and familiarity of the English Premier League to the complete unknowns of Australian rules football.
And yes, I’d only given myself the brief introductory course to Aussie rules on the layover in Singapore.
But no, not once had I thought to enquire into the actual players I would be treating, and more specifically, this specific player, the one who I will be spending all my foreseeable days and nights obsessing over.
No, not this specific player—the one who is standing in front of me with an expectant air and a megawatt smile if ever I’ve seen one.
The one with an energy that hits everyone in the room smack bang in the face.
And in my specific case, maybe a little bit further down south.
The player who has apparently been downloaded straight from Harrison Thornfield’s fantasy playbook.
Oh no, I was not expecting that.
But I am nothing if not a professional and I quickly shove that bone crunching attraction to the Fever’s number one star player aside and rise to my feet.
“Casey?” I say, ignoring my suddenly sweaty palms and racing heart as I take his outstretched hand. “I’m Harrison.” At least that is something I can remember easily enough. Anything beyond my name will admittedly be a challenge right now.
“Harrison,” he grins, holding on a little tighter and not letting me go. “You’re the one who’s here to make me good as new?”
He’s looking at me with such faith and hope and sincerity that I feel my entire soul melting into a puddle of liquid.
“That is certainly the plan,” I manage, proud of myself for not falling at his feet. I’m rewarded with his beaming smile, and I inwardly curse.
Nope, I am a professional first and foremost. This , I can deal with.
I’ve been working in the sports therapy field for years in some way, shape or form and have so far managed to reach my twenty-three years of age without ever once swooning or fawning over the pretty boys in the locker room.
I’ve always managed to separate this part of my life from my private life, and I am not going to stop now.
Even if Casey Calloway has a face that could launch a thousand ships.
Even if he has perfected that effortless windswept look with that dirty blonde hair of his, the kind that looks like he’s just raked his hands through but which he probably spent ten minutes in front of the mirror to make it sit just so.
Even if he does have those sparkling blue-green eyes that a lesser mortal might easily get swept away in.
Even if he does have that perfectly tan skin that suggests a summer spent on the beach.
Even if I can’t help wondering if he wore boardshorts or those tight little swim shorts I happen be quite partial to.
I bet he’d look amazing in a pair of those what with that body currently hiding underneath those gym shorts and black tank top.
And this is where my fantasy needs to end. Like, right now. Time to calm down and cool off. Cease and desist. Wave the white flag.
Nothing good can come of an infatuation with the team’s best player. Nothing good can come of a one-way attraction that will do nothing for my sanity or general health or just basic ability to get on with life.
Huh. Looks like they didn’t call this team the Fever for nothing.