CHAPTER 3
harrison
T urns out Mick Brabham was right on the money about Casey Calloway’s dedication to his career.
The guy is a dream come true for a team sport like football.
For starters, he doesn’t buy into the hype surrounding himself which I have to give him credit for because there is a lot of hype.
I hadn’t realised how big of a name Casey is in the AFL world, but he is right up there at the top of the tree.
The other thing he brings to the table is a passion for the sport and a commitment to be the best player he can be day in day out. I could not have asked for a better client to earn my transition into the world of Australian football.
Growing my immunity to said client’s charms is still a work in progress, mostly because my initial attempts at exposure therapy are proving futile. Because Casey is fun. He’s cheeky and cute and he pushes back just as hard as I give. Honestly, spending time with him is just a joy.
But it is not exactly conducive to getting him out of my head where he spends a considerable amount of time. And I can’t entirely blame it on injury management or treatment related thoughts either.
No. I certainly cannot blame it on that.
I’ve just sent Casey off to the ice baths after an especially physical Pilates session when the head trainer approaches.
“Thornfield,” Dean calls as I make my way towards my office. “I’ve just been called into a meeting with Coach. Can you take another session with Calloway?”
“Sure,” I return with a smile. “That would be good actually.”
“Haven’t inflicted enough pain on the guy for one day?” Dean says with his own grin.
“No but it’s only ten o’clock,” I reply with a shrug.
Dean laughs me off while I stop and consider my next move.
I hadn’t planned on this extra session with Casey, and I worked him pretty hard this morning.
He’s also in the ice baths already. I had been planning on moving him into the pool tomorrow so maybe it will be a good time to start there now.
Of course that means I must head into the pool area, a place I have been actively avoiding for the past few days. For reasons I am not about to dwell on too closely.
“Come to check up on me?” Casey drawls, his arms spread over the sides of the ice bath in a casual pose that belies the truth of the situation. His skin is a dark shade of pink under the freezing water, and I have to actively stop myself from looking any lower.
“I’m afraid I come bearing bad news,” I return. “Looks like you have another session with me.”
“Your definition of bad news needs a serious reality check,” Casey returns, that cheeky smile back on his face. “I would never call a morning spent with my favourite physiotherapist bad news .”
I try to pretend like I am not affected by those words but acting has never been my strong suit. “You know, I’ve read a lot of fluff about this amazing Casey Calloway but not one person mentioned how much of a sweetheart you are underneath all that masculine bravado.”
“Masculine bravado?” Casey returns, illustrating my point to perfection as he rises out of the bath, water cascading down his sculpted tan chest, rippling over all those immaculate ridges and grooves and clinging to those tiny black Speedos he is wearing.
For the love of humanity. That body .
“Just a cute and cuddly teddy underneath all that,” I continue, hoping he doesn’t notice the hitch in my voice. As for my eyes, well they couldn’t have looked away even if I’d had a million pounds waiting for me because that view is worth a million more.
You’re a professional, Thornfield. Get it together.
“Yes, well, we all know ice baths cause masculine bravado shrinkage of up to fifty percent …” Casey returns casually. I snap my eyes up to his face.
“So it’s only up from here then,” I reply, grasping onto humour as my best out. Casey's burst of laughter makes it all worthwhile.
I also know that I am going to have to work on building up that immunity to my client in a big way so better we plunge right into the deep end now than flail about in the shallows.
But honestly, could his body be any more distracting?
Australian rules is very much a full-body sport.
AFL players have to run, kick, handball, mark and tackle and Casey is a perfect example of those various muscle sets.
Proportional all over with powerful calf muscles, quadriceps and glutes, equally matched by his pectorals and biceps.
From an entirely scientific point of view, he is a damn fine specimen. From a not-so-pure point of view, he is a damn big distraction.
I suck in a deep breath, turn away and try my hardest not to look back as Casey follows me out to the pool wearing nothing but a smug grin and those teeny, tiny Speedos, where shrinkage is the least of his problems.
***
I arrive home later that evening after having survived two bonus hours in the company of Casey Calloway and his black Speedos, an image I am having trouble banishing from my mind.
Maybe it would be best for all concerned if I just head out now and try to find a club or something.
It’s been a while since I’ve had any, ahem, company and I’m feeling like that might be something that could help take my mind off my star client.
I have my first day off since landing in Sydney tomorrow so it wouldn’t matter if I’m out late tonight.
It's just, the thought of actually going out and trying to meet someone for a quick hookup is really not motivating.
At all. Not when I can just close my eyes and picture Casey with that dirty blonde hair and his blue-green eyes and all those defined stomach muscles and that little golden trail of happiness leading …
Okay, nope. Not helpful. At all.
I end up doing what all rationally minded, professional sports medics would do and make myself a super healthy dinner for one consisting of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.
Then I park myself on the grey sofa in my lounge room, flick on Netflix and spend the next hour scrolling through my phone for articles on Casey Calloway. Healthy, right?
I am just zooming in on a photo of Casey holding hands with an admittedly beautiful, somewhat busty brunette, noting it had been taken over a year ago when my phone pings with a message.
I jump and nearly drop my phone like I have been caught doing something naughty.
I mean, I may have had my hand down my pants while scrolling through said photos, but nobody else knows that.
I scoff at myself and open the message.
Unknown number:
Evening, Captain Pain and Torture. It’s your favourite football star here. What are your thoughts on Sydney’s famous landmarks?
I instantly stall as I read his message, quite literally the last person I expected to hear from. I push down on my aching appendage, perversely aware it is aching because of him, and save his details into my phone. I text back.
Me:
Firstly, that’s Sir Pain and Torture to you. Secondly, how did you get my number?
Casey:
When you’re the team’s number one star player you can pretty much ask for anything ;) Also you didn’t answer my question.
Me:
Number one star player, hey? Never took you for such a diva. Is that all it takes? Batting your pretty eyelashes for you to get someone’s private, personal details?
Me:
Also I have no current thoughts on Sydney’s famous landmarks, but I hope to remedy that soon.
Casey:
Pretty, huh? And yeah, the eyelashes do usually work for me. You should know ;)
Casey:
Also, want to remedy that with me?
Hang on, what? Firstly, is Casey actually aware he is flirting with me? And secondly, did he just ask what I think he asked? I wait until my heartrate slows to a manageable pace before I send back a response.
Me:
Sorry I don’t speak in insinuations. Spell it out for a guy, Calloway.
Casey:
You’re new to the city. I’m new to the city. Let’s go explore our new city. Together. Without the pain and torture. Is that clear enough for you, soccer boy?
Me:
How is it possible that this country is a British colony? As for your exploring suggestion, why yes that does sound rather nice.
Casey:
Former British colony. Get with the program, sir. I bet a raving imperialist like you has quite the royal souvenir collection, am I right?
Casey:
How does 9 a.m. sound? I’ll pick you up.
Me:
My Coronation mug is not up for discussion, thank you.
Me:
9 a.m. sounds lovely. Do you need my address or did you pull another diva stunt for it already?
Casey:
Never accuse me of not being thorough. I know where you live. I’ll be there tomorrow. Pretty please wear your Union Jack beret for me?
Me:
Only if you wear a clip-on koala. I’ll even pin it on for you. Don’t want to risk those million dollar hands.
Casey:
You’re so on.
As I close my phone down for the evening, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I have gotten myself into. Or why I can hardly wait for the morning to come.