CHAPTER 13
harrison
“Hello?” I rasp, voice dry.
“Oh no, did I get the time wrong?”
I can’t place the voice even though something is tugging on the peripherals of my memory, but I sit a little higher as the sleep fog lifts. “Well, it’s five a.m. if that answers your question?”
“Oh shit, sorry, man,” he laughs until the brain waves click into place inside my head.
“Xavier?” I ask, sitting up straight.
“Who else?”
“How are you?” I ask, scratching at my chest and wondering why Tottenham’s number one midfielder is calling me. At five a.m. in the morning no less.
“I’m great. Did you hear the news? Our game has been shifted to Sydney,” he says. “Apparently too much political turmoil in eastern Europe and now they need a neutral territory to play the game.”
Game? I really am slow this morning as my brain slowly sparks to life, like an old computer rebooting for the day.
“You mean England’s world cup qualifier against Belarus?”
“That’s the one,” Xavier confirms. “It was all set for Switzerland and then Belarus complained of some kind of bias and Sydney swooped in and landed the last-minute bid.”
“Wow. That’s … I don’t think that’s even made the news here,” I say, swiping open the local news to see that the story has, in fact, made headlines, just an hour ago. “Actually, it’s this morning’s headline.”
“There you go. And see, I have a whole heap of family and friends tickets that nobody can use because Australia is so bloody far away so I wanted to see if you want to come. Bring some of your new Aussie friends with you.”
“Really?” I say, instantly alert now. I scan the details on the news article, noting the game is set for a Thursday night in a fortnight which means it won’t clash with any football duties.
“Yep. Second row seats with after match entry to the player’s lounge.”
“Definitely interested,” I nod. As if I wouldn’t be.
“Cool. I’ll email the tickets to you. Just text me how many you want, and I’ll do the rest. You’ll just need ID to get into the player’s lounge.”
“Just a word of caution. The friends will be Australian football players who will insist on calling it soccer.”
Xavier barks out a laugh. “Well, let’s give them a proper intro to the truly beautiful game.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Me neither. Will be great to see you again, Thorny.”
“You too, Xavi.”
***
Casey is nothing but pure dedication for the rest of the week as we work towards the deadline of Thursday’s team list announcement. He is absolutely determined to have his name announced this week and I know that if I pull the pin again, his devastation will be immeasurable.
So I am just as determined as my star client, putting in extra hours, giving up another rest day, and leaving no stone unturned so that he can run out with the team on Saturday.
The club has been doing their best to block out the increased media attention and scrutiny behind Casey’s limited training time on the field.
That is all external stuff we can’t control.
What we can control we do. And that starts with our dawn Pilates sessions every morning even though Casey is far more reluctant about those classes this week. Ever since Andy slipped me his number in a way that was as subtle as a gravel track. And sure, Andy’s hot but I know I won’t be calling him.
I just don’t have time for outside distractions right now.
Not when the week is filled to the brim with Casey.
And the nights are spent at his house or mine.
And on the one night we say farewell at the club and part ways, he calls and we spend all night on the phone again.
Watching that naughty Netflix show together.
Of course, Casey doesn’t find anything weird about watching a show that is seventy percent sex while talking with me.
And even though nearly all the sex scenes are hetero, it doesn’t stop me from getting, ahem, caught up in the moment.
I’m pretty certain it’s less to do with what’s happening on set than what Casey’s voice down the line does to me.
But now it’s D-day once again and I sit in Mick Brabham’s office, Tim Masters on one side and Ben McLean on the other as we go through Casey’s latest scans, and I add in my own observations.
The team list will be announced at ten o’clock this morning.
At nine o’clock to the very second, Casey knocks on the door and steps inside.
His eyes find mine, a brief but worried smile in them before Mick commands his attention the way he is owed as Head Coach.
“Coach,” Casey nods before smiling at Ben and Tim.
“Callie. Take a seat,” Mick nods. He sits in the chair beside Ben, his posture easy to everyone else in the room.
Only I can see the slight tremble in his hand, the worry darting behind his pretty blue-green eyes.
He shifts slightly and I just want to put him out of his misery.
If I knew the outcome of this meeting I would have let him know beforehand, but this decision is barely five minutes old and I am anxious for him.
Coach clears his throat, looking down his nose at his star recruit. “You’re playing on Saturday, Callie,” he announces with zero fanfare.
Casey’s eyes light up like the dawn sun, smile spreading across his face which he tries to temper by biting on his bottom lip. His eyes dart to me again, grateful and happy with a thousand different emotions in that fleeting glance.
“Thank you,” he sighs, a big, relieved sigh.
“Thank you, Calloway,” Mick corrects. “You’re the one who put in all the work this week. You deserve your spot.”
“And Harrison,” Casey adds, quiet nod in my direction. “This is on him too.”
“Exactly,” Mick agrees, settling back in his seat. “Great work from both of you. Now, before we get too carried away, I’m sure you must be aware that if Thornfield had his way you’d be on the sidelines for the rest of the year.”
“Well, that’s not quite—” I go to say but Mick silences me with an amused look.
“And naming you to play does not mean you’re miraculously healed,” Mick adds, and I settle back down.
“Thornfield and McLean will work up a game day treatment plan for you. This will include a thorough assessment at half time and again at three-quarter time. I also know you can’t be trusted to give us the truth about your body so if either of the physios substitute you out, you accept their decision without question. I want that as a promise from you.”
“I promise,” Casey nods, recognising the sincerity of the moment.
“Good,” Coach nods. The tension in the room has dissipated, a happy feeling settling over the space. We all know how far-reaching the consequences of this little strategy meeting will be but none of us care about that right now.
“Does this mean I get to train with the team today?” Casey asks.
“You can join Langton’s Captain’s run for one hour this morning but then I want you working with the midfield coaches on skills. I know you haven’t kicked a football in the last three weeks.” His expression is wry as he glances my way.
“Perfect,” Casey grins, bouncing on his seat.
“And then you’re straight back on the treatment table or ice baths or whatever Thornfield has you doing. You clear?”
“Crystal,” Casey nods.
“Alright then, scat. All of you,” Coach says, turning back to his computer screen with a finality I can only admire.
Casey is the first out the door but he waits in the hallway for me, eyes bright and radiating happiness.
Ben and Tim depart in the opposition direction but Casey grips onto my wrist when I approach, pulling me along until we make it to the treatment room.
As soon as we’re inside he shuts the door and pulls me into a hug, the kind of full bodied one that should not short circuit my brain the way it does.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he squeals, squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe. I take it all though, sliding my hand into his hair.
“That was all you, Case,” I tell him.
“Nope, Harry. That was you.”
He doesn’t let me go and I just hold him back as all the emotions of the past few weeks and months seep out of him. Gee he gives good hugs, the kind that you could wrap yourself up in forever.
He pulls back just slightly, eyes gleaming with emotion as he smiles up at me, that inch or two of height in my favour making him tip his head in a way I like more than I should.
“Don’t you have a Captain’s run to get to?” I chide, not wanting to let him go but needing space from him at the same time.
“Right. Yes. I absolutely do,” he grins. He takes a step back, fully separating himself from me and I miss him already.
“Well then, off you go,” I add, smacking him on the ass the way footballers all seem to love, whatever the code. He bites down on his lip again, I internally curse, and he leaves me with an open door and a full heart.
***
Game day at the East Coast Fever’s home ground—the Fever Pitch—is a very different experience to what I had observed in Melbourne last week.
For a start, the stadium is far smaller with a capacity around the thirty-thousand mark as compared to a hundred thousand last week.
It feels more like a suburban home ground than a modern-day colosseum.
But there is an electric buzz around the stadium, and I can only assume that is all due to the fact Casey Calloway will be running out for the first time in Fever colours.
The game is a sellout, the first time ever in the Fever’s four-year history.
A third of those tickets were sold since Friday when Casey was named in the squad.
If he’s feeling the pressure he doesn’t show it as I work on him in the rooms before the game.
Despite the vastly different sporting code, this right here feels familiar—the buzz of the locker room, the strong scent of Deep Heat, the undertone of sweat.
Casey’s at ease, muscles relaxed and feeling good. He’s in the zone and focused in a way I haven’t seen of him before. I mean, Casey’s always focused on his goals. But this is different.