CHAPTER 13 #2
“Looking good, Callie,” I say as I tap his knee. He sends an amused smile my way at my use of his football nickname, but I feel like calling him Case or even Casey would stand out down here in the engine room.
Casey pulls himself up from the treatment bed, doing a few hamstring stretches as I watch.
I’m about to give him my usual peptalk about taking it easy and not putting too much pressure on his adductor, focusing on those other muscle groups we’ve been honing these past few weeks.
But I don’t. Casey knows this and I know he pays attention when I speak.
Instead, I lean closer and say, “You got this, Case.”
“I know,” he nods back, sharing the briefest of smiles with me before Mick Brabham calls the team to order.
I watch him go, knowing our time together wrapped up in our little bubble is over.
He’s part of the team again now, not just my little project.
But this was what it was all about. Getting him back out on the field.
Helping his new team to hopefully put a win on the board.
And if he does so happen to look extra fine in that navy and silver guernsey that shows off his sculpted biceps, and if his ass does look extra edible in those little navy shorts, well, that’s just the cherry on top.
Ben and I head up to the ground before the team to set up our sideline medic station, the club’s junior doc, Emma, at our side.
The buzz is even more electric up here as I scan the sea of navy and silver supporters in the stands, sprinkled with the occasional orange and black of the visiting team, the Yarra Thunder, and I feel excitement stir in my stomach.
The stadium’s signs are all lit up, Everybody’s got the Fever running across the electric boards in navy and silver swirls.
The Yarra Thunder are welcomed to the field with a smattering of cheers and a few boos but nothing like we experienced in Melbourne last week as the away team. It’s understandable a team this new hasn’t produced the passion of the teams with a century of history behind them.
And then a roar goes up as the Fever run out onto the pitch, pyrotechnics shooting white sparks on either side of the tunnel. Casey is right up the front beside James Langton as the Fever’s team song blares from the speakers.
The teams peel off for drills while Fever plays out over the loudspeaker and I feel myself smiling.
The game day crew deserve a lot of credit for making the most out of their home matches.
The social media crew have been extra busy this week too, teasing the fans with snippets of Izak Devereux’s amazing goal scoring ability, Sonny Ingram’s tackles and Casey’s beautiful ball carrying skills.
Even I’m excited and that is something I had not expected to feel about a game of Australian rules football.
The game gets underway at the Fever Pitch and it’s the home side who claim first blood with a clean disposal into the fifty-metre arc kicked by none other than Casey Calloway. Vadra converts the first goal from a slight angle and the Fever Pitch goes off.
***
I have Casey on the treatment table the moment we’re down in the rooms at the half time break. The soft whimpers he’s making when I massage his adductor are not making me feel better at my decision to let him play. He lets out a deep groan when I press on a certain point.
“That the spot?” I ask, focusing my attention there.
“Yes, like that, Harry,” he says while I try to ignore the sexual way he always responds to me.
“Tell me honestly, Casey, where’s your pain level at?”
“Honestly?” he says, fixing that blue-green gaze on me. “About a four-and-a-half.”
“Hmm,” I mull, feeling my first real test of conflict rise up. If Casey’s saying four-and-a-half it’s probably a seven for a normal person.
“Don’t frown like that,” he says, reaching up to smooth the frown line between my eyes. “It’s the first time it hasn’t been a solid eight during a game in over a year. I’m fucking ecstatic right now.”
“You might be, but I’m not. I can hear the way you’re reacting to my touch.”
Casey chuffs out a laugh. “That’s cos your hands are magic, H. I’d react like that even without the adductor strain.”
I remain silent, concentrating on working his muscles. The rest of his body is feeling great and I’m silently relieved that our work seems to be paying off. I’m less happy about where his adductor muscle is at though.
“Please don’t bench me,” Casey whispers, stabbing me in the heart like he always does.
I let out a breath, drawing on my professional willpower as much as humanly possible and try to ignore the way I feel about Casey to influence my decision.
“You promised Coach you’d take on board whatever decision Ben or I made about you playing,” I remind him.
“I know. I know,” he sighs, forearm covering his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to influence you. I know you’ll make the right call.”
I feel a presence in my periphery, and I look up to see Mick Brabham step into the treatment room, a look that may pass as concerned on his otherwise poker-face at the way he finds us.
“How are we looking?” he asks, question for me. Casey is all alertness in Mick’s presence, sending him a bright smile that I know is all an act.
“He can go on for the next quarter,” I say, ignoring the way Casey lets out a deep sigh of relief. “But I will need to reassess at three-quarter time.”
Mick just nods before he steps back out, a man of few words which I can only admire.
I ignore the bright smile Casey is sending my way, knowing I might not quite deserve the gratitude shining in his eyes.
Not when I know how sore he is going to be after this game.
My rational mind is telling me to bench him, pull him out now while the damage is minimal and more easily treated.
But that’s the thing about sport—rational thinking is rarely front of mind in the heat of the moment, when split second decisions can make or break a game.
I know this is more than a game to everyone in this room, the guy on my treatment bed most especially.
And I know how committed he’ll be tomorrow morning when we wake up and have to deal with the four steps backwards today’s game will be setting us.
But I know that if anyone can deal with the setback, it’s this resilient, magnificent, dedicated creature still whimpering in that far too sexual manner under the touch of my hands.
***
Casey plays out the entire game. If it wasn’t so close I would have benched him in the last ten minutes.
But he’s the best player out on the field by a country mile and the Fever are desperate for a win.
And so I leave him out, joining in the resounding cheers that reverberate around the stadium when the Fever pull away in the dying minutes to win by seven tiny points, the last goal slotted by none other than Casey Calloway to seal the victory.
The blinding smile he shoots me as he limps off the field makes it all worthwhile.
I think.