CHAPTER 15
harrison
I t takes me a while to realise that Casey’s not his usual, talkative self when I have him laid out on the treatment bed on Friday afternoon.
And I think that’s because my head is not the most reliable place to be after that very late night out on the town with Xavi and some of the England team.
At least they get to sleep it off in the luxury of their first-class flight back home to England.
Unlike us peasants where it’s straight back to work.
Casey hasn’t said a whole lot but it’s his lack of overly sexual moans and whimpers that make me realise something’s missing.
“You okay?” I ask, poking his thigh.
He glances up at me, surprise on his face. “Yeah, course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’re unusually quiet this afternoon,” I prod.
“Oh,” he says, eyes shuttering slightly. “Probably just tired after last night.”
“Did you enjoy it?” I ask tentatively, not sure why.
“Course. Game was amazing,” he says. But he’s missing his usual spark, the usual warmth I get from him. I mull on this for a while, mind thinking back to last night and the way Casey had gotten all weird about me wearing Xavier’s name on my jersey. Which was kind of amusing really.
I was serious that the only reason I was wearing Xavi’s jersey was because he had given it to me.
In stark contrast to my Beckham jersey which I wore for completely different reasons.
That jersey is safely stowed away at my parent’s house back home—my literal favourite possession growing up.
But I wore my Beckham jersey for very different reasons from why I wore Xavi’s last night.
I’m not ashamed to admit I spent all my teenage nights dreaming of David Beckham.
Even though he was all but retired by the time I realised why I fancied him so much.
I’m less proud of the fact Beck’s face seems to have morphed into Casey Calloway’s in my more recent dreams—but nobody else needs to know that.
“Did you …” Casey probes and my eyes whip to his face where he’s chewing on his bottom lip. “Did you stay out late last night?”
“Why? Does it show?” I try for the laugh but he doesn’t join me.
“Were you with Xavier?” he asks. I pause where I’m working on his thigh. Was it my imagination that Casey had an issue with him last night?
“Yeah,” I tell him. “The team flew out this morning so some of the guys wanted to see a bit of Sydney. We went to a bar near the stadium.”
“Oh,” Casey replies. “Sounds fun.” Yeah except for the fact Casey sounds like I went to a funeral.
“Did you not like him? Xavier?”
Casey’s eyes ping back to me. “Sure. He was … fine,” he says. His lack of enthusiasm is pronounced. “I mean, well, he’s a bit full of himself, yeah? And could the guy be more all over you? It was ridiculous how he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
I nearly choke on the laugh that wants to break free but for some reason I rein it back in. I could call out Casey’s blaring hypocrisy on both those statements but … wait a sec—
“Case? Are you jealous?” I ask.
“What?” he splutters. “No. Course I’m not jealous . Why would I … what makes you … no, just no. I’m not … jealous .”
“Okay,” I placate, hauling back the smile that wants to literally burst free. He is bloody jealous, and the realisation has my heart soaring. At the same time, it’s clearly affecting him, and I just can’t live in a world where I am responsible for Casey feeling badly.
So I shrug off my internal joy and say, “Xavier’s a great guy, Case. You’d probably really like him if you got to know him. He’s a lot like you in some ways, really dedicated and motivated.”
I can tell he doesn’t like my comparison by the soft huff that comes out of his mouth. So I add, “And he’s a really good friend of mine too, Case. But he’s never been my best friend . ”
I leave the words dangling, waiting until his eyes hit mine. “No?” he poses, the nonchalance so fake he could star on a daytime soap.
“No,” I say. I leave it at that but the tension between us seems to evaporate, if evidenced only by the soft sighs that leave his mouth at the touch of my hands. Sure, it’s not the sex-laden moans I’m used to, but I’ll take it.
I finish working on him and tap his knee. “You’re good, Callie,” I tell him. He hauls himself off the treatment bed but the way he hovers is cute and obvious as he moves at snail’s pace to collect his things.
“Hey, Case?” I say as he heads for the door. “Want to hang out tonight?”
He pauses, back to me, fingers drumming on the doorjamb. “Oh, I mean, only if you want …”
“Let me rephase then. I’m coming round for dinner tonight, okay?”
His head moves slightly in my direction, but he doesn’t otherwise move. “And a swim?”
I smile. “Yeah, a swim sounds good.”
“I’ll get us that Thai green curry you like.”
“I’d love that.”
“Okay,” he says, the smile I’ve been missing today back on that gorgeous face. “Are you ready to leave now?”
“I have a medico meeting first. I’ll meet you at your place.”
“Okay,” he smiles again but it’s all cute and shy and my heart just melts into a puddle. He leaves and I let out a breath as I shake my head.
High maintenance, that’s what Casey Calloway is. And why that delights instead of disturbs me is something I’ll leave to ponder for another day.
I make my way to our team medico meeting in the boardroom for our weekly session run by Tim Masters where we discuss the Fever’s injury list and treatment programs. I’m honestly invested in this team but I’m admittedly only half listening, most of my mind set on getting out of here and joining Casey for the evening.
And I mean, sure, that means Casey swanning about in his little swim trunks and that perfect body on display, something I should be actively avoiding, if only for my sanity. But I am a red-blooded gay male after all and I’m only human.
Tim is detailing the injury treatment for Rowe’s calf strain that he suffered in Saturday’s win, and I try to listen.
But Casey is still my number one client at the Fever, so I don’t have a lot of involvement in the treatment of other players at this stage so a lot of this is not all that relevant to my day to day.
The meeting goes overtime, and I am bouncing my legs by the time I make my way back to my desk to collect my gear.
Ben is waiting to give me a lift so I quickly grab my things and turn to leave when I notice the navy and silver Fever jersey folded neatly on my desk.
Frowning, I pick it up, unfolding it to reveal a big number 17 underneath the prominent name of Calloway.
I can’t stop the soft smile from spreading across my cheeks.
I touch the letters of his name and then bring the jersey to my nose and sniff.
It smells fresh and I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment that it’s not one he’s worn.
Because, yeah, I’m weird and want to take home something that smells like Casey’s sweat.
I’d probably wear it to bed too which is something I think is best we all avoid.
“You ready to go, Thornfield?” Ben asks, hovering in the doorway.
I stuff the jersey into my bag and follow Ben out to the carpark, hoping he didn’t see me standing there like the lust struck fool I fear I have become.
***
I wake up in Casey’s guest bedroom once again.
I don’t know why I’m surprised by my complete lack of ability to say no to the guy who is currently curled up asleep on my pillow beside me.
I am positive we parted ways at some point last night, but as per usual, Casey ends up in my bed at some point in the night.
He's still asleep, warm breaths tickling my neck, dirty blonde hair mussed against the pillow. He’s so achingly beautiful that it hurts my soul as I give myself a moment to indulge in just looking at him while there’s no one here to judge.
He has a dusting of light freckles on his nose, so faint you wouldn’t notice unless you were this close.
I want to trace each one of them with my fingers and then follow behind with my tongue.
He wears loose boxers to bed but I can still see the outline of his cock and it kills me that I can only look and not touch. And the rest of his body? If perfect was an image it would feature the man lying achingly close to my overheated body.
We’re due to fly out to Adelaide for our next game this morning.
I should be waking him up to get ready because I still need to go home to pack.
Casey promised he’d drive me home first thing while pleading with me to stay the night last night.
It had been far too easy a capitulation on my behalf.
I have exactly zero willpower when it comes to Casey Calloway.
He sucks in a deep breath and then burrows his head in closer, mouth teasingly close to my skin. He does this whenever he wakes up, takes a moment to snuggle in close before he opens his eyes. His legs tangle with mine for a bit, his arm crosses my stomach, and I burn.
I only have myself to blame for this predicament.
Sure, I could leave. I could learn to say no to him and just deal with the puppy dog eyes and sad face.
But I don’t want to. I love waking up to the feel of him beside me.
There’s no better way to start a morning than this, with him.
Even though he leaves me so painfully, achingly unsatisfied to the point that chafing is becoming a real-life issue I still wouldn’t change it.
Those blue-green eyes suddenly open and I’m hit with that million-dollar smile that makes all the chafing in the world worth it.
“Morning,” he mumbles. He slides onto his back, hand snaking into his boxers to palm himself like he always does in the morning.
I don’t know if he jacks himself off in the shower like I’m forced to do but I love how completely free of shame he is.
I do my best to ignore where his hand is situated, not even pretending I didn’t wish it was my hand there instead.
“Morning,” I reply, eyes tracing over each set of his abs as he stretches, lifting his free hand above his head.
“Should probably get up, hey?”
“Yeah,” I say back, not in any hurry to move from my cosy position beside him. He pulls his hand out of his boxers, his morning erection capturing all my attention as he yawns and scratches his abs. Gosh, he kills me.
“Probably don’t have time for morning Pilates, huh?”
“No. Best give that a miss today.”
That seems to make him happy as he grins a slightly smug grin and lifts himself off the bed. I do my best not to ogle but as we’ve already established, I am a gay man and he is nothing short of the finest eye candy this side of the equator.
“Gonna jump in the shower,” he announces, bringing that delightful image to the top of my mind. “What time’s our flight?”
“Ten,” I reply with an arched brow.
“Better hurry then,” he grins before turning and leaving me to melt into a puddle of lava in his lovely guest room.
Casey’s guest ensuite is a beautiful, inviting space with an enormous rain shower head that makes me want to pack up and move in here.
There are already signs I have moved in—the toothbrush in the cup holder on the vanity, the shampoo, conditioner and shower gel that Casey bought for me to match what he must have seen in my apartment.
He even stocked the vanity with an electric shaver and the moisturiser and cologne I use.
And maybe I’ve started leaving clothes around too, just little things like boxer shorts and t-shirts and swimmers, things that make staying over easier.
I pause when I’m back in the bedroom, hand brushing over Casey’s jersey in my backpack.
I know I’ll have to change into my Fever polo before we head to the airport, but I know this will put a smile on his face.
Before I can change my mind, I haul it over my head and try not to preen at the feeling of wearing his name on me. Like a brand.
I meet Casey in the stairwell as he hauls his duffel bag onto his shoulder. He does a cute doubletake when he sees what I’m wearing.
“Why does that look better on you than it does on me?” he asks, finger tracing his name on the back of my jersey. I try to hide the way his touch makes me shiver.
“I seriously doubt that, Casey,” I force out, his touch lingering. “Have you seen your biceps?”
That makes him laugh as he drops his hand from my shoulder, and we continue down the stairs.
But when I look back at him, he’s staring at my jersey and the look in his eyes thrills me in ways I never expected.
Because my dearest, apparently straight-leaning best friend is looking at me in a way I can only describe as somewhat dark and possessive.
And it’s sending my pulse, and my imagination, spinning out of control.