Page 8 of Fever Dream
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.
CHAPTER 4
casey
I’m not a hundred percent sure why I texted Harrison last night to invite him to go explore the city with me. I mean sure, I’d kind of been sitting around all by myself, not much to do but dwell on the dull ache in my adductor muscle and think about whether my new physiotherapist might be doing the same thing.
I’ve never been all that great at keeping my own company. Way too much activity going on up in the brain compartment for that to be much fun. This move to Sydney is, in fact, my first foray into solo living. I lived with a couple of other rookie teammates back in Melbourne before moving up here to Sydney and before that it was me and the fam.
Sonny offered me his couch, but he lives in a two-bedroom townhouse with Izak Devereux, our team’s ‘super exciting’small forward, and I wasn’t about to impose myself on my friend in that way.
I did, however, spend a week on Sonny’s couch while waiting for the settlement on this house to go through. For the record, Sonny’s couch isnotcomfortable.
But it’s really kind of nice, owning real estate. Compared with many other international sports, AFL players don’t earn an obscene amount of money. We will never make the super-rich list playing this sport, but we still earn around the average CEO mark and I was kind of excited about stepping into the real estate market for the first time.
I love this house. Truly I do. It’s in a nice neighbourhood, green and leafy and not too far from the Fever’s home ground. And I mean, sure, it doesn’t have harbour views or anything like that, but I’ve quickly learned you need more than a few spare million bucks lying around to be able to afford that kind of lifestyle in this city.
Still, my townhouse is nice enough with a big kitchen on the lower floor and a wide balcony up top with views of the city. The pool downstairs is very nice too and the solar heating should ensure it will still be usable during the upcoming winter months. But I come from Melbourne where winter is very much a real thing, so this pretend winter Sydney does is going to be a breeze.
But it is a big old space for me to be all on my lonesome—me all by myself—me, myself and I—and sometimes I feel those walls closing in on me. Like last night when I caved and texted Harrison. I only met him five days ago, but it just feels like we really clicked in some way.
Truthfully, I have loads of friends, have never had any trouble making friends with anyone who comes my way. But not a lot of them really make it past surface level acquaintance. I could count Sonny Ingram on that list and a couple of guys I still keep in contact with from school but there aren’t too many others.
Harrison Thornfield is on that list. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, and I don’t know when, but that pretty Brit with his posh accent and magic hands have made it past all my defences and I find that I really like him. Want to hang out with him, learnwhat makes him tick. Must be that sophisticated British charm he exudes.
Anyway, I find myself rather looking forward to our day off together as I cruise my black Range Rover to a stop out the front of Harrison’s apartment. I wasn’t even lying when I told him I haven’t spent much time exploring my new city. I moved up here right after New Year’s when pre-season was already in full swing and it has beenwork-work-workever since.
A day off in the company of my international physiotherapist sounds like just the ticket.
I pull out my phone to text Harrison but pull up short when I see him bouncing towards me, brown curls loose and free without his usual headband restricting them that he favours at work. He looks casually sophisticated in his blue navy shorts, white polo and white leather Hilfiger shoes. Very sophisticated indeed.
I glance down at my own far more casual surf tee and black boardshorts, aviators hiding my eyes, but decide I will have to just do as I am. I’ve never been the type to apologise for being myself and I am not about to start now. But damn, he does look nice.
Harrison opens the car door and slides into the leather seat, sending me a smile that is pure dimples.
“What, no Union Jack beret?” I say, feigning disappointment.
“Must have forgotten to pack it in the suitcase,” he returns with a shrug.
“Please don’t tell me the Coronation mug missed the trip too,” I return, clutching at my heart.
“Oh no, the Coronation mug made it,” he assures me, grin on his face. It really is such a pretty face with those chestnut brown eyes and full pouty lips. I don’t really notice guys in that way usually but something about Harrison always seems to stand outfrom the crowd. Pity we’re not gay because I reckon he and I would do alright together.
I almost chuckle out loud at that idea. Welcome to Casey Calloway’s overactive brain. Some might wonder where that thought came from but that’s a pretty average snapshot into my head. I just shove it to the background to bounce around between all those overactive synapses that make up my brain and focus on the man beside me. The pretty man beside me, but still, definitely a man. A man with a broad but decidedly flat chest, an equally flat stomach and a bulge right where it should be behind those navy-blue shorts.
So what if I notice? I notice things all the time—like the chick walking past the car at this very moment in her tight fluoro yellow tank, no visible bra this side of the Harbour, thank you very much. Yeah, I notice stuff like that all the time. Doesn’t matter if I notice stuff like that about Harrison too. It doesn’t mean anything.
“So, what’s the plan for today?” Harrison asks, pulling my brain back to the present.
I glance over at him, looking him up and down. “I was thinking about showing you some of the beaches, but you look far too pretty for a walk on the sand.”
