Page 2 of Fever Dream
“Long,” I answer, and he chuffs out a laugh.
“Distance is second nature to the average Australian,” he replies, still with that beaming smile. I have a feeling I’m going to like working with this guy. He looks a little older than me, maybe thirty-five or so to my relatively fresh twenty-three and I am admittedly eager to learn from his experience and maybe exchange techniques with him too.
“Much like queuing to the average Brit, then?” I quip.
“Now you’ve got it,” Ben returns. “So listen, how about we get you over to your apartment and give you a chance to settle in.We’re two weeks out from season start so we’re going to have to hit the ground running tomorrow. That sound okay?”
“Sure, sounds great,” I reply, shrugging off that wave of tiredness again. The Fever has really made this whole international move so easy for me, organising my work visa and an apartment not too far from the club’s home ground and training facilities. I’d really only been left with the task of packing up my flat in London and boarding the plane.
The car ride from the airport feels like a blur of sunlit streets, palm trees, and road signs with unfamiliar suburbs. Ben finally pulls up outside an apartment building, rising ten stories into the blue sky. It doesn’t feel like home here—the bricks are too light, the windows too open, and the balconies are draped with unfamiliar plants.
Ben pops the boot and hauls out my suitcase and I am too exhausted to protest at the princess treatment. Besides, the man sure has a nice set of biceps and I don’t mind helping myself to a little cheeky peek as he leads me into the foyer and calls the elevator.
“I hope this place is okay,” Ben says as we step into the elevator. “It’s the best we could find on short notice.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I reply, staving off another yawn.
And yep, as soon as Ben fumbles with the key into my apartment on the seventh floor, he pushes open the door to a space that smells like fresh paint and new beginnings. I already love it.
“This is it,” he says, stepping inside and leaving the keys on the kitchen island.
“It’s great,” I reply, taking in the open living area that is already bigger than my entire flat back home in London. Sunlight floods through the big open windows, stretching long golden beams across the wooden floors. The ceilings are high, the space almost too open—none of the cozy, cramped cornersof a London flat. But as I step onto the balcony, the city unfurls before me—and I know I’m going to love it here.
***
Ben picks me up from the front of my apartment early the next morning. By this point I’ve been awake since three a.m., staring up at the ceiling fan and praying for more sleep. I’m pretty sure I’m operating purely on adrenaline.
It is also about now I am rethinking my abstinence of anything caffeine related but I’m hopeful the energy boosters I added to my green smoothie will kick in soon.
Everything is different here—even the light shining through my windows this morning is different, brighter somehow. The birds are louder, the sky is bluer and even the smell is different. It’s a strange blend of salty sea air, eucalyptus, warm concrete and a dash of humidity.
I ended up calling Henrietta to fill in the pre-dawn gaps because otherwise she’ll start bugging me at all hours of the day. Or night. My sisterdoesn’tbelieve in time zoneswhich I take to mean that I must be available at whatever time and place she deigns to call me.
Of course, she spends the entire call lamenting aboutCharlesand hisbroken heartand how he’s positivelymiserablewithout me. I take it because Heni is my big sister and I’ve been trained well by her, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of caring. Or responding.
Ben drives us straight to the Fever’s training facilities which are just around the corner from my apartment. Ben parks his car in the underground carpark, and we take the lift to the club rooms. I can feel the newness of the training centre, almost smell the fresh coat of paint and the notable absence of the wear and tear I associate with most sports facilities.
There is a large, welcoming reception desk with the Fever’s big navy blue and silver logo, the space currently unmanned at this ungodly hour. There is a notable lack of trophies and other memorabilia, not surprising given the club is just entering its fourth season.
Ben points out all the various administrative rooms as he leads me into the engine room, using his security pass to lead the way. He shows me the high-tech gym with its racks, turf zones, bikes and sleds right alongside the rehab and prehab zones. We pass the locker room on the way to the theatre room, the leadership hub, strategy room and the chillout zone with its big cosy couches, play station, nutrition station and espresso machine. All very warm and inviting and fresh.
Our last stop is at the office of the Head Coach. Mick Brabham is apparently a legend of the game—if the black and white photos lining the back wall of his office, showing a much younger version of the man in his AFL playing days, are anything to go by. Mick wears the years on his face, softened with age, but those strands of grey hair lend a certain gravitas. He’s no less intimidating as he rises to his full impressive height and thrusts out a hand.
“Thornfield,” he smiles as he shakes my hand, setting me instantly at ease. “Mick Brabham.”
“Nice to meet you, Mick,” I return, taking one of the seats he gestures to opposite his desk. Ben is still at my side, and I find comfort in that while sitting here in the presence of this impressive man.
“Thank you so much for coming out all this way,” Mick continues easily. “There was a lot of last-minute, increasingly frantic midnight phone calls to get this deal across the line with Tottenham. I know you were given hardly any notice at all, so we really appreciate your efforts.”
“That’s quite alright. It was not really an offer I could refuse,” I answer honestly.
“We were hoping to have you out here months ago, but nothing ever goes to plan of course,” Mick says, leaning back in his chair. “That being said, we’re now only two weeks from the start of the season so it’s going to be a rush to get our new star midfielder up to scratch.”
“Yes, I have been made aware,” I offer. “Casey Calloway, right?”
“Yes. Casey Calloway,” Mick nods, steepling his fingers. “This will be only Casey’s third season in the league. I don’t say this lightly when I tell you that signing Casey to the Fever was the biggest off field win in our club’s short history. He’s only two seasons into his career but he’s the kind of player clubs are built around. We see him as a once in a generation type of player which is why we’ll do anything to get him up to scratch.”
“I understand,” I nod, taking everything in.
