Page 20 of Fever Dream
“Oh right, yes, yeah. Sounds good,” he stammers. I narrow my eyes at him as his cheeks dot with pink but I let it drop. We’re both weird this morning clearly. He immediately turns and walks up the stairs and I follow behind him. He’s already in the shower by the time I find him a towel from the linen closet, but the bathroom door is locked behind him.
“Harry?”
“What?”
“I have a towel for you. Let me in.”
“Just leave it on the floor for me. I’ll get it in a minute.”
“Just unlock the door and I’ll give it to you,” I huff.
I think he might not have heard because it takes a moment before the lock clicks open and he pulls the door aside, just barely wide enough for me to pass the towel through to him. He looks flustered and that’s when I remember he didn’t like it when I barged in on him last time he stayed the night. I really do need to remember other people have boundaries.
“Thanks,” he says as he takes the towel and then promptly shuts the door as quickly as he opened it. I hear the lock turn again and I take that as my cue to go have my own shower down the hallway in my ensuite where I find myself all alone again.
***
Our morning Pilates/yoga/tai chi class really sets the tone for the rest of the week. We’re down to the eight day mark for the Fever’s season opener and to say I’m desperate to play is the understatement of the year.
But it’s Friday’s team list announcement that is the real deadline because that is when Mick Brabham will make the call on whether I’ll be playing. Currently there’s zero media speculation about my health but I know that if Mick makes the call to rest me it’s going to light up interest in the true extent of my injury.
Harrison is called into a meeting with Coach and some of the senior medicos early Saturday morning after our Pilates class and I know exactly what they’re discussing. Me.
Dean Hampton isn’t in yet so I decide to make use of the time with a swim because that is high on the list of Harrison Thornfield approved activities. I’m not as enthused about kicking the soccer ball around later today but I’ll do whatever Harrison tells me to do if it gets my name on that team list on Friday.
He's waiting for me at the end of the pool when I emerge from a lap. I pull myself out of the water, not even bothering with my towel when I pad over to him.
“So, what’s the verdict?” I ask, pushing my hair out of my eyes as the water pools around me.
“No verdict yet, Case,” Harrison tells me, glancing down at the notes in his hand. “We’re going to leave it to the very last second before we make the call.”
“But the call is going to be that I’m playing, right?” I press, turning on my mostcharmingsmile.
“Don’t you use that smile on me, Casey Calloway,” he returns straight back. “The decision will be made purely on your medical results. Not your charm and not you batting your eyelashes to get your way.”
I frown. That’s less positive news for me because if there’s one thing I can do best it’s talking my way into getting what I want.
“But you’ll put in your best word for me, right?” I ask anyway.
Harrison sighs, finally looking up from his notes as his gaze drops down my body before meeting my eyes. “I told you I’d be making this decision based on what is best for your long-term prospects, Casey,” he says. “If I had my way, we would have six more weeks before you’re let loose on the football field. I know that’s not possible,” he adds as I start to protest, “but I’m just letting you know where we’re at.”
I sigh heavily, the weight of his words souring my good mood. I live to play this game. It’s literally my life. All I’ve got.
“Hey,” he says, lifting my chin with his finger until my eyes collide with his chestnut browns. “We’re going to give it everything we’ve got to get you on that list on Friday, okay? None of this moping around. That’s not the Casey I’ve come to know this last week.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I agree, pulling my head back into gear. It’s a quick process. I’m not a moper. I’m all about next steps, taking action, making plans. “So, what’s the plan?”
Harrison just grins at me as he shakes his head. “There you are,” he smiles, dimple out in force. “Give me a few more laps now that you’re here in the pool anyway and then we’ll hit the practice field for some real football.”
“Realfootball?” I perk up.
“The football the rest of the world consider to be real,” he adds with a dramatic eyeroll, and I huff.
“Sometimes I think you forget which team I play for, Harry.”
“Don’t worry, Casey. I have not forgotten which team you play for,” he sighs with another shake of his head.
CHAPTER 9
