Page 33 of Fever Dream
“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.
CHAPTER 14
casey
Oh my gosh, you are so cute,” I gush as Harrison slides into the front seat of my car, kit out in an England team jersey. His long legs are clad in black jeans which he folds into the footwell of my Range Rover.
“Cute?” he huffs.
“Mmm, maybe we can find one of those kids’ face painters,” I suggest. “Get some red and white stripes painted on your cheeks.” I press my finger into his dimple. He bats my hand away. He’s nothing if not reliable is my Harrison. He leans down to move my gear out of his way which is when I spy the name emblazoned on the back of his jersey.
“Howard?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. “Why are you wearing Howard’s jersey?”
“Oh um,” Harrison replies, sitting up straighter in his seat. “That’s um, Xavier’s name. He’s the guy who got us the tickets.”
