The Reluctant Wag

by Mary Costello

  ‘Perfect!’ she heard Kyle exclaim behind her, but she was only aware of the way her heart was drumming in her chest. And it came to her as she stood there, being jostled by a mob of footy nuts dressed in black and silver, that Cal McCoy was starting to have a very, very disturbing effect on her, and what was worse – she liked it.

  She spent the next two hours in the small suite of rooms under the stadium which had been the operations centre for the shoot. Kyle had wanted to talk to her about their next project – a two-minute ad of the players in the club gym with Merise moving among them as they trained.

  ‘What am I supposed to be doing there?’ she asked.

  ‘Who cares? We’re not shooting War and Peace, Merise. No one’s going to be questioning your motivation. You’re the face of the fan base and you’re getting access to training. It’ll be a blast – a glimpse of the inner sanctum with all those hunks working their abs or whatever, and you moving from one piece of equipment to the next, drooling.’

  Merise lowered her head into her hands – more drooling. She’d look like such a fool.

  ‘Can’t I just, I don’t know . . . look at the honour board or something?’

  ‘No, babe – it’s all about the sexual tension; gotta generate it in spades and that’s where you come in.’

  He finally released her and as she walked through the dim, empty underground car park towards the exit she heard heavy footsteps behind her. A little spooked, she spun around and saw Cal McCoy.

  ‘You’re still here?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes. No – just leaving,’ she said, relieved, but at the same time feeling awkward.

  ‘I thought you’d have escaped at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘No. It was fun, and I had a briefing session with Kyle Carruthers.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Cecil B. DeMille. Did you enjoy the game?’

  ‘I loved it.’ Her enthusiasm was real. ‘Wasn’t nearly as boring as I thought it would be.’

  ‘Really?’ He was watching her closely. She felt a generous impulse.

  ‘You weren’t bad either.’

  He smiled and somehow looked younger. ‘Thanks, glad you approved.’

  ‘I think everyone there approved, apart from some of the Brumbies fans, who actually said some very unkind things.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll bet – no need to elaborate.’

  Three or four other players had now emerged from the stadium and called goodnight to Cal as they walked to their cars, casting one or two curious glances at Merise.

  ‘How come you’re all leaving so late? Is it to avoid the fans?’

  ‘No, not so much that. We have to go through our cool-down exercises, sit with our legs in an ice bath, get some physio if we need it. It all takes a couple of hours.’

  ‘Well, you must be exhausted. I’ll let you get home,’ she said, turning to go.

  ‘Actually, no, I’m so pumped with adrenaline I could run a marathon. I can never sleep after a game.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I usually go for dinner, to a little Spanish restaurant I know in Fitzroy. It’s quiet – a bit off the beaten track. No photographers and hardly ever any barrackers. Want to join me?’

  The invitation was so casual, so unexpected that she simply said, ‘Yes.’ A second later she half regretted it, but at the same time she realised that she wanted to be with him. They should at least get to know one another, she reasoned. They should be able to work together as professionals without always crossing swords, and without her always feeling that her heart was about to explode.

  ‘Great,’ he said with one of his rare, devastating smiles, and trying to control the flutter in her stomach, she followed him to his car.

  Chapter 5

  La Cocina del Diablo was small, dark and intimate. The maitre d’ came straight up to Cal with a wide smile. ‘Bienvenido amigo! Another victory – well done. I heard on the radio you had twenty-nine possessions, so I know you’re hungry. Your table is ready.’ He led them to a table in a private alcove near the rear of the room.

  The small space glowed by the light of a brace of candles. As Cal studied the menu, Merise peeped over the top of hers to watch his face. He was studying the list as if his life depended on it. He seemed to do everything with such intensity and concentration. She liked that about him, and she liked his lips. She couldn’t help noticing them. They were so well defined, so beautifully shaped – like the rest of him.

  Just then she realised what she was doing – staring at this man – a mere recent acquaintance, as if she were in thrall to him. What was going on? She’d better get a grip on herself. Now where was she?

  As she examined the menu he suddenly reached out and touched her ear. Involuntarily she whipped back with a sharp intake of breath. He paused for a second, looking hard at her. ‘It’s only your earring – it was coming out.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Great. Th . . . thanks.’ Her voice betrayed her – it sounded so husky. Trying hard to regain her composure, she fiddled with her cutlery.

  She felt the hot blush of red rising in her cheeks. He had to have noticed it, but he just asked in a matter-of-fact way, ‘So, are you enjoying your modelling work?’.

  She pulled a face. ‘Well, I suppose . . . it’s not too bad. But it’s really not something I want to have in my life for too long. It’s serving a purpose at the moment, but as soon as I make enough money to cover my uni fees and my living expenses, I’ll drop it.’

  ‘But what about the female face of Yarraside? If you desert us, we could just plunge to the bottom of the ladder,’ he said with mock alarm.

  She smiled easily. ‘Then you’ll just have to kick a few more goals to ensure that doesn’t happen.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘By the way, what did the maitre d’ mean, “twenty-nine possessions”?’

  He smiled back. ‘The number of times I got the ball tonight.’

  ‘Oh yeah, of course.’ She paused for a second, then asked, ‘Why would they bother to count that?’

  ‘I take you knew nothing much about Aussie Rules before this?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, and I must say, I had no idea it would be so exciting, or have so many different aspects to it.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Marking, for a start. It’s so thrilling to see a player leap into the air, right up on the back of another player. I presume that’s legal?’

  ‘It’s legal. Yeah, marking is certainly one of the glories of the game. If AFL is a religion, then marking is evidence of the transcendent impulse. Whenever I’m going for the ball, rising off the ground, above someone’s shoulders, it feels as if I’m reaching towards the gods, with all the barrackers urging me on. And sometimes, I can’t help it – I think of an old Irish prayer my grandma used to say:

  I fly today

  Through the strength of heaven:

  Light of sun,

  Radiance of moon,

  Splendour of fire,

  Speed of lightning,

  Swiftness of wind,

  Depth of sea,

  Stability of earth,

  Firmness of rock.

  That’s exactly what it feels like when I’m up there, going for the ball.’

  Merise was riveted. He was the first man under forty she’d ever met who could quote poetry, and with power and feeling. She felt something inside her shift and she suddenly saw him in a new light. His eyes were shining, his face transfigured from its habitual scowl, and she knew that he was revealing something secret, something sacred about himself.

  ‘That’s so beautiful, Cal. And maybe lots of players feel like that, but I doubt that any of them have articulated it in that way.’

  He looked at her, a little smile in his eyes and said, ‘Eat your gazpacho, it’s getting warm.’

  The meal was delicious and for a while she found herself relaxing as Cal answered her very basic questions about the game.

  ‘The tackling seems to work quite well,’ she said over dessert. ‘Why don’t you do it more often? T
he stats on the screen after the game said that Yarraside only had a hundred and thirty-one tackles.’

  He threw his head back and laughed. ‘That’s almost a preseason record for tackles. We did fine. We can’t spend the whole game on the ground.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said thoughtfully, absently tucking a stray curl behind her ear. ‘But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Everyone tells me that Yarraside is a powerhouse of the game – that you’ve got the greatest number of supporters, the best facilities and training staff, yet you haven’t won a premiership in such a long time. Why is that?’

  He paused and looked at her for a moment. ‘Are you sure you don’t barrack for the Devils?’ he asked bitingly.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean . . .’ She realised that she’d touched a nerve – she’d said the wrong thing. It was only a game to her, and one she didn’t begin to understand, but it was his whole life. She’d certainly put her foot in it. Her boot, even.

  ‘Look, I really don’t want to talk about footy any more. I get enough of this sort of grilling from the media.’ He paused and looked at her warily, ‘But then I suppose you’re part of the future media, aren’t you? Is that why you’re cross-examining me?’

  ‘I’m not cross-examining you. I’m just trying to understand —’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said, signalling to the waiter for the bill. ‘I’m sure that when you graduate you’ll turn your writing talents to something much more important than sport.’

  Damn! She’d done it again, and it had been going so well until she’d opened her big mouth.

  Fifteen minutes of tense silence later he pulled up outside her apartment and got out of the car to open the door for her. She smiled up at him, anxious to make up for her clumsiness, her ignorance. He’d been such good company before that. She’d actually enjoyed being with him.

  ‘Thanks for dinner. I had a great time. And, I’m sorry if I said anything, ah . . . inappropriate about the Wolves.’

  He merely smiled – somewhat sceptically, she thought – got back into his stupid, fancy car and drove off.

  Dinner had been a mistake, Cal told himself as he sat on the stone balcony of his home, staring out over the open spaces of Royal Park. It was almost three in the morning, he still couldn’t sleep, and not just because of the adrenaline. It was her. The most attractive and the most maddening woman he’d ever met. Correction – girl. She knew nothing and she knew everything. She had him puzzled. At moments she seemed completely naïve, but then she’d throw up that icy wall of superiority.

  And she had the gall to judge him. He could take it; he’d been judged by strangers, for as long as he could remember – the price you paid for having a father who captained the most famous sports club in the country. Strangers had been heaping expectations on him since his first day at school. Would he be like his dad? Could lightning strike twice in the same family, just a generation apart? He’d see to it that it would. He’d worked like a dog and fought like a Spartan to get where he was today. He would be mad to take his foot off the pedal now, just because of a woman.

  He sighed. But what a woman! He should have known he wouldn’t be able to resist her – she was so hot, even if she was prickly as hell. He stood up and paced along the balcony, even the smell of the gums sweating in the warmth of the night reminded him of her. He’d smelt the lemon myrtle in her hair that day at training. That day he’d just wanted to scoop her up and carry her inside into the shade. She’d looked so young . . .

  She was a total rookie as a model, he knew that – no phony poses, no practised pouts. But was she just another newshound? Was that why she’d agreed to go with him tonight? Did she feel even a fraction of the attraction he felt for her? Either way, he’d better keep his distance and remember that Merise Merrick was a budding journalist. She might just be a very calculating operator, another would-be celeb on the lookout for her next photo opportunity. One thing he knew, she was well able to resist him, and maybe it was for the best.

  Just then he heard the roar of a male lion from the zoo at the heart of the park. ‘Yeah, mate,’ he muttered, ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

  Chapter 6

  Merise was getting ready for bed on Monday night when the phone went. It was Bev.

  ‘Sorry to ring you at this hour, but I just got a call from SMO. They want to do a very quick shoot tomorrow morning at seven a.m.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I know it’s late notice, but they’ve just wangled a spot on the front cover of the Footy Quarterly and it goes to print this week. They want a shot of you and McCoy in front of the MCG.’

  ‘At seven a.m?’

  ‘It’s the only time McCoy can do it. We’re lucky he can fit it in at all.’

  Merise felt her jaw tighten. Did half of Melbourne dance to this man’s tune?

  ‘The money’s good, Merise, and the exposure would be well worth it. Can you manage it?’

  ‘I suppose so . . .’

  ‘Terrific! Now I’m going to run before you change your mind. Go straight to bed. We don’t want rings under your eyes in the morning. And by the way, you’ll need to be at Gate Two at five a.m.’

  ‘Five a.m!’

  ‘Got to organise your gear and make-up – have you looking beautiful.’

  Merise felt anything but beautiful the following morning as she stood in silence with Bev and the photographer outside Gate Two. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d been worrying about the shoot, she’d been worrying about waking up on time, and above all, she’d been worrying about seeing him again. She’d resolved to be the total professional. This was just another job. She wasn’t going to start parrying words with him. She was going to be totally cool, detached, composed, and she was absolutely determined that she wouldn’t let him rile her.

  But he did, and without even trying, because he failed to put in an appearance. The little group had been waiting for almost an hour when the photographer began to get restless.

  ‘This should have been done and dusted by now,’ he said, checking his watch for the tenth time. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock. I’ve got to get down to Mount Martha for my next gig.’

  Bev had been trying to ring Paige with no success. ‘I’ll try again,’ she said, taking out her mobile and moving away from them.

  Merise stood tapping her feet impatiently. She wanted her breakfast. She hadn’t had time to eat anything before rushing out this morning. She was fuming at Cal for keeping her waiting. It was like that book launch. He must make a habit of being completely selfish and inconsiderate. Just then Bev came marching back, her face set hard.

  ‘He’s not coming.’

  ‘Not coming?’ Merise and the photographer chorused together.

  ‘No. Paige says he has a slight calf strain. It happened when he was running early this morning.’

  ‘A slight calf strain? Oh my! I’ll alert the media,’ said Merise with bitter sarcasm.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said the photographer. ‘They’ll be all over it already. I’m off then.’ And he packed up his gear and left.

  ‘Sorry about this, Merise,’ Bev apologised, ‘but you’ll still get paid, of course. It’s a pity McCoy couldn’t have given us a ring.’

  ‘I don’t see why he couldn’t have turned up,’ said Merise hotly. ‘There’s nothing very strenuous about having a photo taken. Don’t know what harm it could have done to his precious calf.’

  ‘Paige says he’s in the hyperbaric chamber,’ Bev explained. ‘She says he’s determined to get himself right ASAP.’

  Yes, Merise thought, and to hell with everyone and everything else. And she knew the photographer was right – the media would be onto this like a shot. It was ridiculous that every move this man made – every tiny creak of his muscles – was reported, discussed, dissected; the source of endless speculation. No wonder he was so puffed up with his own importance. But what was really irritating her was that she minded at all. She had to face it, she’d been deeply disappointed wh
en he’d cancelled. Whether she liked to admit it or not, she’d wanted to see him. This man had some sort of hold over her, and she hated it!

  It was about ten days later that Merise saw the first Yarraside ad on TV. She and Erica were having a quiet night in front of the TV watching a crime thriller, when the ad came on. It was a shock. The very first frame was a close-up of Merise’s face, looking nervous. It then cut to Cal scoring a goal, then back to Merise cheering with delight.

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did I really get that excited?’

  Then, immediately after scoring, Cal turned and smiled into the stands, only the ad was cut so that he appeared to be smiling directly at her. She appeared to be smiling back, and the last frame was of the two of them touching hands as he went down the race.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ squealed Erica, ‘it really looks as if you two have a thing going on.’

  ‘Well, we don’t,’ Merise insisted, but she’d seen how it looked. Who would believe her? And what would he think of her, making a spectacle of herself like that? He’d think she was throwing herself at him. At that thought the hot shame rose into her cheeks and she covered her face with her hands.

  ‘What?’ asked Erica.

  ‘Nothing,’ Merise mumbled, ‘I’ll just die of embarrassment.’

  The next week, Bev rang to let her know that the gala football season launch would take place the following Friday and that Merise was expected to go.

  ‘It’s a big TV event – especially the red carpet, so you’ve got to be there.’

  Merise quailed. She’d seen highlights of last year’s launch on the news and remembered how the fans and media gathered at the entrance to the casino to ogle the players and the WAGS as they arrived. But if she couldn’t get out of it, she could probably slip in early or late and keep a very low profile.