I draped a heavy arm over my grainy eyes as the sunshine broke through a gap in the blinds right onto my face. Why did sunrise have to be so damned early? It was just rude. It was Sunday, for Christ’s sake. People needed to sleep.
I smacked my lips together, tasting last night’s Jack, and turned to face the other side of the bed. It was empty, the sheet was pulled halfway down in a neat diagonal and the indentation from her head was still on the pillow. I listened for any sounds of Bridget in the house. She might have been the type to settle in with a coffee watching Netflix while she waited for me to wake up or, worse, be in the kitchen making breakfast. But all I heard was the distant hum of a lawnmower, my dog, Bluey, and the Alsatian a few doors down barking in a duet, and the sound of traffic off the main road.
At least I didn’t have to take her out for breakfast, my tried and tested way of getting girls out of my house without hurting their feelings. Taking them out for breakfast was usually enough for them not to run to the papers. I hated those breakfasts, with their awkward daylight small talk and the exchanging of phone numbers and the fake promises to meet up for dinner during the week. But they were a necessary evil.
Thankfully Bridget seemed to have accepted our night together for what it was and left without expecting a romance to spring from it. Hang on, it was Bridget, wasn’t it? Bridie? Could’ve been Bridie. Hopefully she didn’t steal anything.
Shit, did she take any photos of me before she left? Would I be all over social media again today? Would I have Craig ranting at me, about how I was letting the whole team down again and how I was failing in my duty as a role model? My head pounded into the back of my eyeballs.
I reached for my phone and squinted at the bright screen while my heart raced at the thought of what I might find. Nothing. Thank God. I’d dodged another bullet.
I dropped my head back down on the sweat-soaked pillow and stared at the lock screen image on the phone. It was of Dad and me, standing back to back on the sand, holding our surfboards out in front of us. I was about sixteen when Mum took that shot of us on the Gold Coast. I stared at the screen until it blacked out.
‘No more, Dad, I promise.’
I had half woken up just after 2 am feeling dead inside as I watched the girl sleeping, her long legs entwined in mine. I’d wished in that sleepy moment in bed that we meant something to each other. I wanted to wake her up and apologise for what had happened between us. But I didn’t. And now she was gone.
I’d met her for the first time a few hours before when she slid up behind me on the dance floor and wrapped her arms around my waist by way of introduction, before dropping one hand down and stroking my penis through my jeans in time with the music.
She’d never know that I watched her sleeping and wondered what it was that possessed her to come home with a complete stranger, and what made me do the same thing?
It had never felt good afterwards. But it felt particularly shit today. I didn’t want to be that guy anymore. I hated that guy.
I swung my legs out of bed, scrounging around for boxer shorts. I was through with this shit. Sunday was technically the first day of the week. New week, new attitude. No drinking, not even one drop, until the end of the season, or maybe ever. My teammates didn’t touch alcohol for the entire season. They all took the responsibility of being in peak physical condition seriously. It was time for me to do the same.
I swallowed against the scratchy dryness of my throat and something inside me knew with full conviction that last night would never happen again. I’d finally had enough.
I’d had enough of having to watch my back for cameras whenever I was up to no good, enough of feeling seedy, of trying to piece together the movements of the night before, of possessive drunk boyfriends imagining something where there was nothing and looking for a fight; enough of feeling like an arsehole. I’d had enough of the whole deal. But most of all I’d had enough of not having any respect for myself or for those girls I ended up with.
Dad was the most respectful person I ever knew. He treated Mum like a queen. And look at what I did – I was worried that a girl whose name I didn’t know had robbed me. How the hell had I turned out like this?
I found my boxer shorts turned inside out in a ball on top of my jeans, which were also inside out from my hurry to get out of them and into the girl last night. I slid my legs into the shorts and stood up.
Uh-oh. There was a sharp twinge in my left foot. I took another step, hoping I’d imagined it. I hadn’t. The searing pain shot up my fifth toe towards the ankle. I put my head in my hands.
Not again. Please, God, not again.
I gulped down the dread along with two Nurofen, and kept the bulk of my body weight on my right foot while I hobbled through the house to the back door. I fiddled with the stiff lock and let Bluey in. He galloped past me, just about bowling me over, and raced mad laps all over the living room. Only once he’d sniffed out every corner was he satisfied that all was as he had left it the night before and he came to greet me. He bent his head down and licked the top of my bare left foot.
‘How can you tell it’s sore, mate?’ I ruffled the top of his head. ‘Clever boy you are, hey? You hungry, Blue? Come on, food time.’
Hearing the f-word, Bluey stopped his inspection of my injured foot and bounced around on his front paws. I left him scoffing dry biscuits on the back deck and made my way back to the bathroom to wash Bridget/Bridie and the remnants of last night off me. My foot throbbed under the hot water and I felt my career slipping away.
Don’t panic – you don’t know it’s that.
But I did know, deep down I knew. I’d felt it for the first time with five minutes to go in the last quarter. It had started as a niggle but as I ran from one end of the ground to the other, it worsened until I was limping by the end of the match. Not so anyone would notice. Anyone except Lily that was. Nothing escaped Lily. I ignored her calls and texts yesterday because I couldn’t face the barrage of questions I knew she’d throw at me.
I didn’t tell anyone in the club rooms about it after the game. I didn’t want to dampen the atmosphere of our first win of the season or the collective relief in the team that I’d seen out the whole game. Anyway, I reasoned, it could have been nothing more than lack of match practice.
It got worse in the evening, so I went into denial by getting blind drunk in full view of the entire coaching and management staff. Thanks to the alcohol, I didn’t feel a thing last night. But this morning I knew.
When I was dried and dressed, had sunk a Red Bull, and felt strong enough to handle the sound of my own voice down the phone – as well as hers – I rang Mum’s mobile.
Ross answered. I stiffened, even though it was him that I was really after. I told him about the foot and he said they’d come straight over. As far as orthopaedic surgeons went, there weren’t many around more experienced than Ross. I trusted his judgement.
I limped back outside and patted Bluey’s back. ‘Sorry, mate, can’t walk you. My foot’s buggered. We’ll see if Mum will take you for a walk, hey?’
Bluey bounded over to where I kept his lead and looked expectantly over his shoulder at me. Instead, I found his sodden tennis ball half buried in the grass. I pulled up a bar stool from the veranda and spent the next fifteen minutes throwing the ball around the small garden while Bluey sprinted to fetch it until he was panting.
With Bluey forgetting he’d missed his walk and happily snoring on the couch, I hopped around and did a quick tidy up of the house before Mum and Ross arrived. Not that it did much good, the place was a disgrace. I really did have to get a new cleaning lady. Sharon mysteriously disappeared late last year, along with a stack of hundred dollar notes I had in the top desk drawer. So it had been roughly five months since the floors were mopped or the shower had been scrubbed. It didn’t bother me but it would bother Mum and she’d bother me.
The doorbell rang just over an hour after I spoke to Ross. It still unsettled me to see Mum with him. I wished it didn’t. Ross was a genuinely good guy, he adored Mum and he was always friendly with Lily and me, never overstepping the mark. But he wasn’t Dad, and every time I saw him, no matter how nice he was, it reminded me that it should be Dad by Mum’s side.
After Mum’s predictable ‘Nick, your house is revolting. Have you no shame?’ speech, I showed them the offending foot. Mum sat close by, watching, as Ross did the assessment while I lay back on bent elbows. He was silent as he prodded and twisted my foot with his large cold hands. I gasped sharply and cursed when he hit the spot.
He stroked his chin when he was done. ‘Nick, I’m really not sure. Given your lack of pain through the pre-season and the fact those last lot of bone scans were clear, it could just be that you overdid it yesterday and it’s only a bit of inflammation that will settle down. But it might be that the stress fractures have come back, mate. I wouldn’t rule it out without an MRI.’ He avoided my eyes when he said that.
I groaned loudly.
Ross turned to Mum. ‘Mel, let’s order an MRI, to be safe.’
Mum reached into her handbag and pulled out a referral pad that she handed to Ross.
They didn’t stay long after that. We’d already said our goodbyes after dinner on Friday night before the match. They’d been living up north for a year now. They met in Kenya, Mum and Ross, when they were both volunteer doctors there, and then Mum followed him home to the outback. I wouldn’t see them again until the finals. If we made it that far into the season. If I made it that far.
I shook Ross’s hand at the front door.
‘Catch you for finals, Nick.’ He patted my back. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about the Rangers holding up that cup this year with you leading the charge, mate. I can picture it clearly.’
I mustered up a smile. He tried hard, Ross.
It was only when they’d left that I realised I’d forgotten to ask Mum if she’d walk Bluey.
I sat on the couch with my leg up and called Craig.
‘Nick, what’s up? Tell me you didn’t get into trouble when I left last night,’ he groaned. ‘We’re going to need another serious chat about drinking during the season after what I saw of you yesterday.’
He sounded fed up. It was little wonder. He’d spent much of last year in damage control while I wreaked havoc all over Perth. It was only his second year coaching me but already he was exhausted.
‘I know, I’m sorry. I promise no more drinking. Honestly. But, Craig, I’m ringing because my foot’s bad,’ I said heavily. ‘It hurts to walk. A lot.’
He sighed. ‘Shit.’
‘Ross White, my mum’s partner who’s an orthopaedic surgeon, came over and checked it out this morning. He’s written me up an MRI referral.’
‘And? What does he think?’ I could hear the tension in his voice.
‘He said it’s hard to say – it might just be inflammation. He’s not ruling out stress fractures though.’
There was a long silence.
‘All right, Nick, I’ll call Aaron and get him to line up that scan for first thing in the morning. Stay off it all day, all right?’
Five minutes later, Aaron, the team’s head doctor, called to say I had an appointment at nine tomorrow morning. MRIs normally had a three-day wait list.
As the pain became more and more intense, a knot formed in the pit of my gut. I couldn’t afford to have stress fractures again this early in my career. It spelled disaster. And now I’d run out of painkillers too.
I drove to a local pharmacy where I was tempted to park the Range Rover in the disabled spot directly outside, but then I imagined the impact on the club if a photo of that appeared in tomorrow’s paper. And today was the day I stopped being an arsehole, so parking in a disabled bay wasn’t the way to go. I drove around the corner and parked in a regular spot.
‘Oh, cool, Nick Harding! Look, Dad, Nick Harding!’
‘Is too! Well spotted, Joshy! Onya Harding!’
I smiled, gave them a double thumbs up and limped into the pharmacy.
I walked in self-consciously, the way I did everywhere, knowing my every move was more than likely being watched. Luckily, it seemed empty, except for the voices in the dispensary.
As I passed by the birth control section on my way through, I had a quick flashback. Pretty sure that was the last condom in the box I’d frantically grabbed last night. I reached out for a pack but stopped myself. No condoms in the house meant no more Bridgets. And no more Bridgets meant no more hating myself after Bridget-type nights when I ignored Bridget-type text messages.
I left the condoms where they were, bought some overthe-counter anti-inflammatories and went into the coffee place next door for the first time since it had changed hands and been renamed Black Salt.
It was packed in there. Shit. This place used to always be empty. I was super careful to hide the limp.
People were sprawled out on black oversized beanbags and lounging around on red vinyl sofas. Two preschool-aged boys were attempting to climb a giant Buddha water feature in the corner. Couples swung on indoor garden swings and on hammocks tied to wooden beams. A group of teenage girls were writing their names on the blackboard-painted walls with coloured chalk dangling from twine. There wasn’t a single table to be seen, just wine barrels painted with motivational phrases dotted around the place between the sofas.
Great, just what Fremantle needed – another overpriced hipster café.
‘Yeah! Haaaarding,’ a guy around my age drawled from a beanbag. ‘Yer a bloody legend, mate!’
‘Good to have you back, Harding,’ his mate chimed in. ‘We missed you, mate.’
I smiled, gave them the regulation double thumbs up and walked extra, extra carefully to the queue at the counter, biting down on my lip as I put my full weight through the foot. Lots of sets of eyes were on me. I wished the windows to this place weren’t tinted – if I’d known how busy it was I never would have come in.
When it was my turn to order, I leaned on the counter and forced a smile at the girl who hurried back from pinning the last order to the kitchen alcove.
‘Hello and a warm Sunday session welcome, sir, to Black Salt café. You’re in luck because our amazing Best of Brunch food mood boards have landed. Our all day brunch is now served up straight on the chopping boards and it’s fresher than ever!’ Her huge caramel-coloured eyes peeked at me from a long fringe that fell over her face. The rest of her dark hair was super short and in punk style spikes. Even though she was tall and broad-shouldered, there was something in her eager-to-please expression that made her appear vulnerable, fragile almost. She was beautiful. Really beautiful. ‘Have you a preference, sir, for which Best of Brunch food mood board you would like to sample? I can very highly recommend the Feeling Frisky Best of Brunch food mood board, because the glazed chorizo and the chilli lime squid on the Feeling Frisky Best of Brunch food mood board is a very good brunch combination, hokay?’
Did she just call me sir?
‘Uh, actually I just wanted a take-away coffee, thanks.’
‘Oh yes, of course, sir. I should have asked you that first, yes? Please let me explain to you the Craving a Coffee menu, hokay?’ She took a deep breath and launched into another spiel. ‘There is the Banging Brazilian Blend—’
‘I’d just like a large flat white with one, if that’s okay.’
‘Of course, yes, sir. Gianni our barista will fix that for you personally, sir, hokay?’ She smiled again.
‘Excellent.’ I smiled back at her. ‘I’m just going to sit on the swing in the corner there while I wait, if that’s all right.’ I desperately needed to get off my foot.
‘Oh, you will not be sitting with your friends in the “Chillax Zone”?’ She pointed to the football fans who had called out to me when I walked in.
‘Oh, no, um, no we’re not friends.’ I paused. ‘I don’t actually know those people.’
She frowned. ‘Hokay. Very well, sir.’
I sat and swayed on the zebra-striped swing, not taking my eyes off her while she served the next few customers. She jutted her bottom lip out and blew air up her face making her fringe fly. She wiped sweat off her brow but the whole time her smile stayed genuine and warm with each person in line.
She wasn’t my type, not by a long shot. My type was very much the Bridget type – the flirty, wouldn’t say no to anything, wouldn’t be out of place on the cover of Maxim, the longer the (preferably blonde) hair and the tighter the clothes, the better. Long painted nails, extra high high-heels – that type.
She looked over to where I was. I smiled at her. She stopped talking for a second and smiled back at me. Our eyes stayed locked. Whoa. I gulped and she blushed a deep red. She looked back at the customer she was serving, tucking rogue strands of fringe behind her ear and she started talking to them again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Could she sense me watching her?
A couple of minutes later, another girl walked up behind her and tickled her on the waist. She turned and laughed and untied her apron, pulling it up over her head and hiding it behind the counter.
At the same time, my ticket number was called out by Gianni, who looked more Australian than Vegemite. I was about to heave myself out of the swing when I saw her motion at me to stay sitting and she walked up to the coffee bar to grab the cardboard cup.
She walked towards me, looking at the ground. She had a loose black T-shirt on that hung halfway down her thighs with the words ‘It’s LeviOsa not LeviosAR’ emblazoned across the chest. Her green zig-zag striped leggings were tucked into bright purple Doc Martin boots. I hadn’t noticed it when she was serving me, but she had a good twenty leather bracelets stacked up high on both forearms.
Attitude hair, attitude clothes. Hmm, interesting.
‘Your coffee, sir.’ She said self-consciously, handing over the cup.
‘Hey, thanks.’ I took it from her hands and our fingers touched for a quick second. Whoa – again. Seriously, what was with that? I swallowed and said, ‘That was really kind of you to bring over my coffee. You didn’t have to do that.’
‘But you have a sore leg, so of course.’
‘How can you tell? I thought I was doing a good job hiding that.’
‘No, not such a good job, sir.’ She smiled, tugging at the bottom of her T-shirt. ‘Is it very bad, the pain when you walk?’
‘Nah, it’s all right.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Australians always say, “It is all right” when it is not all right.’
I laughed too. ‘Yeah, we do, don’t we? So where are you from?’
‘I am from Alexandria, in Egypt.’
I liked the sound of her husky voice. A very sexy voice.
‘Oh? You’re the first real-life Egyptian I’ve ever met. Have you been in Australia long?’
‘A little more than a year since I came here, sir.’ Her eyes had a distant look about them. They looked almost haunted.
‘You don’t need to call me sir, I’m just Nick.’ I reached out my hand and she gave it a weak shake. Wishing I didn’t have to, I let her soft hand go after a few seconds. ‘So, what’s your name?’
‘My name is Anna, sir.’ she nodded.
I laughed again. ‘Not sir, just Nick. Okay? You really don’t have to call me sir. My name’s Nick Harding. Well, it’s Nicholas Harding, but I prefer Nick.’
I waited but there was not a hint of recognition from her. Oh, that was great. Beyond great.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Nick. Nice weather we are having, yes?’ She smiled with her whole face and nodded at me quickly a few times.
My heart skipped a beat. ‘It is a nice day.’ I let my eyes rest on hers and she looked at her boots.
Gianni was watching us from behind the bar. He looked kind of pissed off.
‘Hey, is it okay that you’re here talking to me? Will you get in trouble with him?’ I indicated with my chin in Gianni’s direction.
‘No, no,’ she said dismissively.
‘He keeps looking over, though. Is he your boyfriend? I don’t want any trouble.’
She broke into a low husky laugh and looked over her shoulder at him, giving him a shoo-away sign with her hand.
‘Gianni, my boyfriend? Not if he was the last man left on the Earth!’
‘Is he really that bad? You’d rather let humankind die out as a species than repopulate with him?’
‘Definitely. But he is a very nice boss, even though he is a terrible boyfriend to poor Renee.’
‘Why does he look annoyed with us, though? Is it because you’re talking to me rather than working?’ I threw Gianni a warning look but it didn’t stop him staring.
She shooed him away with her hand again, in a more pronounced way this time, and he finally looked away. ‘My shift is finished. Ashlee has taken over for the afternoon.’ She pointed at the girl behind the counter who was also staring at us. ‘Gianni is not annoyed at us, rather he is annoyed that we are too far away for him to hear what we are saying. He is the kind of person who has to know everything.’
So she’d come over to chat instead of running for the door, like anyone else would have, after finishing a shift in a busy café on a Sunday morning.
‘If you’ve finished your shift, do you want a seat then?’ I patted the swing.
‘It is hokay, I am happy to stand. So what is wrong with your leg?’
‘Hurt it running. I’m having a scan to find out what’s wrong with it tomorrow.’ That was the truth after all. ‘What does that writing on your T-shirt mean? What’s a Leviosar?’ I asked, dragging out the ‘o’ sound.
Her jaw dropped. ‘Nick, this is one of the most famous quotes from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. You do not recognise this quote?’
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t read any Harry Potter books, haven’t seen any Harry Potter movies either.’
‘But, the story of Harry Potter is the most wonderful story ever told so I am afraid you are missing out greatly by not reading it, sir, not sir, Nick.’ She looked genuinely worried about me not having read it.
‘That’s a big call – the most wonderful story ever told. I might have to download it then. I’m stuck at home with this stupid foot anyway. That’s as good an excuse as any to read the most wonderful story ever told.’
‘No, you do not need to download it. Wait.’
She raced off to the back of the café and disappeared through the plastic swing door. A few moments later she reappeared holding a book in her hand.
She gave it to me with a flourish. ‘You can borrow it.’
‘Thanks.’ I inspected the tattered copy of The Philosopher’s Stone. ‘So if I read this, I’ll understand what your T-shirt says?’
‘You will indeed. And if you enjoy it, I have the whole series here that you can borrow.’ She pulled her shoulders back proudly.
I leaned back in the swing and had a swig of coffee. My body relaxed as the heat spread inside me. ‘That’s really sweet of you to offer. Thanks, Anna. Great coffee too.’ I raised the cup. ‘Just what I needed to pick me up today – a hit of good strong coffee.’
She laughed. ‘Of course Gianni makes a very good coffee indeed. But Nick, this is a flat white – it is not a strong coffee. If you want a real coffee, then you must try Turkish coffee. It is the only way to have coffee when, as you say, you need something strong.’
‘Is that a kind of espresso? I don’t do espresso. That’s not coffee, that’s toxic tar.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Espresso is not coffee? It is the only coffee. In Egypt, everyone will kill themselves with laughing if they see milk in coffee, and in such a big cup as this.’ She pointed at my cup. ‘But, you know, Turkish coffee is not just any espresso. It is pure velvet, Nick. If you truly want to drink coffee in the proper fashion, you must most definitely try a Turkish coffee. It is so thick, almost like a syrup. A velvet syrup.’
I pulled a face. ‘Ugh, coffee syrup? I’m sorry, Anna, I’ll read your book but I won’t drink your coffee.’
‘Very well, suit yourself. You can keep drinking this pretend coffee and telling yourself it is strong.’ Her rolled ‘r’s made me smile. That accent was so damn sexy. Maybe she was my type.
She looked at her watch. ‘I must be leaving now. It was very nice to meet you, Nick.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Um, can I ask for your number, Anna?’
‘Why?’ She gave me a confused look.
‘So I can call you and tell you what I think of the book. So we can perhaps go out together some time?’
Why was I so nervous?
She flicked her fringe back and looked up at the ceiling before making eye contact again. ‘That is a very kind offer. Thank you, Nick, but no.’
I was taken aback. ‘Oh, okay. Can I ask why not?’
‘Because I am not a girl who gives her telephone number to somebody she does not know. A book? Yes. My telephone number? No.’
I felt the heat creep into my cheeks. ‘Okay, so no phone number, but could I take you out for dinner tonight? Just dinner?’
She gave me a long look and then took a big breath in and out. ‘I am working tonight.’
‘But you just finished working.’
‘I am not working here, of course. I am working at the restaurant that belongs to my Uncle Fariz.’ She twisted one of the leather straps around her wrist.
‘Oh, I see. Which restaurant?’ I tried to make the question sound light, innocent.
‘Masri’s. It is Egyptian food, very wonderful food.’ Her smile returned.
I spread my arms out. ‘My favourite!’
She laughed that low husky laugh again.
A family walked into the café then. They stopped talking when they saw me. The father pulled out his phone and I sensed a photo session coming on.
‘All right, Anna.’ I pushed off on my hands and stood up. ‘I’ll let you go and I’d best be going too. But I’ll come back and give you my verdict on Harry Potter, okay?’
‘Hokay. I shall look forward to this . . . very much. Bye, Nick, have a nice day.’ She tucked more strands of fringe behind her ear.
Our eyes locked together once again and neither of us smiled this time. I got a deep longing way down low. I looked away before I embarrassed myself.
‘Bye, Anna.’
The family walked up with their expectant Rangers fan smiles on. I smiled back at them, gave a double thumbs up to each of the three gobsmacked kids and left quickly, hurting my foot even more in my rush to get out.
As I hobbled to the car the sky was a brilliant cloudless blue and the whole streetscape looked shiny. What a magnificent day it was!
I sent a group text to Joel and Bruce once I was in the driver’s seat:
I know it’s short notice but are you guys up for dinner out tonight?
I’ve got a hankering for Egyptian food.