The Reluctant Wag

Chapter 2


Friday finally dawned. It had been warm and muggy overnight and Merise had slept badly. She had tossed and turned, worrying about the photo shoot, her uni course and her desperate lack of funds. She’d have to find that extra rent money for starters. Moving wasn’t an option. She knew she wouldn’t find a place with a lower rent close to work and uni, and the prospect of ever being able to afford a car was becoming more distant as her higher education debt grew. And she’d have to replace her laptop right away. No. She had no choice; she’d just have to make a go of this modelling business – however hard, however stupid it turned out to be.

She got out of bed before sunrise. The day was forecast to reach a temperature of forty-three degrees. By seven-thirty she was shut up in a small room at the Hartley Centre with Jay Willis, who talked incessantly, and the photographer, Simon Rae, who hadn’t opened his mouth.

As Jay played with her hair, trying out different styles, Merise warily eyed his short, gelled mohawk and the tear-drop tattoo below his left eye. She was praying he wasn’t planning anything like that for her.

‘Too gorgeous!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at your complexion! I so want your skin. Close your eyes and stop jiggling. I need to finish this or Bev will slaughter me. There – you look like . . . I don’t know, but you look sexy and classy. I’m a genius.’

Merise laughed nervously. ‘Don’t I get any credit?’

‘No. Don’t bite your lip! You’ll ruin my contours! Okay – I release you.’

She stood up and Jay removed the knee-length cape that had been protecting her clothes.

‘Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you really going to wear that?’

Bev’s stylist, Andrea, had dressed her in the black-and-silver-striped Yarraside supporters’ Guernsey and matching black shorts.

‘You look like a total bogan – stunning, but still a bogan. Good thing you’ve got lovely legs.’

‘That’s nothing,’ she laughed. ‘I have to wear the scarf as well, and in all this heat!’

‘Who cares, sweetie, you’re basically being paid to drool over Cal McCoy. I’d do that for free. He’s such a babe! I just love watching him on Footy Review. He’s so good on TV. He should get his own show when he retires.’

‘Oh no he shouldn’t!’ cried Merise. ‘I’m working really hard to get through my journalism degree, and so is every student in the course. And at the end of it most of us will have a lifetime of scratching around for low-paid jobs to look forward to. But someone like him – some completely unqualified airhead celebrity, who’s already made a fortune having a good time kicking a ball around, will waltz into a top job on TV and probably get his own newspaper column as well!’

‘I already have my own column,’ said a very deep voice and she whisked round to see Cal McCoy standing in the open doorway, looking horribly stern.

Merise’s mouth dropped open in dismay. ‘Oh! I . . . ah . . . .I didn’t . . . um, know—’

‘Obviously not,’ he cut in. ‘Look, you’re entitled to your opinion, but perhaps you could just glance at one or two of my columns before you condemn them outright? Not all footballers are total meatheads, you know. Or was it “airheads”? By the way, I just thought I’d come by to say good luck for the shoot.’ And he turned and left without another word.

‘Oh dear!’ hissed Jay. ‘You’ve ruffled the feathers of the great hero. But my! Doesn’t he ruffle up beautifully?’

Merise gulped and felt the sweat break out under her carefully applied foundation. She’d sensed that McCoy hadn’t been impressed the first time they met; now he’d just hate her. Well, he wasn’t exactly Mr Personality himself. But there was nothing to be gained by antagonising him. She’d have to learn to shut her big mouth if she wanted to keep this job and dig herself out of the hole she was in.

Just then Bev bustled in with a tall young man in a designer T-shirt and jeans.

‘Merise, this is Tim from SMO.’

‘Hi, Merise,’ said Tim. ‘I love your look. You and Cal will look totally great together – his muscled, manly thing, your elegant femininity.’

Merise felt herself blush and stifled a little groan, but Bev was hurrying them all up. ‘Come on! We’ll need to get set up before the team appears. Here, Merise, take this notebook. Cal will give you his autograph after training.’

‘I can hardly wait.’



Cal was practically gnashing his teeth as he strode purposefully from the changing rooms to the training ground. So, she thought he was a meathead – all muscles, no brain. He could have set her straight there and then, but he hadn’t wanted to make too big a deal of it. Geez, she got to him. He’d have to play this very cool, otherwise that girl would become the distraction he simply couldn’t afford this year, especially now he was captain. It had taken him years of heart-busting effort to get to the point where he was following in his father’s footsteps, hopefully all the way to a premiership, and he wasn’t going to let anyone or anything put him off course, not even a babe like Merise Merrick. He suddenly broke into a run, yelling, ‘Ball drill!’ and one after the other the players grabbed a Sherrin from the ball bag and came pounding after him.



Merise was in place at one corner of the fence surrounding the training ground and she was feeling nervous. She eyed the small crowd of die-hard fans to her left. They were dressed in Yarraside’s colours and the season was still weeks away. So much passion, and just for a game. But then, as Erica had said, this was Melbourne, where Aussie Rules was more of a religion than a sport.

She sighed. She’d been practising her admiring smile for the past half hour and already her cheeks were aching. She glanced over at the photographer for the fortieth time.

‘Eyes right, Merise,’ hissed Bev, just behind her. ‘Don’t look at Simon. He’ll start snapping any minute now. Just ignore him. Look natural. Keep your eyes on McCoy when he appears, and smile!’

She smiled widely and McCoy ran out with the team. He seemed even more powerful in his training gear. His arms and chest were powerfully developed, and his long legs bulged with muscle as he bounced a ball in front of him as he ran, never missing a beat. Merise felt her throat go dry and a sweat break on her forehead, and not because of the heat. ‘Merise,’ Bev appeared at her side. ‘What’s up? You’re looking stunned. I said smile and look at McCoy.’

That was the problem: she was looking at McCoy. At every rippling movement of his totally ripped body. She forced another big smile, her heart hammering in her chest as her eyes followed him while he led the other players in running laps of the wide ground. She was relieved that he didn’t once look her way. He was concentrating fiercely on the training drills.

A little later the forwards were taking shots at goal. McCoy kicked true every time and the supporters close to Merise cheered him loudly. Several young girls were hanging over the barrier, their cameras pointed directly at him. They ‘ahhhedd’ and giggled every time he came close to the boundary line to gather the ball, but he seemed unaware of their existence, never once easing the intensity of his effort.

I suppose he’s used to being adored, thought Merise. Yet she felt unaccountably annoyed – resentful even. She tried to shake off the thought. This was absurd! What did she have to be resentful about? What did she care about Cal McCoy? These poor, demented people adored him, yet a week ago she’d thought Yarraside was just an inner-city suburb. None of this meant anything to her, surely?

As training drew to an end, she saw Tim approach McCoy. They spoke for a minute. Then while the other players headed back to the gymnasium, Tim and McCoy were suddenly walking towards her. The supporters nearby yelled in delight.

‘Okay, Merise, now just smile and hold your notebook out for his autograph.’

She was just part of the crowd jostling at the barrier now. Cal quickly moved along the line, shaking hands, posing for photos, signing jumpers and footballs, but looking like he wanted to be elsewhere. He finally reached her. She felt suddenly nervous as she held out the little blue notebook. Their eyes locked and he smiled in an unexpectedly intimate way and she broke out into a dazzling smile herself.

‘Yes!’ she heard Simon exclaim. He had somehow appeared on the oval beside Cal and was snapping away furiously. ‘That’s the one! Just hold that.’

Cal only rolled his eyes and stood holding her notebook. Merise was vaguely aware that club officials, aided by Tim and Bev, were ushering away the fans. They’d got their autographs, even touched their hero, so they went quietly. Merise realised that she was still staring into Cal’s eyes, a stupid grin on her face, as Simon shot them over and over again from every angle. She felt like such an idiot – an uncomfortable, exposed idiot.

The sun was hot now and she was beginning to wilt – the woolly scarf was sweltering. She could feel the sweat under her make-up. Would it begin to run? Cal, despite the strenuous workout, looked completely cool and relaxed. As she passed a hand across her forehead he leant down towards her.

‘You’re looking a little dehydrated,’ he said, almost gently.

‘Oh, no, I’m fine, really, it’s just so hot.’ But her head was banging and she was feeling a little dizzy.

‘That’s enough I think, mate,’ he said, turning to Tim.

‘But, we haven’t quite—’

‘That’s enough for today,’ he interjected, and despite Bev’s fluttering and Tim’s hand-wringing, no one was game to argue the point. Still rather shocked, Merise watched him as he turned and walked back towards the gym. Had Cal McCoy actually been considerate? He’d clearly seen that she was uncomfortable, and he did something about it right away. Or had he? Was she flattering herself, making too much of it? Maybe he’d just been fed up with the whole thing himself. Maybe she was just his excuse to get away. Either way, as she stood looking across the footy oval, she realised that that great expanse of green seemed suddenly . . . empty.



Half an hour later she was standing outside the Hartley Centre trying to wave down a taxi, but it was late Friday morning, when taxis were monopolised by office workers off to boozy lunches, and she knew her chances were slim. Just then Cal came out of the building. He spotted her immediately, but she turned, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. She didn’t even understand why. He just had a bad effect on her – made her do stupid, awkward things.

The next moment he was at her side. ‘I’m parked just here,’ he said. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘Oh, would you?’ she blurted out. ‘I’ve got a reenrolment interview at Melbourne Uni and I’m running late. I didn’t think the shoot would take so long.’

‘Sure, get in. I live in Parkville. It’s on the way.’ He pointed to a sleek, black sports car and held the passenger door open for her when they reached it. She was struck by the gentlemanly gesture. She hadn’t expected it. He noticed her surprise and said, ‘We’re not complete hoons, you know – footballers, I mean.’

‘I didn’t say you were,’ she said quickly, looking away.

‘No, but your eyes did, and I can’t help looking at them. They’re unusual eyes. What colour are they exactly?’

She felt herself quiver. He’d been looking at her eyes. He’d taken the time to notice their colour. ‘A sort of green-blue, I suppose.’

‘They’re like the sea,’ he said teasingly. ‘Seaweed eyes.’

She laughed and relaxed a fraction. She could see how he could charm when he wanted to. This smiling Cal was very different from the aggressive leader she’d just seen on the training field. Still, he wouldn’t charm her; she’d make sure of it. She’d never be one of his throng of barracking bimbos. She would be on her guard. Yet as she sank into the leather upholstery of the car’s gleaming interior she was very much aware of his presence. He was so big and powerful, and so close to her. He’d just showered and his hair was still wet. He smelt wonderful too – of spice and eucalyptus, she guessed – a very manly smell.

She felt compelled to say something to fill the silence, to break the tension between them. She summoned up her courage.

‘Oh, by the way, I didn’t mean anything . . . about your writing. I haven’t even seen your column. I don’t read the sports sections. I mean, I haven’t. I’ll definitely start reading them now.’

He looked sideways at her and mischief danced in his eyes. ‘Excellent. Because I’ll be asking questions about them next time we meet.’

She laughed. ‘What I meant was . . . well, just that celebrities get an easy run in the media.’

He nodded. ‘At the outset, yes, I suppose they do. But if you haven’t got what it takes, you won’t last long.’

‘Oh, I see. And I suppose you’ve got what it takes?’ The words were out of her mouth before she even realised it.

He merely smiled in reply. No – she wouldn’t call it a smile, more a superior, assured smirk, and it riled her. She couldn’t help herself.

‘I suspect that “what it takes” is having a lucrative sports contract. There seem to be plenty of talentless chumps who get far too much airtime on TV and radio in this sports-mad city.’

He shot her a glance as he pulled up near the university. ‘Here we are, and just in time to save you from overexposure to this particular celebrity chump.’

She looked at him defiantly as she climbed out of the car. ‘Look, I didn’t mean—’

‘Let me guess,’ he interrupted, smiling grimly. ‘You’re sorry – again,’ and he banged the car door and roared off up Swanston Street.

‘Hoon driver, that’s for sure!’ Merise called after him, and feeling flustered and strangely churned up inside, she stormed into the Arts Faculty building and took her frustration out on the door.



Cal didn’t go home; he went back to the club for an extra workout. He’d have the gym all to himself over lunchtime. Just as well. He wasn’t up for the usual male-bonding banter. He was feeling somehow on edge, thanks to her. Damn it! She got under his skin, and under his collar. She’d looked so sexy as she stood staring up at him with that adoring, phony smile. Sure, he knew she was only acting, but what the hell. It had annoyed him to see her wilting like that in the heat, looking so bloody vulnerable. He’d had an impulse to put his arms around her, to look after her. He laughed to himself. She’d really hate that; she’d think he was a total Neanderthal. He guessed she’d be tough as old boots – cynical and judgemental, too. There was a man-eater behind that sweet young face, and he didn’t plan to get devoured.

She was a stunner and everything about her set his body on edge, only his instinct told him to keep well clear. No point chasing her; he had no time for cheap thrills this year. It was going to be full-on footy all the way. Whatever she did to him, he’d control it, like he controlled everything else. He adjusted the treadmill to drive himself even harder and began to run. He’d work her out of his system and he’d get over her attractiveness, eventually. And he’d make sure she had no clue about the effect she had on him. There was no way he’d allow her to become a distraction.



Merise couldn’t sleep. She felt so unsettled. It wasn’t just the modelling, although that was unsettling enough; it was him. Why on earth was she letting him get to her like this? It wasn’t like her. She’d never been one of those women who needed a man in her life to feel complete. She’d had a couple of boyfriends at school, and one or two since she’d arrived in Melbourne, but only briefly and nothing even remotely serious. She’d decided she just wasn’t the romantic type, and she certainly wasn’t the type to make a fool of herself over a man. Cal McCoy had somehow worked his way inside her head tonight, and she didn’t like it. Of course he was gorgeous and athletic, but she’d never before been bowled over by a man’s looks, and she wasn’t going to let herself get carried away now – surely?

And why did he antagonise her so much? Why did she seem to antagonise him? On the one hand, she didn’t care what he thought of her, and on the other, she hated the idea that he thought her a fool. She wanted him to think well of her. One part of her wanted his attention, another part thought she’d be best to steer well clear of him – permanently.

She finally threw off the covers, went to her desk and turned on her new laptop. She thought that as she couldn’t sleep, she might as well send some emails. As she sorted unenthusiastically through her mail the image of Cal – and even more troubling, Cal shirtless – kept coming into her mind. Then she had an idea, and the next minute she’d abandoned her email and googled ‘Cal McCoy’. She came up with over 245 000 hits. She was stunned. Staggered. She refined her search, adding the word ‘articles’ and found his work in the Melbourne Times. She began reading.

Half an hour later and she was feeling even more dismayed. The man could write, too! His work was engaging, and he wrote about football with the authority of an expert. Yet his articles were also written with style and laced with humour, and he wrote so clearly that even she could understand, despite her lack of footy knowledge. Cal was no chump. If only she could write like that, she thought ruefully.

When she’d read his most recent article she began to explore some of the other sites where his name featured and soon found herself on Footy Fanatics, Australia’s biggest sports forum. There seemed to be dozens of threads devoted to him. Eagerly she read through the titles:


McCoy Is Ripped, Ready and Raring to go

Gotta Be Captain Courageous

Can McCoy Win Us a Flag?

Cal’s Top 5 Goals

This Is Why He’s Captain

Real McCoy YouTubes


It was plain silly. These men – and they were mostly men – were obsessed with Cal. It was enough to give anyone a case of over-inflated ego.

She then watched some of the YouTube videos and scanned many of the posts by the Yarraside faithful. She was intrigued by the loyalty Cal inspired in these total strangers. She read through several threads where they defended him fiercely from the verbal attacks of opposition supporters.


Devil Man: He might be a good player but McCoy’s an arrogant tosser – too up himself to take the team with him. He’ll never lead you to a flag.

One-Eyed Wolf: He’s halfway there already. It was his on-field leadership last year that drove the boys on. They’d kill for Cal. This is the Year of the Wolf, sonny. We’ll steamroll the Devils this year and Cal will leave your boys in the dirt.


By the time she went back to bed one thing was clear – McCoy was a real hero to these fans, and their expectations of him were enormous. It was also obvious that he was a hated figure to the fans of opposition teams. She’d had a look at less flattering threads, where he was described as ‘Captain Dud’ and ‘Captain Bighead’. To her, it seemed ridiculous that a simple ball game could engender such passion. So many people seemed to take it so seriously. Well, she supposed there was a great deal of money involved for someone like Cal.

One way or another, he would be under massive pressure to perform, especially now that he was leading the club. She wondered if he felt weighed down by that pressure; if that was why he seemed so intense? It also might explain why he’d be likely to avoid serious relationships. Cal McCoy just didn’t have time for romance. Not that she cared either way, she told herself.