The Reluctant Wag

Chapter 3


Although Merise and Erica could rarely afford to eat out, their funds stretched to an evening drink in Lygon Street, Carlton’s famous Italian precinct. It was a balmy night and they were seated outside the University Café, drinking blood-orange mineral waters and watching the families and young lovers saunter past.

‘Are you going to the Yarraside game on Saturday?’ asked Erica.

‘Me? No. What game? I thought the footy didn’t start until March?’

‘The season proper doesn’t, but there’s a preseason competition in February and it starts this weekend. Barrackers can’t wait until March. They need their footy fix now.’

‘Well, I’m not going. I knew nothing about it. Why would I go anyway?’

‘But you’re supposed to be the face of—’

Merise threw a screwed-up paper napkin across the table at her friend. ‘Don’t you start! Anyhow, I wasn’t invited.’

‘I suppose the preseason comp is just a series of practice matches. The teams don’t take it very seriously. Just thought it would give you the chance to see your boys in action.’

Merise clasped her hands under her chin in mock enthralment, and cried, ‘Be still my heart!’

‘Okay,’ said Erica, throwing the napkin ball straight back at her, ‘be like that. But if you change your mind, it’s on Channel Seven at two-thirty.’

‘Thanks for the info, but I won’t be changing my mind,’ Merise said. ‘Now, are we going to the theatre or not?’

The girls sometimes called in to the Half-Price Tiks office at Town Hall and snaffled low-priced seats. That night they managed to get tickets to a new play that had received rave reviews, and were seated well up in the gods as the audience started to trickle in.

Both girls had brought binoculars to serve as opera glasses, and as Merise scanned the programme, Erica studied the patrons as they arrived. ‘Nice outfit!’ she commented.

‘Where?’

‘The dress circle, third row back. Red dress. Imagine being able to afford seats like that.’

Merise raised her binoculars and focused on the stylish woman in the good seats. ‘Yeah, fabulous!’

But Erica had already moved on. ‘Hey – no. It can’t be. Is it?’

‘What? Who?’

‘Front row, dress circle, right in the middle. Could that possibly be—’

‘Cal McCoy!’ Merise finished. ‘It’s him all right. I can’t believe it!’ And that was the end of her quiet evening at the theatre. She felt instantly unsettled.

‘Oh, Merise, doesn’t he look smart! Who’s he talking to?’

Merise adjusted her binoculars. Were her hands shaking just a bit? ‘Um, that very grand-looking older couple? No idea, but they seem to know him pretty well.’

‘Looks like he knows the guy behind him, too.’

‘Yep, and two women a few seats up are talking to him as well.’ She was trying hard to sound chatty, matter-of-fact. He was just your average mega-celebrity that she’d just happened to meet, and was now . . . thinking about a lot.

‘He seems to be holding court, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah. Odd. I wouldn’t have picked him for a theatre-goer at all, but he looks as if he’s a regular here.’

‘Cal McCoy,’ said Erica with a flourish, ‘man of many parts!’

Merise had really been looking forward to the play, but now she found it impossible to concentrate on the drama onstage. Her attention kept straying to the front row of the circle, to the tall figure who sat head and shoulders above those around him. He seemed to be following the action as intensely as he did everything else. Merise was beginning to be troubled by the fact that she seemed to be preoccupied by him. What was wrong with her? She’d seen lots of attractive men at uni, but none of them had ever had this effect on her. What was it with him?

Despite Erica’s urging, she refused to go down to the foyer for a drink at the interval.

‘But I’m parched,’ Erica complained.

‘Fine, you go. I’ll stay here. I’m not spending a fortune on a glass of tepid lemonade.’

‘Hey, we might run into Cal McCoy. He could afford to buy us a drink.’

‘No, Erica. I don’t want him to think I’m stalking him.’

‘Why would you be stalking him?’

‘Why indeed?’

Erica looked thoughtfully at her friend for a moment. Merise pretended to search for something in her handbag.

‘Merise, tell me the truth, do you fancy him?’

Merise looked up in mock surprise. ‘McCoy? God no! What makes you think that?’

‘Nothing, except maybe the fact that you’ve had your binoculars trained on him for the past hour. But I’m probably reading too much into the situation, right?’

And the two girls looked at one another and burst into a fit of giggles. But over the next couple of days Merise kept thinking back to the way she’d obsessively watched Cal. It was so unlike her to act like that. She’d have to stop thinking about him – he was getting in the way of her well-ordered life.



Somehow, for the first time in her life, that Saturday afternoon Merise found herself in front of the TV, watching Weekend Footy. The game between Yarraside and the Point Cook Panthers was about to begin. She told herself that she was only watching to learn something about the club whose campaign she was fronting. But when Cal McCoy led the Wolves out on to the ground, a great cheer went up from the almost-packed stadium and Merise felt her stomach fizz.

Ridiculous! But – he looked so very manly, so sure of himself, so, well . . . heroic.

‘And what a monster cheer from the Yarraside crowd for their new captain!’ said the TV presenter. Cal didn’t acknowledge it. Not even the ghost of a smile. He ran along, well in front of his teammates, bouncing the ball with every step, his face a mask of concentration and determination. When called to the centre square by the umpire for the coin toss he ignored the young girl in the Yarraside scarf who’d been chosen to throw the coin, and just stood staring ferociously at the Panthers captain. Gosh! He might have given the poor kid the time of day, Merise thought, as the teams took up their starting positions.

She hadn’t expected to be enthralled by the game, and above all by McCoy’s part in it. She didn’t need to know anything about footy to see that he dominated play, excited the crowd and inspired his teammates with his driving energy and superb skill. It was his aggression that really surprised her. Just before half-time, when the game was still in the balance, a gorilla-sized Panthers player lined up beside Cal and began niggling him as they both followed the ball. He pushed him repeatedly in the back, elbowed him in the side and tried nudging him out of the way, sledging him the whole time. Cal took it for half a minute, then turned, grabbed the offender by the guernsey, lifted him off his feet and threw him across the ground. The umpire had to intervene to cool the situation. ‘McCoy just asserting his dominance,’ explained the commentator.

Cal scored two goals and was cited by the TV experts as best-on-ground. To Merise he was certainly the most desirable man-on-ground. She couldn’t believe that three hours had passed and she’d barely moved. What was she thinking of? This man was eating into her life! She’d better get a grip before it was too late.

But just thirty seconds after the siren sounded, when she lifted the remote to switch off, the screen was suddenly filled with Cal’s face. He was standing in the middle of Etihad Stadium and a sports presenter was holding a mic up to his face.

‘Congratulations, Cal. You boys played a pretty impressive game. Off to a good start for the year?’

Cal was breathing heavily. ‘Yeah, mate, not bad. It was good for some of the younger lads to get a game.’

‘A big ask for your new recruits to go up against last year’s premiers in their first game, but they didn’t seem rattled.’

‘They weren’t. They screwed their courage to the sticking place, mate, and they didn’t fail.’

Merise did a double-take. He’d just paraphrased Shakespeare, and from Macbeth – her favourite play. This man was an enigma, she thought, an increasingly fascinating one.

The next day, Merise was supposed to be completing her online enrolment for the coming academic year, when she found herself opening Google, clicking on Images and searching for Cal McCoy. She began to browse through dozens of photos of him playing footy, with fans, and at awards ceremonies, often with beautiful women. She went through these one by one, carefully studying the escorts he’d chosen to see if he was attracted to any particular type of woman. But there was no pattern that she could see. He had posed with petite blondes, willowy redheads, curvaceous brunettes. So many women in his life. That was a good thing, she told herself – it meant that he wouldn’t notice her. She’d be just another female, and after all, theirs was purely a working relationship. She was in it strictly for the money, and he probably hadn’t given her a second thought. Fine by her; she could get on with the rest of her life.

As Merise approached Tuftons, Melbourne’s largest independent bookshop, she noticed a long line of people snaking up the street and around the corner. Something big must be happening there, she guessed. She went into the shop by the quieter side entrance and headed for the Academic section. The university bookshop had sold out of a secondary text and she wanted to get a copy as soon as possible.

She was scanning the shelves when she felt a poke in the back. She turned to find a laughing Jason Cowley, a friend from uni, now sporting a Tuftons’ staff T-shirt.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Looking for a book, what else? Are you working here?’

‘Yes, just started. I love it; there’s always something happening.’

‘Yeah, looks like it. Why the big crowd today?’

‘We’ve got a major book-signing happening. Some hot-shot photographer has done a series of sports portraits – The Gods of Sport I think it’s called.’

‘Should go well. You’ve definitely got a great turn-out.’

‘Yeah, but we’ve got the author out the back carking it; unfortunately the divinity designated to star at the book launch hasn’t bothered to turn up. He hasn’t even phoned to explain or apologise or anything.’

‘Really? What a loser! Who is it?’

‘Some cricketer, I think. Col McCoy.’ Jason was about as interested in sport as Merise was. She hid her surprise, and merely said, ‘You mean Cal McCoy, the footballer?’

‘Do I? Not sure. Whoever he is, he must be totally up himself to stand up all these readers – bloody insane! The photographer’s just going to have to do the whole thing himself. But of course nobody came to see him. They’re all here for the paragon of the pitch, or whatever he is.’

Merise was shocked. She knew that Cal had many demands on his time; still, to leave all those fans in the lurch was going too far – even for a star of his status. But, she figured, when you got up there in the celebrity stratosphere, it probably wasn’t hard to lose touch with reality and with lesser mortals.

A few days later, she was having an early-morning coffee with Erica at a tiny café in one of Melbourne’s inner-city laneways when she opened the Melbourne Times to be confronted by her own image. It was on page five: a half-page photo of her smiling – adoringly of course – up at Cal. In the photo he was looking straight at her and he was smiling, too. She couldn’t remember that. He looked almost charming. A trick of the camera, probably.

‘Oh, my God!’ cried Erica, snatching the paper out of her hand. ‘Wow! You look gorgeous! You’re like . . . a . . . like a real model.’

‘Thanks,’ said Merise sardonically, ‘but look – they’ve photoshopped me to death!’

‘It’s still you, Merise, and it’s no wonder McCoy is looking at you like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘As if he could devour you.’

‘Is he?’ Merise studied the photo. ‘No, he’s just the consummate professional – giving his all for his club.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Merise felt herself blush as she felt a tiny thrill on the inside.



When Cal walked into the players’ room that morning a cacophony of hoots and wolf whistles arose from his teammates.

‘MMMwwwaaahhh!’ Tom Rivers, his vice captain, made a loud kissing sound as he held up the newspaper with the photo of Cal and Merise. ‘Mr Wonderful!’ he shrieked in mock adoration. The others fell about laughing.

Cal only grinned and snapped the back of his legs with the wet towel he’d just carried from the lap pool.

‘Are you two a number?’ asked Tom, half-seriously.

Cal set his jaw. ‘I’ll tell you what’s a number, mate – your lousy twelve-disposal game on Saturday, with a feeble fifty-three per cent kicking efficiency. That’s a number you’d want to be working on.’

‘Yeah right.’ Tom took no offence. He’d known Cal since junior league. ‘First game of the year. I must have been a bit rusty,’ he said.

‘My first game, too,’ Cal responded coolly, ‘and I got “best-on-ground”.’

‘And so modest about it! Anyway, she’s a decent-looking girl. When’s the big day?’

‘Grand Final Day,’ Cal shot back. ‘September.’

Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Geez, mate, don’t you ever think of anything but footy?’

‘No, I don’t; and I wish you wouldn’t either. Okay, boys, let’s just concentrate on the Bulls this week. We got off to a good start, now we’ve got to build on that, right?’

‘Right,’ they chorused back and no one dared mention Merise again that day.

But Cal’s mind was on that photo. It had been a shock when he’d first seen it. To him there was a raw intimacy in the way he was looking at Merise. He’d had no idea that the shot would turn out like that. It was the kind of shot that got the gossip magazines going, and he didn’t need the hassle of any more media scrutiny. Just one more good reason to stay away from Merise Merrick.



Merise was determined to get off to a good start at uni this year and aimed to get through all her texts before term began. She was reading in the university library when her phone began to throb. It was Bev.

‘Yes?’ Merise answered, her voice little more than a whisper.

‘Merise, good news. SMO wants another photo shoot.’

‘Oh, good,’ I think. At least the money would be welcome.

‘Yes, it’s terrific. They’re so pleased with the first lot that they want to run with the same theme again.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You and Cal McCoy – you two seem to have a natural chemistry going.’

‘Do we? I hadn’t noticed,’ Merise lied. This would mean seeing Cal again. ‘What’s involved?’

‘Right, the concept behind it is that Yarraside supporters are with the team all the way, through thick and thin.’

‘Okay, so what will we be doing?’ she asked cautiously.

‘You’ll be jogging with the team.’

Merise stared blankly at the wall of the reading room. ‘Jogging? Me? As in running?’

‘That’s the idea,’ said Bev with a little laugh. ‘You’ll be running around the Tan – you know – the track that runs around the outside of the Botanical Gardens.’

‘I’ve heard of it. I might even have been there, inadvertently, but I’ve never noticed it. Listen, Bev, I’ve never run so much as a lap of the school athletics track in my life! I’d be hopeless.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter!’ Bev said airily. ‘You don’t actually have to run the whole thing. You just have to look the part. You can simply trot along at your own pace and let the photographer snap away.’

‘I see, well he should get some action shots, then – probably of me having a heart attack.’

Bev only howled with laughter, then arranged to meet her at the gates of the Botanical Gardens at six-thirty that Thursday morning.

At seven-thirty Merise emerged from the SMO caravan which was parked just outside a rear gate of the Gardens. She was kitted out in pink shorts and sweatbands and a Yarraside training T-shirt, and she felt horribly self-conscious.

She stood chatting to Bev and Tim for a few minutes until the Yarraside players appeared in the distance, running at a steady pace towards them. Tim stepped into their path and raised his hand when he saw Cal. Cal slowed, running on the spot as the other players ran past him. Cal looked at Merise and she knew her heart was racing, but she just looked back at him, expressionless.

‘Morning,’ he said, openly studying her skimpy outfit.

Merise felt the blush start, but she only said ‘Good morning’ with frigid politeness and turned away, pretending to be watching Simon the photographer with intense interest.

‘Ready to go?’ asked Tim. ‘Merise, fall in beside Cal and off you both go.’

They set off in silence, Merise staring down at the track and Cal looking straight ahead.

‘Okay!’ yelled Tim behind them. ‘And pick up the pace, kids!’

Merise cast a quick look over her shoulder to see Simon shadowing them. ‘How many times will we have to do this?’ she asked Cal.

‘We’ve already done ten laps,’ he said. ‘This is a training session first and a photo shoot second.’ When she didn’t respond he added, ‘I like your gear. Cute!’

‘Cute?’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Very, especially those micro-shorts. Now come on, Merise, let’s button it and jog.’

She felt like screaming. Instead, she suddenly picked up speed and shot out in front of him. But Cal was beside her again in three long, powerful strides, and didn’t miss a beat.

‘Hey, don’t provoke me. I’m seriously tempted to tackle you to the ground.’ Her mouth dropped open and she was about to object vigorously, but now it was Cal’s turn to sprint ahead and a second later he had disappeared round a bend, leaving her fuming and panting at the same time. She could just about thump him! If he thought he could speak to her like that, he’d have to think again. She wasn’t going to be wowed or swayed by that kind of cheap innuendo.

She was standing with her hands on her hips when Tim began to call up ahead, ‘Come on now, Merise, don’t dawdle. Remember – you’re with the Wolves every step of the way! Hurry up – you’re losing Cal.’

Merise only growled in frustration and set off again at a reluctant trot.

‘Okay there, Merise?’ She turned to see a player she half recognised coming up beside her. He had a friendly face and a playful look in his eyes. He matched his pace to hers.

‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine.’

‘Since McCoy refused to introduce me, I’ll do it myself. I’m Tom Rivers; delighted to meet you at last.’

‘Hello, Tom. You’re the deputy captain aren’t you?’

His eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘Vice-captain, technically. Yes, I’m our hero’s right-hand man.’

‘Hero! Is that how he sees himself?’ she responded tartly.

Tom only laughed. ‘It’s how everybody else sees him, so he’s got to live up to the role. Mind you, he drives us all nuts in the process.’

‘I’ll bet he does. He just drives me nuts full stop.’

Tom looked at her out of the corner of his eye. They’d just rounded the bend and could see Cal pounding away a good distance in front of them.

‘He can be a hard man, that’s for sure. He expects a lot from us, but an awful lot more from himself.’

‘I’m sure he’s a paragon,’ she said, not bothering to mask her skepticism.

‘Actually, he kind of is, in footy terms anyway.’

Before she could respond Cal came up behind them, roughly elbowed Tom out of his way and placed his hand in the small of her back. ‘That photographer guy’s waiting just up ahead,’ he said. ‘Let’s nip in here and give him the slip.’ And he steered her through a small gateway that led into the gardens and directed her along a narrow path between high shrubs.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Let’s go for a drink.’

‘A drink? We’re supposed to be doing a photo shoot,’ she protested.

‘Come on! How many shots does that guy need? You look fantastic in all of them anyway, and so long as I look as if I’m suffering but determined, they’ll be happy.’

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. ‘Where would we get a drink at this time of the morning? The café can’t be open yet.’

‘No, but I know the owner. We can scrounge a mineral water or something. We’ll go in the back way.’

He led her into a small parking area at the rear of the café and opened the door.

‘Hi, Cal!’ a man called out cheerily as they made their way through the kitchen and out into the stylish café. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Two juices would be good.’ He didn’t bother consulting her. ‘And, Matt, in case anyone asks, you didn’t see us.’

Matt laughed. ‘Of course not. I never do.’

They sat at a table near the terrace. It was cool and quiet and the window-wall gave them a clear view of the ornamental lake edged by luscious tree ferns and graceful willows. She turned to look at him, and felt a thrill run through her. He was so . . . compelling. There was a sheen of sweat on his golden skin – a glow of health and strength that was irresistibly attractive. And when he smiled at the waiter who brought their drinks, his whole face was transformed and she felt something inside give way. Could he tell? Could he see the effect he had on her? She prayed that he couldn’t, and tried to look composed.

‘I’ve never been here before,’ she commented. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Yeah, better than pounding the Tan, that’s for sure.’

‘Yes, but I wonder if I’m about to get the sack for playing truant.’

‘They’d have to sack me, too, and they won’t do that,’ he said confidently. He was so totally sure of himself and his place in the world, she thought.

‘But they need you. You’re – well, Cal McCoy – they can’t do without you. I’m just another model, and there’s plenty more where I came from, all just dying to race around Melbourne with the Yarraside heroes.’

‘Yep.’ He didn’t elaborate, just eyed her in a detached way.

‘And I suspect that while it might be flattering for players at first, it must get really annoying after a while – to be so adored.’

‘Yeah,’ he said lightly, ‘it’s a pain in the neck. But we get paid a lot of money to do something we love, so we can’t really complain about the unwelcome attention.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘And what about you? Enjoying the publicity?’

‘I hate it!’ she said with feeling. ‘The whole celebrity scene just isn’t me. I can’t stand it.’

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Then why do it?’

‘I really need the money, to be honest, and I thought it would be good for my career to get some sort of insight into how a media campaign works.’

He said nothing, looking at her rather sceptically. Then he quickly finished his drink and glanced at his watch.

‘We should go,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Yep. I’ve got to get over to the training oval now.’

‘Where will we say we were?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I can always sweet-talk Paige.’

Yes, she’d just bet he could. He probably thought he could sweet-talk any woman, including her. It was with this thought in her mind that she barely looked at him when they got back to the SMO caravan, and she dismissed him with an impersonal, ‘See you.’ She was praying that it fooled everyone – especially Cal.

Merise was making herself a pizza for dinner when she flicked on the radio and was immediately arrested by the sound of a familiar voice – a deep, manly voice with a sharp note that somehow made it irresistibly easy on the ear. It was Cal.

‘The Wolves’ barrackers stick with us because we’ve never bottomed out. We’ve played finals footy for the past five years, gradually improving our position on the ladder, and we mean to do better this year.’

‘Are you saying it’s the premiership or bust?’

‘Let’s just say that every man on the team will give everything this year, and if we don’t finish top two, we’ll consider the year to have been a complete failure.’

She was trying to concentrate on chopping cubes of feta for the pizza, but he sounded so determined, so strong, yet so cool, that she couldn’t help realising that she found the dark timbre of his voice absolutely thrilling. Oh well, she reasoned, she’d always loved the sound of the human voice – but then she added, especially his.

‘And something else new this season, Cal – the Wolves’ newest barracker in today’s ads. What a knockout she is, mate! Must be hard work posing with her.’ A burst of all-lads-together style laughter followed.

Cal paused before responding. ‘Yeah, she’s not a bad sort,’ he said, almost dismissively.

‘Not a bad sort.’ Merise threw her knife across the workbench. It made her sound like . . . like . . . one of his footy groupies. She practically threw the pizza into the oven and banged the door shut.

‘Come on now, Cal,’ insisted the presenter, ‘you can tell us. Are you and this classy lady an item?’

Even through the radio she could feel the coldness of his response. ‘Very definitely not.’

She didn’t know whether to feel more disappointed or insulted. She snapped off the radio and began roughly banging dishes into the sink. She felt under siege. It seemed to her that Cal McCoy – someone she’d never even heard of until recently – was now everywhere she turned. He was on billboards, in the papers, on TV, radio and the internet. She was being assailed by images and audio of the one man she didn’t want to think about.

She sighed, took several deep breaths. Don’t let it get to you, she told herself. Deal with the things you can control. She resolved to spend the rest of the evening looking at one of the textbooks she hadn’t yet tackled. Guide to Australasian Media might put her to sleep, but if nothing else, it would take her mind off him.