‘H
ello?’ Zara called out at Ward’s open front door, making another house call—when she never made house calls as a general rule.
Ward met her at the door. ‘Hey, you’re here.’
For the last time.
‘Look at you.’ Wow. Her heart fluttered at Ward’s cheeky grin and how his amber eyes reflected the sunshine behind her. Her knees wobbled and her temperature soared. Was that from the morning sun on her back—in winter?
‘Um…’ Focus. He’s a patient. A client. A human thoroughbred. Which is why she worked on horses so there was none of this other scary level of distracting emotional crap to deal with.
She inhaled deep to pull on her professional mask. She’d worked on hundreds, if not thousands of bodies in her time, and this was just another body to heal. Even if it was so near perfect it made her soul sing with its own internal choir. ‘What did the physio say?’
‘Wouldn’t touch me, like you said.’ Ward grinned as he leaned against the wall.
‘Good.’ The physio knew what he was doing. Yet it wasn’t her business. Ward’s body wasn’t hers to worry about. But she did—all day yesterday. He was her final thought last night and her first thought this morning, it never switched off over this guy.
But this was her last house call, ever. To anyone.
‘The physio showed me some exercises, and I did what you said. I feel good, stiff…um.’ He hesitated, shuffled his socked feet and shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets. ‘I mean, my shoulders and muscles were stiff. I mean…’
She tried to stop grinning at his embarrassment, it was adorable.
But she wasn’t here to stroke his ego or chat niceties, she was here to do a job. So, she unwound her scarf and headed for the kitchen. ‘That muscle tightness is to be expected. Let’s work on that. Take a seat at the table and remove your shirt for me, please.’
She dumped her jacket and scarf on the table. Shoving up her jumper’s sleeves, she washed her hands at the sink, staring out through the wide window, it faced a large backyard with nothing in it but trimmed lawn. There were no chairs, no tables, no boats, no bikes or any other big-boy’s toys, not even a barbecue. Nothing. Didn’t they spend any time out there?
She plucked a glass from the rack and got herself a drink of water. From the window’s reflection, she watched Ward remove his shirt. His jeans hung dangerously low on his hips, exposing the full six pack and the torso of an elite athlete. Her drinking glass trembled against her teeth. Dry in the mouth, she drank the entire glass and was still thirsty.
‘Is your mum around?’ She could do with a chaperone to not be alone with this guy. But then again, why bother, she was a nobody, when Ward was this footballer who had his own fan page.
‘Nah, she’s at home.’ Ward tossed his shirt to the side, his chair scraped across the floor tiles as he sat at the head of the table.
‘Okay.’ She could cope. She hoped.
From her jacket, she pulled out a small bottle and uncapped the liniment while her trembling palms itched to rub against his skin.
‘What’s that?’ Ward asked.
‘A herbal ointment that aids in muscle recovery, it’s very effective.’ Should she tell Ward she used this oil on horses?
She poured the dark oil, the colour of turmeric and cinnamon, into her cupped hand. Its menthol herbal scents triggered her senses to focus on the job. Palms together, she rubbed them for heated friction. Inhaled deep, exhaled slowly, and placed her palms on his skin, truly wanting to help him.
His whole body sighed and relaxed under her touch. ‘Oh man, those hands are heavenly.’
She smiled. ‘I’m glad you approve.’
His shoulders and neck grew limp as his breathing deepened. ‘It’s like magic. You’ll put me to sleep again.’
‘You told me you hadn’t slept for a week and might need to catch up.’ He reacted well to her treatment, like a lot of her patients. But she didn’t zone out for hours when she worked on the horses, not like she did with Ward.
‘I don’t think so. I dozed all day on the cushions.’
‘Good, you’re relaxed.’
‘I am. Slept all night. Early to bed and everything.’ He cleared his throat, tensing under her hands. ‘My coach visited, yesterday.’
‘Coach? Is he your boss?’
‘Yep.’
‘I see.’ She added pressure to his muscles to work out the stress this coach was causing.
‘Coach didn’t believe it, even though the boys and I tried to convince him.’
‘That’s normal. My father’s the same.’ Her dad owed her big time for making her return.
‘Ditto on the disbelief, and I’m sorry.’ Ward’s chuckle carried through to her palms making her smile. ‘But this is good. You’ve helped me so much.’ Again, he sighed deeper and relaxed.
The clock, bearing the team logo on the wall, ticked with each shift of the second hand. A car on the street tooted. The fridge hummed. Ward’s breathing deepened, as she rubbed hypnotic patterns onto his skin.
Ward cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘So, anyway…’
Zara grinned at Ward’s attempt to keep his focus.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘What’s your surname?’
‘Phelps.’ She grinned wider. Obviously, someone had asked that question. Perhaps this coach? How much star power did Ward have for the coach to visit, like she was now, performing a house call that broke her own rules? ‘Speaking of names, how come no one calls you Brendan? I’ve only heard your mother use it.’ Even Ron from the track called him Ward.
‘My dad’s name is Brendan too. Named after his father. Dad gets called Brian which is his middle name.’
‘So, you’re Brendan Junior?’
‘Hated being called that. I only got called Brendan whenever I got into trouble.’
‘Which must’ve been regularly.’ She pressed her lips to suppress a giggle.
‘Want me to answer that?’ He peeked over his shoulder, his now familiar grin spread across his face.
‘I think you just did.’ She laughed, forgetting she was meant to be working. ‘Sorry.’ She’d never teased her clients before, but somehow, Ward was breaking through those professional and personal boundaries.
Dad’s fault.
And this was her last visit.
‘Coach wants to know, including me…’ Again, the muscles in his neck tightened at the mention of the coach. ‘What do you recommend for my recovery?’
She rubbed her thumbs in harder to fight against his muscular tension. ‘You’re almost there now.’
‘Am I?’ His amber eyes displayed hope.
She couldn’t swallow and licked her dry lips. ‘What you’re suffering from is the after effects as your nerves and body returns to normal.’ While her own body felt far from normal. She turned his head away so she could focus on the job. ‘When do you see your specialist?’ How soon before she could leave?
‘Monday. I’ll be telling him there’ll be no surgery.’
‘I’ll bet you a carton of beer he’ll tell you that too.’
‘Thank you, Zara. That means a lot.’
His sincerity made her almost melt on the spot.
‘Can I do stuff now?’ Ward asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Really?’ Again, his look of hope tugged at her heart.
Why was this guy so appealing to her that he effortlessly breached all her defences? ‘Please don’t over exert yourself and try to rest over the weekend. What’s the rush?’
He sighed heavily, yet the tension tightened in his shoulders as she tried to soothe his worries. ‘I hate this.’
‘What?’ She lifted her hands from his skin as if it was burning him. Oh no.
‘Not you. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
She exhaled, relieved to hear it.
‘Please continue.’
‘Sure.’ Wow, wake-up call or what. Her eyes flicked to the clock timing this final visit. ‘Let me guess, being an athlete, sitting around isn’t for you.’
‘I’m always training or doing something for the Club. This weekend we’ve got an interstate game on, otherwise I’d go to give them my support.’
‘Are you ready for that yet?’
‘I’m bored, trapped in this house and what’s worse…’ He exhaled so deep his shoulders dropped with it. ‘My family know I’m home alone and I don’t want to hang here all weekend in case my sister visits.’
‘I see.’ She grinned at his uncomfortable position. ‘Your sister is unique, I have to admire her for that.’
‘Really?’
‘You don’t?’
‘Meh.’ He shrugged, and his muscles were twitchy under her palms. This was definitely her last visit because he didn’t need any more intense treatment.
So why was she still here? ‘Don’t you have any mates to hang out with so you’re not tempted to overexert yourself?’
‘They’re all away for the game this weekend. I’ve lost touch with other mates because football’s my way of life.
‘I’ve seen how focused people are with their careers. Down the racetrack, the trainers all live and breathe racing, and the jockeys are consumed with their diets to keep under the scales. With you, being at the elite level, would it be the same?’
‘Weight’s not a worry, but fitness is a must,’ replied Ward. ‘My sister is dating a jockey and I know nothing about his sport.’
‘Ron’s a nice guy. It’s good he’s come back from his drug charges.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Sure. Bet you’d have banned substances for medicines too?’
‘We do. What was Ron’s deal?’
‘I dunno,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘They’re not that strict on jockeys, it’s the horses that they test for steroids and stuff. Don’t you get drug tested too?’
‘All the time. I doubt they’d breath-test horses? Are they made to wear their sponsor’s brand of clothing too?’
‘On the saddle blankets and stable’s uniforms they do. The jockeys are petitioning to get clearance to wear sponsorship logos on their riding breeches for race-meets. Considering they don’t own the silks that belong to the horse, jockeys should be allowed to make money on the side. Is that why you have all this stuff?’ Waving to the drinking glass on the table bearing the brand of the team logo.
‘You should see the bathroom.’
‘I have. You have more products in your bathroom than I’ve seen in an all-girls’ boarding school bathroom.’
‘Sponsors.’
‘Wow. I’d never realised that.’
‘Do they have sponsors in racing?’
‘Race days, I only remember the beer and wine suppliers and airlines who supply the prize money. Can’t miss that form of advertising. Horses don’t get a wage, only winnings. But horses are owned by people paying for the privilege in these syndicates, and each horse has a team behind them to race and train.’
‘We train, get a wage, suffer from sponsor restrictive choices, and have a great fan club where people pay to join. We have footy teams, not individuals, and we don’t run around a track.’
‘But you do run on a field just like racehorses do and that’s almost oval shaped too. Both sports are televised. Spectators bet on both sports for the win. And you have signature colours to go for your team, which is the same for horses and jockeys in their co-ordinated silks that are registered to that horse like a team.’
‘I’m not a horse and we don’t wear silk.’ He frowned at the table.
‘And I’m not a horse whisperer.’ She whispered into his ear that brought back his smile. ‘So, what does a footballer do in his spare time?’
‘Hang out with my mates. If we’re not doing things for the club, we’re training.’
‘So, it’s like working five days of the week?’ With huge monetary gains, according to her father.
‘Except we have games on the weekends and travel interstate. There’s after-hour PR gigs and club dinners we have to attend. It’s full-on during the season and we can’t take holidays in winter.’ He sighed under her palms as she rubbed the ointment deep into his amazing muscle tone.
‘So, after playing you come home and sit in that fancy recliner chair and watch TV?’
‘Yeah?’ He peeked up at her sheepishly.
‘That’s normal. Mind you, not many people have a small bar fridge sitting next to their chairs. If my dad had one, he’d never move again.’
‘Mum says the same for my dad.’
‘So why not hang out with your parents this weekend? Your mother is lovely.’
‘She is, but…’ He hesitated. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love my folks, they’re the best. Yet, since this fall, they’ve been hanging around a fair bit. I’m not complaining, I know they do it because they care… I sound like a whingeing moron.’
‘You love them but can’t live with them.’ She stilled her hands as he turned to face her.
‘Yeah. I hope you’re not getting the wrong impression of me for me saying that?’
He looked so worried about her opinion. ‘It’s okay, I’m the same.’
He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yeah. I love my dad to bits, but we can’t live together.’
‘Don’t you live with him on the farm?’
‘Sure. Dad has his house and I have mine on the same property. My dad hates being mollycoddled, which, I suspect you’ve been getting from your mother?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which means you’re better.’ And her work was done.
‘Am I?’
Her phone rang. ‘Excuse me.’ She wiped her hands on the cloth and grabbed her mobile from her jacket’s pocket. ‘Hey, Dad?’
‘Are you still in town there, luv?’
‘I’m just finishing with Brendan. Why?’ She grinned at Ward’s eye roll for saying his first name, but had to turn away so she didn’t stare slack-jawed at his naked torso.
Her dad’s baritone voice seemed gravelly over the phone. ‘Listen, luv, I just gotta call from Katie. Reckon you can collect the horse float from the track?’
‘Oh no.’ She leaned her lower back against the sink as her stomach cringed tight. ‘How bad?’
‘Not good. We’ll text you the address.’
‘Sure, Dad.’ She adored Katie, but hated it every time that woman rang.
‘Gimme a call later and let me know what you’re bringing in so we can prepare?’
She sighed as sorrow swirled in her lower tummy and the hairs on her forearms rose, he didn’t sound too happy. ‘Sure, Dad. Bye.’
‘Everything okay?’ Ward asked.
She didn’t want to leave and face what was at the address texted to her phone. ‘Um, sorry…’ Yeah, she was sorry with the sour taste of dread in her mouth. ‘I need to cut this visit short.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Ward stood up, asking, ‘Can I help?’
‘I dunno?’ The guy was a professional footballer, why would he want to get his hands dirty. ‘Could I ask a tiny favour of you?’
‘Name it.’
‘Can you reverse a trailer?’
‘Yep.’
‘Have you ever done a horse float?
‘No. But I can reverse my dad’s caravan into his shed, which is a pretty tight squeeze.’
‘I dunno.’ Unfortunately, no one would be trackside this time of day.
‘Let me help? I need to get out of the house, and this way you’ll make sure I don’t overexert myself.’ He then lowered his head as his amber eyes warmed her soul. ‘Please?’
‘You don’t want to do this stuff.’ Zara didn’t want to do it either.
‘Come on, I can help. I promise to behave. Otherwise I’m sitting here at the mercy of my family, and you’ve helped me out so much already, it’s the least I can do. Please.’
She couldn’t refuse that pleading expression of his. ‘Okay. You can come for a drive to the track because I need help putting on the horse float.’
‘Really? I thought you’d be all over that horse stuff.’
‘Horses, yes. Reversing a float, nope. I can’t even reverse a normal trailer. Dad’s given up teaching me.’ Was she really agreeing to this? ‘Get dressed, and warmly, please.’
‘Yes, boss.’ he said with a grin, slipping on his shirt.
‘Don’t call me that. I’m no one’s boss.’
Shirt on, he tried to straighten his messy hair. ‘You’d be your own boss?’
‘Kind of. I don’t answer to coaches, but I do have picky clients.’ She wrapped her scarf around her neck and slipped on her jacket. Patting her pockets for keys, and on her phone, she Googled directions for the address while walking to the door.
‘I hope I haven’t put you out as a client?’ Ward asked, opening the front door while slipping on his jacket and runners.
‘You?’ She faltered and looked at the man who was never meant to be her client in the first place. She didn’t have human clients. ‘You’re not a client, Brendan.’ Not anymore—he never was, no matter how much she’d tried to convince herself.
‘Am I in trouble?’ He gave her a grin as he slipped on a cap and sunglasses, palming his phone, wallet, and keys.
‘As long as you don’t stick your head out of the ute’s window and bark at traffic, and there’s to be no back-seat driving or I’ll tie you onto the rear tray.’ She giggled to herself, walking down the path.
His laugh echoed behind her as he closed the front door and followed, throwing a fist into the air. ‘I’m free.’
She smiled at him, unlocking her ute’s passenger door. How long would their smiles last, when Katie’s calls always made Zara sick to the stomach.