Authors: Mary Costello
Merise had settled well into the first semester at uni. She had been working even harder than usual, not just because the work was more difficult this year, but because she was determined to keep herself very, very busy, to stop herself brooding over Cal McCoy. She’d accepted that she couldn’t avoid hearing mention of his name, or the sight of his face. His image was everywhere. The footy season was now in full swing, the Wolves were going well and the media was filled with stories about them – stories which Merise studiously avoided.
She and Erica met for coffee most mornings at Ti Amo’s café in Lygon Street. They would sit for about forty-five minutes, companionably reading the papers and chatting about the news of the day. Erica was already at their favourite table by the time Merise bustled in, dropped her leather portfolio under the table, threw herself into a chair and exclaimed, ‘Ugh! I don’t like Mondays. I have to cart about ten kilos of books around with me all day. What’s up?’
Erica was just sitting there, staring up at her, an odd, frozen expression on her face.
‘What?’ Merise repeated, alarmed now. ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. It’s not me. It’s just, look . . .’ and she pushed the
Tribune
across the table to Merise, pointing at the picture on the front page. It was an unsettling image of two men tussling as they rolled down the steps of a gaudy building. One of the men was the red-headed Wolves player she recognised as Josh Murray, and the other was Cal McCoy. The headline over the image screamed:
Wild Night for the Wolves!
Merise looked up, reluctant to comprehend, unable to believe. ‘What’s this?’ she asked faintly.
‘The Yarraside Wolves. Apparently some of the players are in big trouble,’ Erica said quietly across the table, as the café was growing busy now. ‘They played in Brisbane yesterday, and it says here that last night some of them were drinking and misbehaving at their hotel, and . . . well, there were some women involved.’ She pointed to the photo, directed Merise to the four skimpily clad female figures at the top of the hotel steps.
Merise just looked, feeling strangely numb as Erica placed a second newspaper before her. The
Times
headline read:
Wolves on the Prowl! – Yarraside Captain in Gold Coast Ruckus
She mechanically read the article.
‘Yarraside Wolves captain, Cal McCoy, was last night embroiled in a fight with a teammate following a night of drunken revelry at the Windrush Hotel on the Gold Coast.
Guest Tina Lowry complained to management when the noise from the players’ room continued well past midnight. ‘I rang the reception desk just after one in the morning, and again at half-past three. But they just didn’t stop all night. They were filthy drunk and they had women in the room. It was disgusting.’
Hotel staff say players spent the evening in the hotel bar with a number of young women. They refused to leave when the bar closed and had to be forcibly ejected by security staff. The party then continued in a room shared by two of the players believed to be in their second year at Yarraside. Surprisingly, captain Cal McCoy appears to have participated in the hijinks, besmirching his formerly pristine reputation. The juvenile behaviour is out of character for a player until now considered the ideal role model for younger players and a shining light of the game.’
Merise continued to read, but the words didn’t make sense. Surely it couldn’t be true. She couldn’t imagine the man she knew behaving like that. It was impossible. Sure, he was no angel – in fact, he could be rude, selfish and arrogant – but this was something different. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him – believing that despite everything, he was basically sensible, strong and steady. Yarraside had entrusted him with the captaincy, and he clearly had the respect of his teammates, but could he really be a drunken lout? The words swam back into focus:
McCoy, who has since returned to Melbourne, was unavailable for comment. Club media spokesperson Paige Gorton said the club was treating the matter very seriously, but would conduct an internal investigation as a matter of priority before commenting on the allegations.
‘Looks pretty damning, doesn’t it?’ said Erica. ‘And it’s a terrible distraction for the players.’
‘Yeah,’ Merise responded woodenly, ‘but I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. This sort of thing happens all the time, doesn’t it? Just another bunch of rabid footballers out on the town and out of control.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not good for you either, Merise, to be associated with a team full of ferals, is it? That’s hardly the image you want to project.’
‘No,’ said Merise. ‘It’s definitely not good, but I’m well out of all that now.’
After breakfast they walked over to the uni, but once Erica had gone to class, Merise decided to miss her first lecture, and went straight home instead. She couldn’t concentrate anyway. She tried to keep occupied by sorting and backing up her computer files, but before long she found herself clicking onto her home page where she saw the headline, ‘Wolves’ Wild Romp – Pics Go Viral’. She quickly disconnected and rushed off to her ten o’clock tutorial.
She needn’t have bothered; she was unable to contribute anything to the discussion or even to keep her mind on the topic. At eleven she decided there was no point hanging around for the rest of the day; she just couldn’t work up any interest for anything. Instead she went home and decided to lose herself in activity by cleaning her apartment from top to bottom.
She often cleaned when she was agitated; her attempt, she realised, to impose order on the chaos of life. She banged about the kitchen, emptying and reorganising cupboards, feeling angry at herself. This was so stupid. What did it matter to her what went on at Yarraside? Why should she care what Cal McCoy did with his spare time? But she did care, she had to admit it, and somehow she couldn’t bear to think of him drunk, out of control, picking up some random girl. How could he have so little respect for himself? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like him. But when she glanced again at the newspaper lying on the table, she felt a weight pressing on her chest – the photo didn’t lie. She’d been wrong about Cal after all. She’d built up a picture of him as some sort of hero – hateful in some ways – but a hero nonetheless. And now it turned out that he was just like all the other sports celebrities who behaved like adolescents. It was time for her to move on.
She switched on the radio as she gathered a pile of laundry and loaded the washing machine. Naturally, the Yarraside scandal was the hot issue on talk-back radio. She wanted to ignore the furore; but couldn’t help listening with horrified fascination to the speculation, the gloating and insults of opposition supporters and the staunch defence of Cal by the Yarraside barrackers. They weren’t going to hear their captain pilloried without fighting back, and somehow that comforted her.
The story was also the first item on the news.
‘Significantly, Wolves Captain, Cal McCoy, has been unavailable for comment this morning. It seems the Yarraside star and last year’s Best and Fairest winner has compromised his reputation. The incident threatens to be very damaging to McCoy, and there’s now talk of his being stood down as captain as early as today.’
Merise switched off, shocked. It hadn’t occurred to her that they might strip him of the captaincy. It would kill him – she knew him well enough to realise that. He’d be shattered. But it wasn’t her business, she told herself, digging out the vacuum cleaner, dusters, furniture polish and window cleaner.
When physical activity didn’t work, she tried studying. She was doing a very poor job of trying to make notes for her next Public Relations seminar when her mobile rang.
‘Merise? Greg Bedford here. How are you?’
‘Who?’
‘Greg Bedford, from
Celebrity Media
. We met at Southbank . . .’ It was that vulture from that tacky rag. He hadn’t lost any time and in that moment it struck her that she too might be implicated in this seedy story.
‘Listen, Merise, I was just wondering, what do you, as the face of the Yarraside Wolves, make of the incident at the Windrush Hotel in Brisbane?’
She instantly cut him off. But how had he even got hold of her mobile number? She sat there, horrified, angry and nonplussed until the phone went again. She checked before answering. This time it was Bev.
‘Hello? Bev?’
The older woman could sense the apprehension in Merise’s voice and immediately understood it. She got straight down to business. ‘Merise, have you been contacted by the media yet?’
‘Yes, just a minute ago – Greg Bedford. I didn’t say anything. I cut him off.’
‘Good. You’ve seen the papers?’
‘Yes, but it’s nothing to do with me, Bev. I mean . . .’
‘They’ll be after your comment, trust me, just as soon as they hunt down your address.’
‘But, Bev, I have no time for this. What can I do? I don’t want to be involved.’
‘I’m afraid you are involved, whether you like it or not. Now let’s see . . . can you get down to SMO’s offices asap? We can help you with a strategy. We all need to be on the same page in dealing with this.’
Merise didn’t want to go near SMO, but she knew Bev was right. ‘Okay then,’ she agreed with sinking spirits, ‘I’ll come as soon as I can.’
Reporters were waiting for her the minute she opened the door of her apartment. She looked neither left nor right, although she couldn’t help but recognise the Channel Seven news reporter in a tight orange suit who stuck the microphone under her chin.
‘Merise, please – just a moment. Please . . . what do you think of the Windrush Hotel affair, Merise?’
Merise kept walking, kept looking ahead, wondering if she should say nothing, or ‘No comment’. Would they follow her all the way to the tram stop, the way court reporters pursued defendants in criminal cases? That thought spurred her on. She was walking so quickly that the reporter in her too-high heels had to trot to keep up with her.
‘Has Cal McCoy been in contact with you since the incident? Are you and Cal McCoy dating?’
She just kept walking, trying to keep her face as expressionless as possible.
‘Merise, as the face of Yarraside’s women supporters, would you care to comment on these latest developments? Are you prepared to stand by the club even after this outrageous behaviour?’
She closed her ears as best she could, kept her eyes straight ahead, and when she rounded the corner and saw a tram just pulling up, she ran, jumped on and escaped.
As the crowded tram jolted its way into the city centre her mobile buzzed. When she picked up she heard that hated name, ‘Greg Bedford’ again, immediately stabbed the End Call button and put the phone on silent. Her head was beginning to throb, and she was growing steadily angrier at Cal. It was his fault that she was in this position. How could he be so stupid, so careless of his position? She admitted to herself now that she had begun to think that he liked her, but she must have been kidding herself. Maybe that was just what she wanted to believe because of the way she felt for him. She sighed and hopped off the tram in bustling Collins Street.
SMO had offices on the seventh floor of one of Melbourne’s most impressive new buildings. It was cool and silent in the vast lobby, and in the broad corridor where she found herself when she stepped out of the lift. And it was empty, except for Cal McCoy, who stood there looking like thunder.
‘Oh,’ she gasped involuntarily, almost stepping into his arms as she hurried out of the lift. ‘You!’
‘Merise!’ He was as surprised and discomfited as she was.
‘Um, excuse me,’ she stammered, but he cut her off.
‘Why are you here?’
She felt a stabbing pain above her right eye, and her own voice sounded oddly distant when she said, ‘Because SMO sent for me. Apparently I’m embroiled in your mess – just like everyone who has anything to do with the Yarraside Wolves.’
‘My mess?’ he echoed. She glanced up at him, then immediately looked away; she couldn’t trust herself when he was looking at her like that. She’d never before seen him look so raw and vulnerable. And no wonder; his whole career might be on the line here – that’s what would matter to him. She tried to harden her heart against him.
‘Well I wasn’t snapped rolling down the steps of the Windrush Hotel,’ she flung at him.
He looked utterly exasperated. ‘Merise, I’d like you to know what happened up there. I—’No thanks,’ she snapped, ‘save it for the media.’
He looked at her for a moment, his expression difficult to read, then turned abruptly and strode into a room just along the corridor.
Merise was still standing in the empty corridor, feeling rather sick and unsure what to do, when the lift door opened and Bev stepped out. ‘There you are! Glad you made it in one piece. Let’s get in and see what’s happening. What’s up? You look pale.’
‘I . . . I feel terrible. I’ve got a bad headache.’
‘No wonder; this is all pretty stressful if you’re not used to it. But I think the meeting should be a quick one,’ Bev said as she steered a reluctant Merise into SMO’s lavish board room.
As Merise took her place near the far end of the massive oval table, she was painfully aware of Cal sitting right in the middle, with Paige at his right hand. She recognised some of the faces from SMO and a group of dour-faced men she assumed were Yarraside officials. She wished she were anywhere else at that moment other than in that room, where the atmosphere was thick with tension.
The director of SMO opened proceedings, cautioning everyone of the importance of presenting a united front on the incident.
‘We recommend that the club hold a press conference later today, to make a brief statement so we can put this to bed asap.’ He then solemnly turned to the club representatives. ‘What we need to know is, what do you want us to tell the media?’
Paige immediately leant forward, but before she had a chance to open her mouth, Cal spoke out. ‘Tell them the truth,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Paige ventured, ‘Cal wasn’t there when all the nonsense was going on.’