Model Boyfriend

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Anna growled at him.

  Brendan jumped to his feet and ran into the back yard, the box of Milk Tray still in his hands.

  “Don’t make me do it!” he screeched, holding the box above his head, threatening to shake the chocolates onto the small garden.

  When Anna launched herself at him, he yelped, flung a chocolate at her face, dropped the box and ran.

  Anna smiled to herself as she strolled back inside, her precious cargo clutched tightly in her hands. No one was keeping her from her candy.

  BERNARD WAS AT the airport to meet Nick.

  “It is good to see you, mon ami,” he said, shaking hands then embracing Nick and kissing him on both cheeks. “You look fit, a little skinny, maybe. But we will feed you up. You are too busy being a super model to eat well, perhaps?”

  Nick laughed and punched Bernard lightly on the arm. Starving himself before a shoot had been his least favourite part of the whole modelling scene.

  “It’s good to see you, too, you bugger!”

  “And how is the very beautiful and serene Anna? I hear that congratulations are in order. Let us hope that the child looks like her, or if the poor creature has to look like you, I pray he has his mother’s brains.”

  Nick grinned.

  “You sound jealous, mate.”

  “Not at all. I am very happily single.”

  Nick frowned.

  “I thought you were back with Madeleine?”

  Bernard and his wife seemed to have an on-and-off relationship, and she lived in Paris with their four year-old son.

  “Mais oui, I am very happily single and married to Madeleine.”

  Nick shook his head. Some things just didn’t translate.

  On the drive from the airport, they discussed the club and all the players: who showed potential, who needed training, who lacked confidence, and who needed to be tried in a different position on the team.

  “We have a very young team and a very old team,” Bernard explained. “The old ones have experience, like us, n’est-ce pas? But the young ones need support, they need to be led. I think, Nick, that you should captain the team.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows.

  “But you’re Captain?”

  “I’m trying to be assistant coach and the captain and a team player. It’s not working so well for us. I want to move into coaching, so this will make sense.”

  “You don’t want me to settle in first, see how they all play?”

  Bernard shrugged, a gesture that could mean yes or no.

  “They play tonight against Biarritz Olympique—you will learn all you need.”

  Nick narrowed his eyes at Bernard.

  “So, basically, you’re throwing me in at the deep-end and any changes will make me look like the bad guy. Thanks, buddy!”

  Bernard laughed as Nick shook his head, conceding that he’d been set up.

  “Any particular problems that I should know about?”

  Bernard sucked his teeth.

  “The team has problems, yes, but I think you will see for yourself very soon.”

  “A heads up would be nice,” Nick said wryly.

  Bernard smiled.

  “You are a strategist, my friend. This will work well.”

  Nick hoped that Bernard was right. There was so much riding on it.

  It took just over an hour to drive from the airport to the ancient town of Carcassonne.

  Nick’s first view of his new home was the famous fortress, a medieval citadel that sat atop a rocky outcrop, surrounded by lush green fields.

  The town below La Cité was filled with limewashed houses with red terracotta roof tiles, so pretty that it looked like a film set.

  “Yes, we are very lucky,” Bernard nodded, seeing the expression on Nick’s face. “The stadium is very historic, too. It is one of the oldest in France, built in 1899, and is near the castle. You will see tonight. But first, I’ll take you to the team house.”

  Here we go again. New teammates.

  Nick was hoping that this would go well. It was strange the way the nerves of being the new guy never went away.

  Bernard followed the river along the valley, then pulled up outside a large whitewashed villa, surrounded by a crumbling stone wall with olive trees shading a Mediterranean garden, and with a number of older Renaults parked outside.

  Bernard shrugged, indicating the villa.

  “It’s quite new, only 100 years old. It’s been renovated, so you have Wifi. I know you will be eager to speak with la belle Anna.”

  Nick climbed out of the car, stretching his back and neck, hearing the creaks and cracks as his joints realigned.

  Bernard smiled at him sympathetically.

  “We are no longer young, mon ami.”

  Whilst Nick agreed, he didn’t necessarily need to hear that on his first day in France. And this was the second time Bernard had alluded to his age.

  “How much longer do you think you’ll go on playing?” Nick asked.

  Bernard gave a Gallic shrug and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “How long can I continue? I don’t know. This is my last season, perhaps one more. We will see.”

  Which was probably the only answer he could give. Then he gave Nick a long stare.

  “This is why I need to be successful as assistant coach.”

  Bernard clapped his hands to dispel the serious conversation.

  “Come, I will show you to your room.”

  The front door wasn’t locked and Bernard led him into a cool spacious hallway with a narrow staircase at the end. He helped Nick carry his bags and guitar case up to a plain white bedroom that contained a large wooden bed, with pale blue curtains framing a small window with cream shutters. An ancient wardrobe in dark wood stood in one corner, a small set of drawers next to it, and a comfortable looking leather chair that belonged in a previous century’s gentlemen’s club. Best of all, there was a tiny en suite bathroom, newly tiled.

  Nick peered out of the window and saw three large men, clearly rugby players, lounging in the weed-filled garden next to a new-looking swimming pool.

  Two of them ganged up on the largest, who seemed to be fast asleep, and tipped him into the pool, sunbed and all.

  He splashed around shouting and swearing in a mixture of French and English while the two men standing at the side laughed loudly.

  Bernard watched with a patient, amused look on his face.

  “They are like children, no? Come, you will meet your new teammates.”

  Nick followed Bernard back down the stairs and out to the poolside, where the big guy was climbing out of the pool and dripping onto the hot concrete.

  “Ça va? Say hello to Nick—he’ll be joining us as our new Fullback.”

  “G’day, Nick,” said the blond guy with a thick Australian accent. “I’m Russ. I thought you’d retired, mate. Have you decided to go around again?”

  Nick just smiled.

  “You know what it’s like.”

  They all understood what he meant, and seemed friendly as they shook hands.

  NICK SETTLED BACK against the heavy oak headboard and picked up his phone. He’d been longing to call Anna since he’d arrived, but knew that she’d been recording today. When they finally managed to connect, he had only twenty minutes before he had to head out to the stadium.

  His teammates had left a couple of hours earlier, and Bernard had arranged for a taxi to collect Nick later.

  “Nick! I’ve been thinking about you all day!”

  He sank back against the soft pillows, his eyes closing with pleasure.

  “How are you feeling? You’re not too tired, are you? Are you eating properly?”

  He heard her soft laugh and felt a corresponding smile tug at his lips.

  “I’m fine! Stop worrying! And the filming went well. I wasn’t as nervous as I thought I’d be. It was fun. And oh my God, they all fell in love with Brendan!”

  Nick grinned.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. H
e’s a smooth git.”

  “So, how was your day? Have you met your new teammates yet?”

  “Some of them, yeah, the lads in the house. I’m going to the stadium tonight, so I’ll meet the rest after. Bernard wants me to see them play first.” He cleared his throat. “He wants me to be Captain.”

  “Oh wow! Really? So soon? I guess I’m not that surprised because, well, you’re you.”

  Nick chuckled quietly.

  “Well, it was a surprise to me, but Bernard wants me to make the changes the team need. I’m okay with that. I’m not here to be popular.”

  “They’ll love you, babe,” she said softly. “Of course they will.”

  “Doesn’t matter if they do or they don’t—but I do need their respect.”

  Anna laughed gently.

  “Nick, you’ve led England to winning two World Cups! Of course they’ll respect you!”

  Nick wasn’t so sure. The rivalry between England and France was always sharp and sometimes bitter.

  “So, tell me about the guys you’ll be living with. Any hotties for Brendan?”

  Nick groaned.

  “Don’t ask me that! Russell is Australian and Inoke is from Fiji, so at least there’s two people on the team who speak English. That’ll make it easier. And there’s Grégoire who’s just moved down from near Paris for this season, so he’s living in the house with us, too. I haven’t heard him speak English yet, except to say ‘hello’. They seem like a good bunch. I guess I’ll let you know.”

  They talked for a little longer and then Nick had to rush to get his taxi.

  “I love you,” Anna whispered.

  “Love you more.”

  AS NICK STEPPED out of the taxi, he stared up at the entrance to the stadium. The fans were scattered in small groups and the place was less than a quarter full.

  A team official escorted him to the locker room, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He closed his eyes as memories flooded back: so many games, so many training sessions. God, he’d missed this.

  He was introduced to the rest of the team who were warming up for the game. Bernard spoke in English, but the coach’s speech was in French. Nick instantly regretted not paying attention during his French lessons at school.

  As the team ran out to the field, Nick took his place lineside by the coach. He was excited to see his new team play. He’d been told to expect differences, but as the game progressed he saw massive problems: the ref wasn’t on the ball; the players were slower and less skilled but big and dirty. He saw blatant illegal and borderline dangerous tackles that the ref wasn’t picking up. The rest of the game was all over the place with loose balls and illegal forward passes. It was messy and undisciplined

  Nick had his work cut out.

  AS GRÉGOIRE, HIS new teammate, drove through the wide arch of the stadium’s entrance the next morning, Nick felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the excitement of walking into his world and being part of it again.

  The stadium had been modernised several times, but still reflected the hundred plus years of history, the many, many games that had been played here—the victories, the losses, the defeats and disappointments. And, most likely, career-ending injuries.

  He banished that thought. Today would be a good day.

  As they arrived at their training session, they were all quiet, no doubt thinking about the shambles of the game the night before and the team’s humiliating defeat in front of a home crowd. Only Inoke seemed happy to chat to Nick. The Fijian had a sunny personality that seemed to go with his surprisingly high-pitched voice, even if it didn’t fit his massive frame.

  “You played with Fetuao Tui, hey, Nick?”

  “Yep, good bloke. Very fast for a big bugger.”

  Inoke giggled.

  “No hurry, no worry. But the man runs like a goat is nibbling his nuts!”

  Nick laughed, but then he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

  He liked Inoke—he lifted people’s spirits. Nick had seen him out on the field the night before, calling encouragement. Players like him could be more of an asset to the team than a player with greater talent but fewer people skills.

  Like Laurent.

  He’d spotted the Winger, seen his pace and ball-handling skills; but the man wasn’t a good team player and came across as something of a bully, bad-mouthing other players when they made a mistake, swearing at the referee and at fans.

  Players like him were trouble. And Nick would be keeping a close eye on him.

  Nick’s first team meeting was held in a small room next to the main office. Bernard came out and shook his hand, grinning broadly before kissing him on both cheeks—again—and pulling him into a tight hug.

  “Your official welcome, mon ami.”

  “Thanks,” Nick smiled, raising his eyebrows.

  He was introduced to the small management team and the head coach, Pière Gabon, a friendly man in his late sixties who didn’t speak a word of English. Then he met the senior players group who were there to back up the Captain.

  Bernard told them first of his plans to hand over the captaincy to Nick.

  There were surprised murmurings, but nothing negative. Instead, they seemed pleased and intrigued that he’d joined them.

  Finally, Nick was introduced to the rest of the team. He already knew Grégoire, Inoke and Russell, but the others were faces on a field. Of course, he’d done his homework and studied their form so he had a working knowledge of their strengths and weaknesses, all the information that a Captain needed at his fingertips.

  Nick was watching Laurent’s face when the captaincy news was announced. The man scowled and muttered something in French that Nick was pretty sure he wouldn’t like.

  But there was time for him to get to know Laurent: Nick suspected that the other player wouldn’t enjoy the experience.

  He gave his welcoming speech while Bernard translated it, watching the faces of the men he was expected to lead. He’d given the Captain’s speech many times when he’d played at the Phoenixes, but there he’d known all the players well, having come up through the ranks with them. Here, he was an unknown quantity.

  The players listened politely, several showing interest, but only Laurent continued to ignore him.

  At the end of his speech, Nick moved among them, shaking the hands of each, finding some small, positive thing to say to each of them about the game the night before.

  There was an unpleasant moment when it looked as though Laurent wouldn’t shake his hand, but Bernard snapped something at him in rapid French, and the man curled his lip, briefly gripping Nick’s hand.

  Nick frowned. He didn’t like the attitude or the fact that he could smell alcohol on the man’s breath. Good thing he had a remedy for that.

  They all headed to the locker room and changed into their training kit. Nick pulled on the new colours for the first time, wishing he could take a tramadol to ease the ever-present ache in his shoulder, then led them off on laps around the field. Lap after lap after lap, until the team started to complain. Nick kept the laps going until Laurent pulled off to the side of the field and threw up.

  Nick jogged toward him with Bernard following.

  “Never turn up to another training session stinking of alcohol,” he said coldly, Bernard translating briskly. “Never ignore another Captain’s speech, and never mouth-off at the referee or the fans again. You can change, or you can change teams. I don’t tolerate arseholes. Are we clear?”

  “Comprends?” Bernard demanded.

  Laurent nodded sulkily, wiping spittle from his mouth.

  Bernard smiled at Nick.

  “He understands.”

  BRENDAN GASPED AGAIN and Anna glared at him.

  “Stop it!”

  “I didn’t say anything,” he huffed.

  “You keep … making noises!” Anna snapped, irritated and on edge.

  “Well, pardon me for breathing, Ms. Bad-tempered-bun-in-the-oven.”

  Anna slumped in her c
hair.

  “I’m being a bitch. I’m sorry, I can’t help it. It’s just … that wretched book!”

  Molly had published her kiss-and-tell-all story—Naughty Nick: My Life with the Real Nick Renshaw, and it was already a huge hit in the UK, quickly topping the charts in both hardback and e-book.

  She was also appearing on several chat shows, coyly telling people that she and Nick had been a hot item and desperately in love, but if they wanted to know the details, they’d have to read the book.

  Reviews were terrible, but that didn’t stop the sales. Everyone seemed to want to know if ‘Nice-guy Nick’ had feet of clay.

  Anna felt her blood pressure shoot up every time someone asked her about it. The bitch even had the nerve to send them a copy of the book via her lawyers. The book that Brendan was reading right now.

  “Knowledge is power,” he informed her when she tried to toss the book in the trash where it belonged.

  So Anna was refusing to read it, but suffering by watching Brendan read it instead. She’d made him hide the cover with a paper bag, but Anna still felt anger thrum through her veins. A blowup of the cover seemed to be in every bookshop and, annoyingly, it kept popping up on her Amazon feed when she went to look at baby buggies or washable diapers. The photograph showed a slightly startled Nick with his arms around Molly. It had been taken at their engagement party. Anna hated that picture.

  Her gaze snapped back to Brendan who was sniggering at something. And every now and then he’d gasp, shake his head, laugh or roll his eyes. It was driving her nuts, but she couldn’t make herself leave the room either.

  Of course, the book had been mentioned on Loose Women since it was a topical news and chat show. Anna had been pre-warned by the longest serving anchor, Ruth, that the producers wanted her to address it. She was forced to respond to a question about it in front of the live studio audience while the show was being filmed.

  So when Ruth asked Anna if she’d read the book, she simply smiled and said, “I rarely read fiction.”

  That had gotten her a big laugh and a round of applause, but inside it hurt. It hurt to think that the venomous bitch was getting away with telling lies about Nick and about Anna, too. Not only getting away with it, but making money from it. There was no justice.