Model Boyfriend

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  He seemed to have hit it off with Grégoire, in particular.

  “Is Grég gay?” Anna asked, gazing out of the window as Nick drove past rolling fields and vineyards groaning with heavy fruit, some already harvested.

  Nick thought for a moment.

  “Dunno. He’s never mentioned any girlfriends and he doesn’t seem that interested in women when I’ve been out with all the lads. Maybe?”

  Anna smiled.

  “I think Brendan has a little crush on him.”

  Nick’s eyes widened comically.

  “Woah! Brendan is gay?!”

  Anna laughed and playfully slapped Nick’s arm. He pretended to pout.

  “I thought Bren had a crush on me!”

  “Oh babe, he adores you completely—don’t be jealous.”

  Nick smirked and shot her a quick smile.

  “There must be gay rugby players,” she said thoughtfully. “But I can’t think of any. Have you ever played with gay teammates?”

  Nick’s eyes followed the winding road, but he nodded slowly.

  “Yeah, thinking back, there were a couple of guys who came out after their playing careers had finished. But there are a few more these days. Gareth Thomas is the guy who comes to mind. He came out in 2009 and then played for two more years—he was capped for Wales a hundred times. Great guy, a Winger.”

  Anna nodded.

  “Oh, right. That was before I came to the UK, but I remember hearing his name. That must have been pretty brave of him.”

  Nick nodded.

  “Yeah, there’ve been a few before—an Australian player came out in the nineties. It’s more accepted now, I think.” He sighed. “I know there’s this stereotype of the rugby thug, but if you’re a good player, a good team member, that’s all that matters. And when Gareth came out, his teammates supported him all the way—that’s what a team is: we’re there for each other. Family.”

  Anna understood. She knew how hard it had been for Nick, playing for the Finchley Phoenixes for four years, then losing his rugby family so abruptly. She could also see how much it meant to him to be part of a team again.

  And she worried what would happen when Nick’s season with the Cuirassiers was up.

  Nick pulled into the tiny courtyard of an old farmhouse, looking doubtfully at the GPS display, but this was definitely the place.

  The stone walls were crumbling in places and the paint on the wooden shutters was peeling. An air of abandonment and sadness hung over the old building.

  Anna fished in her purse for a giant iron key that the realtor had given her. It was heavy and pitted with rust, but she strode forward, determined to be positive.

  The substantial wooden door swung open with a theatrical groan and Anna half expected Lurch to come lumbering along the hallway.

  Cobwebs bloomed in the half-light, and she ducked down, flinching when some caught in her hair. She got as far as the kitchen, shrieked, and crashed into Nick as she turned and ran.

  “What’s wrong?” he snapped, grabbing her arms.

  “Beetles!” she squeaked, shaking free, and shot out through the front door.

  Nick peered into the kitchen and saw that the floor was shiny, dark, and moving. As he flicked on the light switch, thousands of black beetles scuttled across the worn linoleum.

  Nick shuddered and followed Anna.

  She was pale when he climbed back in the car, and had even closed the windows.

  “That was…”

  “…like a horror film, Nick said.

  Anna nodded.

  “Let’s get the heck out of here!”

  Nick couldn’t agree more.

  At the second house, Anna made Nick enter first. But this one was completely different—a fin de siècle villa painted primrose yellow with white shutters and a red tiled roof. Sunshine poured in through the wide windows, and the floral curtains stirred in the breeze when Anna flung the French doors open in the backyard. Well, it was more of a tiny patio, a small sun trap, but it had some sturdy looking garden furniture and a real grapevine scaling the sunny wall.

  Anna’s optimism came flooding back, and she ran into every room, crossing her fingers that she wouldn’t find anything that would rule it out. Especially any creepy-crawlies.

  But the villa was as serene as it was beautiful and her spirits soared.

  “I love it!” she said as she came flying down the stairs into Nick’s arms. “It’s perfect.”

  Nick smiled, his eyes creasing with happiness.

  It felt like everything was finally coming together.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Nick and the guys left for an early training session, with the hope that they’d be finished by lunchtime.

  Even though it was October, the little walled garden radiated warmth, and Anna sat under the shade of a large awning, drinking tea and feeling pleasantly worn out from a long night of love-making with Nick.

  They’d agreed terms with the villa’s owner, and would be able to have the keys the following week. It had all been so easy, so civilized, the deal agreed on a handshake. The owner was a fan of the Cuirsassiers. Nick’s name was good enough for him.

  The sun’s gentle rays seeped into her body, and Anna felt a deep sense of peace. After the hectic months they’d had, it was incredibly welcome.

  Suddenly, Brendan screeched in her ear.

  “Ann-ie! Wake up!”

  “Oh my God, Brendan! What?!” she yelped, her heart jumping.

  “Ooh, sorry, baby-mama! I was overcome with excitement.”

  He flopped down on the sunbed next to her.

  “Guess what?”

  “No,” said Anna grumpily.

  “Ann-ie! Go on, guess!”

  “Nope.”

  “Spoilsport!”

  “Child.”

  “Grumpy granny knickers!”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you have some news to tell me, Bren?”

  “Ooh yes! I’m so glad you asked!” His voice dropped to an excited whisper. “I slept with Grégoire!”

  Anna sat up, now fully awake.

  “Really?”

  “I wouldn’t make up something like that!” he said huffily, then caught her expression. “Okay, so I totally would! But I’m telling you the truth! I slept with Grégoire—and it was wonderful. I’m in love!”

  Anna smiled.

  “Aw, that’s great, Bren! I’m really happy for you.”

  Brendan blinked and stared at her.

  “That’s it? You’re happy for me?”

  “Well, yes. Um, very happy.”

  Brendan leapt to his feet and started pacing up and down.

  “I don’t think you understand. He’s incredible! He’s sweet and kind and funny, and a total hottie hunk. His schlong is at least a foot long—I’m feeling it all the way to my toes.”

  “Bren! Ew! TMI!”

  He turned his face towards her, his expression earnest.

  “It’s love. I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

  “Honey, you’ve known him for five minutes, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Brendan scowled.

  “What difference does that make? You were attracted to Nick the first time you saw him, before you even knew who he was. Five minutes or five years, Grégoire is the one.”

  Anna wanted to hope for the best. Seeing Brendan happy would be wonderful. But he did have a tendency to exaggerate. A lot.

  “And how does Grégoire feel?” she asked carefully.

  Brendan beamed.

  “He says he’s never met anyone like me before.”

  Anna was pretty certain that was true.

  She told Nick the news as soon as he returned from training. He didn’t seem excited.

  “Why are you pulling that face?”

  Nick sighed and sat down next to her.

  “Because the team is struggling and I need Grég to have his head in the game, not thinking about whether he’s going to get some tonight.”

&
nbsp; Anna bristled immediately.

  “And would you say that if he’d met a new woman?”

  “Yes. Especially a woman,” and he raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Nick shrugged.

  “You’re not wrong. Once word gets out, it’ll be harder for Grég. The team will be okay about it—mostly—but opposing teams will use anything to get under your skin.”

  Anna winced knowing that Nick was right. She knew the psychology of gamesmanship all too well, but she also remembered some of the vile things players on other teams had said to Nick when they were both mired in scandal.

  “Poor guy,” she said sympathetically.

  “Yeah, and if Bren does his usual disappearing act after dating him for a week, I’ll send Grég to you.”

  “Gee, thanks!”

  “Well, you are a trained sports psychologist, luv. Besides, you’re good at pep talks for the broken-hearted.”

  Anna sighed and nodded.

  “Oh dear.”

  BUT THEY WERE both wrong: for the rest of the visit, Brendan and Grégoire were inseparable. Brendan met him from training and they went off together exploring the towns and villages around Carcassonne; they ate together every night, and shared a bed, too.

  Brendan glowed with happiness, spending hours telling Anna how wonderful his new lover was when Grégoire had to go to training or an away-game.

  Interestingly, Nick reported that Grégoire was playing better than ever: far from not having his head in the game, happiness gave him confidence, and that was winning the Cuirassiers points.

  His teammates were a little surprised when Grégoire came out to them but, on the whole, they accepted him, delighted with their unexpected winning streak.

  Anna smiled and listened to Brendan extolling Grégoire’s virtues: his handsome face, his sexy body, his enormous penis (as Brendan insisted on telling her repeatedly). She was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But two weeks later, by the end of their visit, they were still going strong.

  When they were back in London, Anna was aware that Brendan texted and emailed Grégoire, and even went so far as to announce that Grégoire was his #officialboyfriend.

  Brendan was happy.

  NICK WAS BECOMING more and more irritated with Laurent’s attitude. On a good day, Laurent was a strong player, but he wasn’t a team player. He seemed to have a particular beef with Grégoire ever since he’d learned that the younger man was gay.

  When Nick discussed the problem with Bernard, he pulled a face and shrugged his shoulders.

  “He’s from Paris, he hates everyone the same: les provinciaux; men like Grég, un crevette discret; younger players; southerners; northerners…” he glanced at Nick with a weary smile on his face. “He hates les Anglais most of all.”

  “Thank for the pep talk, buddy,” Nick said, raising his eyebrows. “But I’m serious—he’s causing trouble.”

  Bernard sighed.

  “I know this, but he is talented. Give him another kick in his derrière—see if that works.”

  Being Captain to a team of players who disliked each other intensely was bloody hard work.

  It was two days before Nick’s Vogue photoshoot in Paris. Laurent was being a dick about it, but since he was a dick about everything, Nick ignored him. But the muttered words and sneering looks were tiresome. If Nick’s French was more fluent, he’d probably have been more annoyed, but since Laurent made a point of refusing to speak or understand English, Nick had to do everything in French, with Bernard’s help.

  But during this particular training session, it was Grégoire who bore the brunt of Laurent’s jibes and disparaging comments. The man was a bully, and because Nick wasn’t the kind of man he could bully, he was picking on Grégoire.

  Nick had had enough: Laurent had been warned to change and he hadn’t—now he had to pay the price.

  They were running through realistic game-plays—the guys who played on the left wing versus the guys who played on the right.

  Grégoire had the ball and just as he passed it, Laurent came in with a late tackle and took him off his feet.

  Grégoire hadn’t seen Laurent coming—he’d been completely blindsided, and lay on the ground, winded. Laurent stood above him, smirking as the Coach blew the whistle.

  “Follasse sportif!” Laurent sneered.

  Nick wasn’t sure what Laurent had said, but from the look on Grégoire’s face, it was nothing pleasant.

  “Laurent! Ici!” Nick yelled. “Get over here!”

  At first the man pretended not to hear, but he couldn’t ignore Nick’s angry bellow echoing across the field a second time.

  “Laurent! Maintenant! Vas-y-en! NOW!”

  The man scowled at Nick then smirked at Grégoire.

  “Il kiffe ton mec!”

  Grégoire scrambled to his feet, still struggling to breathe, anger and hatred on his face. Nick saw immediately that Grégoire had lost control, but he was too late to stop him lunging at a surprised Laurent and punching him in the face. Laurent tripped and landed on his backside.

  “Putain!” Fuck!

  Grégoire was on him in a second, and he got in several good punches before Laurent headbutted him in the face. The skin on Grégoire’s forehead split, blood pouring everywhere.

  Nick and Bernard yelled at them to stop, but the two men were long past listening to reason. Nick sprinted across the field and yanked Laurent backwards by his collar, dragging him bodily off Grégoire. Laurent howled and elbowed Nick in the face. He felt his cheekbone explode with pain and blood gushed from his nose and down his chin. His eyes were watering so badly he could hardly see, but he didn’t let go of Laurent who was thrashing around, drumming his heels in the dirt.

  Bernard had wrapped his meaty arms around Grégoire, stopping him from throwing himself at Laurent again, and the rest of the team ran forward, keeping the two players apart.

  Finally, order was restored, and the two men glared at each other, Grégoire shaking his head like an angry bull, flecks of blood flying from his face.

  “Merde!” Shit!

  The elderly medic limped onto the field, studied Grégoire forehead, Nick’s cheek, and Laurent’s broken nose, threw his hands in the air and summoned them all to the locker room.

  Nick was pretty certain that he’d have a black eye. The medic handed Nick a bag of ice to help take the swelling down.

  The relief was immediate.

  He sat on the physio table, holding the ice to his throbbing face, and swore softly in French and English.

  At least his language skills were improving.

  “WHAT DID LAURENT say to Grég to make him throw a punch?”

  Later that evening, Nick Facetimed Anna. That always made him feel better.

  “He’d been saying stuff to him ever since he heard Grég was gay: little digs when no one else could hear. But he deliberately didn’t throw the ball to him in the last game. I noticed that, too, and had a word with Laurent. He denied it, but I told him not to let it happen again.”

  Anna frowned.

  “It sounds like Grég had been dealing well enough. What set him off this time?”

  Nick gave a pained grin.

  “Il kiffe ton mec—basically Laurent told Grég that I fancied Brendan, but in a really insulting way, uh, little pouf, something like that.”

  Anna gasped.

  “What an asshole!”

  “Yeah, it was the last straw for Grég.” Nick sighed. “He’ll be fined and suspended because he threw the first punch, but I’ll make sure Laurent gets worse. I won’t have bullying on my team.”

  Nick’s voice was grim.

  “I know that you have to discipline both of them, but is there any chance they could talk it out, as well?” Anna suggested. “Maybe handle that side of it?”

  “The way he’s feeling right now, I’ve got a good idea how Grég would like to handle it,” Nick said wryly, gingerly touching his swollen cheek
.

  At the end of the line, Anna laughed gently.

  “Ah yes, rugby logic.”

  Nick grunted.

  “They’ll both miss playing in at least one game, but they’ll still have to come to the away-game against Grenobles. That’s a five-hour ride on the team bus, so…”

  “Ah, captive audience,” said Anna.

  Nick grinned.

  “Something like that.”

  The following day, both Grégoire and Laurent were suspended from the next game and fined a weeks’ wages each. Laurent was also told that he was on his final warning—one more fuck up and he was out. The gravity of the situation seemed to have finally sunk in, because he apologized to Grégoire as instructed without a single sarcastic comment.

  Grégoire gritted his teeth and shook the man’s hand.

  But it left Nick two players short from his starting line-up with an important away-game coming up in ten days. At least it would give two of the first team squad members a chance to be in the starting line-up, and two other players from the second team were promoted up to the bench.

  Nick had a spectacular black eye, but at least the swelling on his cheek had gone down after icing it carefully. Which meant that the Vogue photoshoot would have to be cancelled.

  He emailed Adrienne with the news and waited for her to light up his phone.

  NICK WAS WRONG. Again.

  When Adrienne had called him back, not at all happy, he’d assumed that was the end of his modelling career, for now, at least. But an hour later, she phoned him again, considerably more positive because the photographer wanted to go ahead with the shoot: Nick was to show up as expected.

  “Who the hell wants to photograph someone with a black eye?” Nick exclaimed to Anna when they spoke that evening.

  “I have no idea,” she said calmly. “Maybe it makes a change from all the pretty-boy Mr. Perfects they usually have on the cover of Vogue.”

  Nick’s laugh was wry.

  “Are you saying I’m a bit of rough?”

  “Hmm, now there’s a loaded question! How do you want me to answer, babe?”