Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

My darling Nick,

  Enjoy today, my love. You deserve this. You’ve worked so hard to get here, on and off the field. Be yourself. Be amazing.

  I love you,

  A x

  PS Don’t get injured!

  He smiled at the postscript. No, he definitely wasn’t going to get injured today.

  It was a small moment of peace, a few seconds of calm in what would be a crazy day.

  The locker room began to fill up, first with the physios and then all the other players.

  Over the next few hours before the game, Nick hardly had a moment to think. He had Press interviews, friends and former teammates to say hello to and reminisce for a few minutes, the joys and sorrows of shared experiences, a shared life.

  The England manager Eddie Jones was there, along with Nick’s friend from the Phoenixes, Jason Oduba, who should have been playing but had picked up a groin strain. Young Ben Richards was there, shy and quiet, a new signing for the Phoenixes. It seemed right to Nick to have a rookie playing—a way of passing the torch, perhaps.

  He also had a meet and greet with the Chief Executive of West Bowing RFU, the amateur club he’d played in as a kid. He was donating £100,000 of the gate money to them.

  The man pumped his hand vigorously, emotion shining in his kind old eyes.

  “Thank you so much! This means a lot to us, that you’ve remembered us. All the youngsters we’ll be able to help with this money—you don’t know what it means!”

  Nick nodded, embarrassed, because he did know what £100,000 meant to a small amateur club.

  He was happy to donate the money but truthfully it was no skin off his nose. It was either donate it or let the taxman take it.

  A player was allowed to keep a certain sum from the ticket sales at his retirement testimonial game, but above that, it was taxable. Nick preferred that the money went to his old club. But the rest of the gate money was his—and it had to last the rest of his life.

  It seemed like half the world wanted to shake his hand that day: old teammates, a few celebrities, friends, rivals, and of course, Kenny.

  The guy was still a dickhead, but Nick had forgiven him, and that felt good.

  He smirked at Nick, then sauntered over to shake hands, grinning as he took out his two front teeth, the result of an injury from a long-ago game.

  “Give my regards to Anna.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow as he shook Kenny’s hand.

  “You can give them yourself later, but I can’t guarantee she won’t punch you in the face. Mate.”

  Kenny laughed and went to get changed.

  The noise level in the locker room gradually escalated as the excitement and anticipation built. When no one was looking, Nick popped a tramadol into his mouth and swallowed it down with water, massaging his aching shoulder. So many injuries, so many surgeries—he should be glad this was over.

  Finally, the coach told everyone to be quiet.

  “Well, lads, you all know why you’re here. I’ll hand you over to your Captain for the last time, Nick Renshaw.”

  A ribald cheer went up, and Nick grinned at the sea of faces, eyeing him expectantly.

  “Thanks for playing today, lads. I really appreciate your support. I know you’re not getting paid for this, but I am.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I know it’s a friendly, but let’s be honest, there’s no such thing as a friendly rugby game.” There were nods and smiles all around. Nick gave an evil grin. “And the first person to smash Kenny gets a thousand pounds.”

  The look on Kenny’s face was priceless—well, worth a grand, at least.

  “All joking aside, enjoy the game and let’s put on a real show for the fans. Rah! By the way, nobody is allowed to tackle me!”

  With a final laugh and slaps on the back, they left the locker room.

  Nick walked out onto the field, hand in hand with two ten year-old mascots, kids from his old amateur club. The look of awe on their young faces was another reminder of everything he was saying goodbye to.

  The noise on the field was louder than a train rushing towards him, louder than a tsunami thundering down. From the darkness of the tunnel, he watched the cheerleaders dancing to Let’s Get Ready to Rumble and smiled. God, I’ll miss this.

  Then as the teams strode onto the field, the music changed to Bowie’s Heroes, the Phoenixes’ theme tune, Nick’s team for the last four years. A massive roar from the crowd, a wall of noise, drowned out the music, and they started to chant—82,000 fans on their feet: “Ren-shaw! Ren-shaw! Ren-shaw!”

  Emotion hit Nick in the centre of his chest.

  They’re here for me…

  It didn’t seem real. He waved to the crowd, and the roar became deafening.

  It was overwhelming, completely staggering. Nick had played for sell-out games, for national games, for World Cups, but he’d never experienced this, and I never will again. The mix of emotions was hard to explain, even harder to deal with.

  It was intense, his heart racing, and the pride of that moment would stay with him his whole life.

  He glanced toward where Anna was sitting with his family, catching a glimpse of her waving crazily, jumping up and down, her mouth opening and closing as she sang along with the crowd.

  Unable to take it in, his emotions overloaded, Nick jogged into position, anticipation racing through his blood. The referee blew the whistle, and he did what he was born to do.

  TWO HOURS LATER, Nick was dripping with sweat, his lungs heaving, staring up at the fans who were on their feet, clapping and cheering, all chanting his name one final time: Ren-shaw! Ren-shaw! Ren-shaw!

  The compere waved him to the side and held the microphone between them, his voice echoing around the massive stadium.

  “Great game today, Nick! What a way to finish! I bet you couldn’t have written it any better, selling out Twickenham! How does it feel to finish your career here?”

  Nick closed his eyes briefly, his emotions intense, confused, in turmoil. He forced himself to focus, to do what was expected of him.

  “Thank you, Jim. Thanks for your kind words.” He forced a smile. “First of all, I’d like to thank everyone who turned out today, the fans, the coaches, the players—it’s been good to see some old faces out here, and some new ones. A massive thank you to all my Board, all the organisers who’ve made this happen. I’m not quite sure how I feel: this place, this ground. Coming here as a young boy, then coming here as an adult and winning two World Cups…”

  The crowd erupted, and Nick had to wait until the cheers died down so he could continue.

  “It’s hard to believe I won’t be back. I’ve had an amazing career and been very fortunate. It takes more than one person to win a game and I’ve had a great team supporting me, and not just the other players. I’d like to thank my manager, my family, my coach, Eddie Jones—there are too many to mention, but you know who you are. Thank you! Nick Renshaw signing off—peace out, Twickenham!”

  Nick waved at the fans and the crowd shouted his name again, for the final time.

  As Nick left the field, the other players were standing in front of the tunnel, clapping and thumping him on the back as he walked between them. The ones who’d been through this already knew how he felt; the younger players just enjoyed the post-game euphoria.

  Nick wished he could have just five minutes of silence to get his head together, but that wouldn’t happen.

  He glanced up at the family and friends box and saw Anna with his sister and parents, all waving wildly. Even from this distance, he could see that Anna was crying as she blew him kisses.

  He waved back tiredly, took one last look at the stadium that had been his second home, then headed for the locker rooms.

  Time for a series of hot showers and ice baths, one after the other, to speed up the healing process of microtrauma in his muscles.

  He didn’t need a physio today since he hadn’t been injured, thank God. Anna wouldn’t have been impressed if he’d limped off the fi
eld.

  Instead of changing into casual clothes, he wore a suit, white shirt and dark tie. His unwashed number 17 shirt was stuffed into his kitbag. He’d decide what to do with it later. Some players kept their kit; some auctioned it off for charity.

  Then, with the rest of his teammates, he headed to the bar, but was stopped fifty times along the way by people who wanted to shake his hand or pat him on the back. His was smiling when he entered the bar.

  The first person he saw was his ex-fiancée. A woman he despised.

  “What the fuck?”

  Molly McKinney smiled at him, her icy blue eyes as cold as her personality.

  The name brought many memories with it, most of them bad. Nick’s scheming, cheating ex-fiancée had effectively ended Anna’s career as a sports psychologist by selling information about Anna’s illicit relationship with Nick to the Press.

  When Anna had worked for the Finchley Phoenixes at the same time as Nick, the club had no-fraternization clauses in their contracts. She was fired as soon as the relationship became public.

  Anna had also spent a night in a police cell because of Molly’s lies—an accusation of perjury in court. It was later proved false, but by then the damage had been done.

  Molly strutted toward him, her breasts even bigger than last time he saw them, almost falling out of the electric blue dress she wore.

  “Hey, Nicky! Great game! You was awesome!”

  She swooped in to kiss him, but Nick stepped back, stunned, his lip curling with distaste. She was the last person he’d expected to see.

  “Are you here for Kenny?” he asked.

  It wasn’t an unreasonable question, but Molly’s face turned red and her eyes narrowed.

  “Are you having a laugh? That loser! I came for you, Nicky. Old times sake and all that … we was good together.”

  Luckily, the cavalry in the shape of Anna and Brendan arrived before Molly could annoy Nick even further.

  “Love what you’ve done with your new tits,” snarked Brendan. “Don’t let the door hit you on your Kim Kardashian on the way out.”

  “What’s she doing here?” Anna whispered.

  Nick shook his head, bewildered.

  “I have no idea,” Nick said truthfully.

  “I’d be happy to have her scrawny arse chucked out,” Brendan offered eagerly.

  For a second, Nick was tempted, but then he shook his head.

  “Nah, she’d probably love making a scene. Just ignore her—she knows she’s not welcome.”

  He glanced over to see Molly being tugged into a corner by Kenny, who seemed even less pleased to see her, if that was possible. They started a heated conversation as she yanked her arm free and poked him in the chest.

  “Rather him than me,” he muttered.

  Someone thrust a glass of champagne into his hand and Nick forgot about Molly. The drinks kept arriving at his table, and the couple of glasses of wine that he’d planned to have were long in the past as people kept buying him more drinks: shots, beers, more wine, another bottle of champagne.

  He thanked everyone who bought him a drink, but passed them all to the other players and they disappeared fast enough.

  He barely tasted the delicious three-course meal, and later he couldn’t remember anything that was said to him.

  But then the toasts started, and with all eyes on him, Nick drank first one glass, then another and another, long since passing his two-drink limit, until they all began to blur. He should stop, he knew he should, but he no longer cared.

  It had been a long time since he’d drunk this much, and Anna watched him with worried eyes. She couldn’t blame anyone for wanting to buy Nick a drink to celebrate with him, and there were very few people who knew that he’d had a serious drinking problem earlier in his career.

  She didn’t say anything, but she may, however, have kicked him in the shins. Nick just grinned, his smile loose and his eyes glazed.

  The compere rounded up the speeches, thanking everyone, then ran through the highlights of Nick’s career and presented him with car keys for a brand new Range Rover Sport, a gift from his sponsors.

  In return, Nick said a few words and was able to hand over a cheque for £100k to his old amateur club.

  “Adios, amigos!” he slurred. “Goodbye career. Hello retirement.”

  Anna took charge of the keys to the new car, then slid her arm around his waist.

  “Well done, babe. I’m proud of you. Now put that drink down and get your sexy ass in the taxi. Oh boy, you’ll be in a world of hurt tomorrow.”

  Her words rang with truth.

  Three months later…

  ANNA STARED AT her cell phone for the fiftieth time.

  Where is he? Where the hell is Nick?

  She was worried. In the months since his testimonial, he’d been quieter, growing more distant daily. Of course it was a massive change for him, saying goodbye to the sport where he’d had so much success and so many happy and fulfilling years. And he was saying goodbye to the support that had consumed all his adult years; most of his life, in fact.

  She understood that he missed his teammates, that he missed being part of something bigger than himself. But it hurt to think that what they had together couldn’t fill the gap in his life. She’d hoped … but she’d been wrong.

  I have to give him more time.

  That had become her new mantra, as much for herself as for him. Perhaps if she gave him the time and space to rediscover his passion for … something, then they’d be able to move on. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

  They’d talked about this, they’d talked about life after rugby and at first he’d seemed so enthusiastic, so hungry for it. He’d said himself that rugby had been the main focus of his life for 24 years—since he was a child—and professionally for 16 years. But he’d been different lately, quieter, depressed, and she couldn’t even remember the last time he’d picked up his guitar. The only thing he did was train, but with no end goal. And now he’d disappeared and she couldn’t get in touch with him.

  Nick had said that he was going out for a walk but he’d been gone for hours, and he hadn’t replied to any of her texts or voicemails.

  Where had he gone? What did the sudden disappearing act mean?

  Anna stared at her cell phone, wondering who she could call. Was he just visiting with one of his old teammates and lost track of time? If Fetuao Tui was still in the country, she thought Nick would have gone to him, but he’d left to play for a team in New Zealand to be closer to his family, and was currently on the other side of the world. Gio Simone had gone home to Perugia in central Italy after ACL surgery, so there was no point asking if he’d seen Nick either.

  In the end, she called Jason Oduba who was in the final year of his career at Finchley Phoenixes, the team where he and Nick had played together.

  “Hey, Anna, great to hear from you! It’s been a while. How’s our boy doing? He said he’d come out and see us play, but I guess he’s too busy enjoying being retired and not getting injured, huh?”

  And he laughed.

  Anna’s stomach turned upside down, tying itself into a hard knot of doubt.

  “He … he hasn’t been out to see you play? Not even once? But he said that he had…”

  Her words trailed off and there was an uncomfortable silence before Jason replied.

  “No, darlin’, none of us have seen him. We thought that you guys … we thought you were busy, so … well, maybe he watched from the Stands. I dunno. Sorry, Anna. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Anna’s throat contracted as she felt his pity across the airwaves. Three times, Nick had told her that he was going to see his old team play, but now it seemed that he’d been nowhere near the Hangar Lane stadium. So where had he been? Why had he lied to her?

  Anna realised that she was still clutching the phone in her hand.

  “Oh, okay. Thank you, Jason. I hope it’s all going well over there. We miss you guys.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you too, d
oc. Say hi to Nick for me. Tell him to come and to see us. Cheers, luv.”

  “Bye.”

  She paced up and down the kitchen of the home that she shared with Nick. Where is he?

  Biting her lip, she decided to call Nick’s sister, Trish. She’d always been there when Nick had needed her, and she’d become a great friend to Anna, as well.

  She answered on the second ring.

  “Hey! How’s my favourite sister-in-law?!”

  Anna gave a weak laugh. She’d been engaged to Nick for a while now, but they just hadn’t gotten around to getting married.

  “I’m the only one you’ve got as far as I know!”

  “Meh, semantics! How are you? How’s that great lout of a brother of mine?”

  “Um, well, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Trish sighed.

  “What’s the silly sod done now?”

  Anna slumped down on the sofa in the cozy living room.

  “It’s probably nothing … he went out hours ago and I haven’t heard from him. He said he was going for a walk, but he’s not replying to my texts or calls. I even called Jason, but he hasn’t seen him in months, and Nick told me he was going to watch the Phoenixes play just last week. I don’t know what to think, Trish.”

  Tears burned behind her eyes.

  “A few hours isn’t that much,” Trish said gently.

  “I know. I’m overreacting. I just … he’s been so different lately. Quiet and … we both knew that retirement would be difficult for him—he’s only 33, after all. I know he’s having a hard time, but I’m worried about him.”

  Anna had trained as a sports psychologist: she knew all about the pressures professional athletes endured—the constant threat of career-ending injury, the difficult transition to retirement at an age when most people would still be working towards their peak, the lack of a tangible goal that faced him every morning. She knew all these things, but living with a man who was going through it was very different to scheduling weekly appointments with someone who didn’t have the ability to trample on her heart.

  “He’s missing rugby,” Trish said simply.