Undefeated
Copyright © 2018 Jane Harvey-Berrick & Stuart Reardon
Stuart Reardon Publishing
ISBN: 9781999918606
Editing by:
Kirsten Olsen
Cover photograph by:
Stuart Reardon & Emma Hayes
Cover design by:
Sybil Wilson / Pop Kitty Designs
Interior Design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgford / Type A Formatting
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you do, you are STEALING.
If you have received this book from anywhere else, it is a pirate copy, it is illegal, and you’ve really spoiled our day.
And Stuart knows a lot of really big, really heavy rugby guys—just saying.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
Jane Harvey-Berrick and Stuart Reardon have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.
Contents
Undefeated
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART TWO
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Reviews
Acknowledgements
More About Stuart
More About JHB
More books by Jane Harvey-Berrick
To Emma
Without you there would be no happy ever after.
Stu x
We really hope that you enjoy this story. Reviews are love! Honestly, they are! But it also helps other people to make an informed decision before buying this book.
So we’d really appreciate if you took a few seconds to do just that. Thank you!
Goodreads page
Stu x
There are no stars in this game. Just men like me.
Barry Hines, ‘This Sporting Life’
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL game.
It’s a hard game.
And even on a good day your body is battered and bruised. It’s a brutal game with blood, mud and dirt.
See this scar on my cheek? Rugby.
See this scar running through my eyebrow? Rugby.
I have a lot of scars.
I have 13 scars on each arm from keyhole surgery, knee surgery, scars on my forehead and the back of my head, scars on my knuckles. I’ve had both eyelids stitched, surgery on both shoulders, suffered a broken nose twice and spiral fractures in my hands, I’ve broken my fingers so many times, I don’t event count those. I’ve had cartilage cleaned out of my left knee, two medial ligament grade two tears on each knee, three lots of surgery for Achilles tendon injuries, and once I put my bottom teeth through my top lip. Getting stitches in your mouth isn’t much fun. They tug when you eat or speak.
There’s nothing nice about rugby. Maybe that’s why I bloody love it.
Chicks dig scars? Yeah, I’ve heard that, too.
In my experience, they’re not so keen on being around while you’re healing. Being the loser who’s benched, not so sexy. Being the guy who’s career is going down the toilet . . . I’m looking a lot less appealing now.
Trusting a woman when you’re at your lowest—dumbest, stupidest mistake ever.
Beat me, break me, butcher my heart.
I’m coming for you. And this time . . .
I’m going to win.
April, 2014
“BLOODY HELL! IS this what I think it is?”
Kenny peered at the small velvet box nestled inside Nick’s kitbag.
“I have no idea what you think half the time,” Nick said calmly. “Your mind is in a different galaxy, far, far away.”
“Fuck off! Seriously? You’re going to ask Molly to marry you?”
Nick had been seeing Molly for nearly three years. She’d been angling for a ring and he thought why not? All the guys he’d gone to school with were married by now, kids on the way, why not him? He was twenty-six, reasonably well paid, owned his own home, and the next obvious step was to settle down.
“Yeah, I think it’s time.”
Kenny gave him a strange look.
“Is she pregnant?”
Nick laughed out loud.
“No, you mad sort! What you asking me that for?”
Kenny slapped him around the head and yelled, “Then what are you doing it for, you idiot?”
It was no secret that Ken and Molly didn’t like each other, although Nick’s life would have been a lot simpler if they did.
“You’re being a dickhead,” Nick said. “But I want you to be my Best Man.”
Kenny gave an evil grin. His front four teeth had been knocked out in a game two months ago and Kenny was waiting for the end of the season so he could get implants. He looked like an overgrown vampire.
“Oh yeah! Best Man’s speech! I’m down with that.”
Nick had a feeling he’d live to regret this decision.
“When are you going to ask her?”
“At the after-party tonight.”
“Your funeral, pal.”
What a knob, thought Nick, shaking his head.
“Why are we friends?”
Kenny frowned.
“Dunno. Low standards?”
All through his prep and match warmup, Nick had a strange feeling in his gut, a knot of anxiety.
He pulled out his lucky boots, placing them next to his gum-shield on the bench ready to use. He wasn’t as superstitious as some players, but he liked his lucky boots. Although they were beginning to wear out and that made him nervous.
He also had a favourite pair of Speedos to wear underneath his rugby uniform, but that wasn’t anyone else’s business.
“Last game with your mates,” said Kenny, his voice wistful. “Now you’re leaving us behind, you’ll be too big time for us lot in the second division. All change for you—you’ll forget all about us.”
Nick laughed and thumped his friend on the back.
“Like I could ever forget you, Ken.”
Kenny didn’t smile and something flashed behind his eyes, but then the captain called to signal them out onto the pitch and they didn’t speak again.
The sky was slate-coloured, boiling with dark storm clouds, and even on a late Spring afternoon, the fans huddled together, their applause dampened, with rows of seats standing forlorn and empty. Not many had followed the team to this last away-game of the season.
Nick glanced at the sparsely filled seats, disappointment souring his attempts to be positive. No matter what, he was still determined to play his best. But if the team had been in
with a chance of promotion to the Premiership—the rugby super league—the stands would be full. Not today; not with a slow slide toward the lower half of the table after a mediocre season. Not even for the last game of the year.
As the ref blew his whistle to start the match, rain began to fall with heavy drops that rapidly turned the pitch into a mud bath, Nick and the other players slipping and sliding, clothes clinging wetly, slapping against his skin.
Nick hated games like this. He was a Fullback whose speed and acceleration, agility and power won his nickname, ‘The Rocket’; his speed could also win matches. But on days like this, mud weighed him down, clinging in heavy clumps to his boots so that every time the referee paused the play, he was hooking out clods from between the studs with his fingers, hoping to improve traction on the field.
The captain signalled the Backs to keep the action close—fewer mistakes on short passes—and Nick shook his head in frustration, water dripping across his mud-streaked face. He swiped at his eyes with his shirt, exposing his hard, flat stomach and part of his muscled chest as he felt the cool rain against his hot skin.
The game was even slower now as the ball became slippery and muck clung to Nick. The wind raged, sending stinging rain into his eyes, and the unseasonal cold bit deep into his bones. At the other side of the pitch, Kenny was leering at his opposite number and probably saying things that would get him sent off if the ref caught him.
Every player was battling the elements, and Nick had lost his advantage of speed. He couldn’t rely on his ability to run the ball downfield; the best hope was that they could keep their opponents pinned to the try line.
The game was rough and bruising, and Dennis, playing on the left wing, put his bottom teeth through his top lip after a brutal tackle, colouring his shirt with splatters of rusty red as blood dripped down his chin. He grimaced ghoulishly, poking his tongue through the wound.
Nick winced. Been there, done that and got the scar to prove it.
Dennis walked off swearing, his voice a whistling lisp because he’d bitten his tongue, too. They’d stitch him up at halftime so he’d be back to play the second half.
The game restarted. Nick swore when Kenny got flattened at the bottom of the ruck, disappearing under a mountain of heaving, kicking, swearing man-flesh, and the paramedics started to unpack the stretcher. But then the Hooker freed the ball and the game rumbled on. Kenny sat up, shaking his head like a wounded bull and staggered back into position.
Nick was relieved that he wasn’t hurt, and the fans sent up a muted cheer.
Finally, the ball was passed sloppily in Nick’s direction, and he plucked it from the air, gripping the slippery leather and racing up the field, his eyes squinting as he tried to see through the pelting rain. Sensing the line was close, he flung himself forward, feeling the bone-shaking jolt through his entire body as he crashed onto the pitch, sliding forward and carving a muddy groove.
This! This was what he did, what he lived for. Nothing could compare.
Adrenaline shot through him as the referee blew his whistle.
Nick picked himself up, grinning at his teammates when they high-fived him, celebrating as the points were marked up on the scoreboard. Then the kicker stepped forward, wiping mud from his eyes, as he attempted the conversion. He focussed on the ball, glanced up to the sticks, then struck the ball perfectly. The team held their breath as the ball hit the stick a glancing blow, then sailed through the goal posts. Cheers erupted as another two points had the fans leaping to their feet.
Nick clapped, relief filling his chest. Every point mattered in a close game.
He breathed out heavily. His body, shorts and legs were coated in filth, his face smeared, and he spat out mud, nearly losing his mouth guard. He rolled his neck from side to side, ignoring the aches and bruises of his abused body.
Rugby was a hard game, a brutal game, even when you weren’t getting tackled, kicked, punched or head-butted. He loved it.
It was the only try of the match so far, and now they had seven more much-needed points.
But at halftime they were trailing by nineteen points and the team was losing focus. Coach let them take a drink and eat something sugary for an energy boost, then listened to them bitch for a minute before giving them a bollocking, spittle flying from his purple face.
“You’re playing like you’re half asleep out there! There’re too many dropped balls, too many missed tackles. You’re not a bunch of bleedin’ amateurs! You’re supposed to be professionals! Come on! You can do this! Keep kicking the ball back—they’ll struggle to score if they’re forced to play on their end of the field. And get your completion rate up—you can win this!”
They had to believe they could still win. No one was giving up. Being on the losing side week in, week out was mental torture. You played until your dying breath.
But the team was sluggish and morose, tired by the long season and drained by the foul weather, their bodies aching, muddied and bruised.
Nick gritted his teeth in frustration. The job of the Fullback was to attack, but Coach wanted the play to be short and safe and sensible. This was rugby—it was meant to be hard and tough and dirty.
He kept his mouth shut. Arguing with Coach never ended well.
They jogged back onto the swampy pitch and Nick couldn’t help noticing that most fans had already given up and gone home, leaving just a handful of people at either end of the rain-sodden terraces. He shouldn’t blame them—it was horrible weather and a scrappy, slow-moving match. But he did blame them. The team was playing their hearts out, and where were the supporters? Already in the pub, slagging them off.
A hot jet of anger pulsed through him. But as he moved into position, he forced himself to think positive, his mind slithering back to the tactics they’d discussed. His brain felt as muddy and weary as the rest of him.
Frustrated with himself, he took that slow-burning core of anger, using it to push himself to move faster, dragging his feet out of the mud and nearly losing a boot as he slogged across the field, thick thighs pumping, blood pounding in his ears.
Then one of the opposing team fumbled the ball and threw it forwards.
“Knock-on!” Nick yelled, raising one hand.
But the referee hadn’t seen the ball being dropped forwards, half-blinded by the lashing downpour.
Nick’s teammates detonated with a volcanic roar and suddenly the two teams crashed together, the heavy clash of meaty bodies brawling on the field, team colours lost in the mud-strewn melee.
A younger Nick would have joined in, but at 26 he was a seasoned professional and knew that a punch-up didn’t solve problems. Unfortunately.
He waded in, yanking bodies backwards by their shirts or shorts and getting an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.
“Wankers!” screamed Darren, spinning around to the ref. “That was a blatant knock-on! Come on, Ref! Give us a chance! Try reffing the game properly!”
The referee continued to blow the whistle impotently, but it was several minutes before order was restored, and the players leered at each other through bloody and bruised faces. Nick knew that in an hour they’d all be drinking beer together: a quiet pint, followed by 17 noisy ones.
But for now, the match became ugly with tempers fraying and flaring every other minute, and to crown the misery, Nick took a random boot to his temple during a tackle.
He sat up slowly, shaking his head to make sure it was still attached. Then he stumbled to his feet and gave a thumbs up that he was okay to play on.
As a headache bloomed behind his eyes and blood mixed with mud on his shirt, he tried to focus on some attacking play.
But at the other end of the field, Tufty, the Halfback was on his knees, cupping his balls and howling in agony.
“I got bleedin’ squirrelled!” he whined, still hunched over. “I think he’s ripped my nuts off!”
Without any protection, your balls were vulnerable to a sadistic squeeze or a vicious twist, as Nick knew all too w
ell.
At least it wasn’t fingers up the arse. That happened in games, too. Not often, but there was one Aussie player who was notorious for it.
Play was suspended as the paramedics sprang into action. They helped Tufty onto a stretcher, knees still clamped together. But sliding and slipping in the mud, the paramedics dropped him, and he screeched, refusing further help and shuffling from the field, his face etched with agony. Nick grimaced. The game was a bloody shambles. All they needed now was a plague of locusts or zombies wandering onto the pitch and then he’d know for sure it was the apocalypse. It would be the definition of ironic if the world ended just as he was about to be promoted to a top league club.
Despite the team’s failings, he’d had the best season of his career. Without Nick, they’d have been facing certain relegation. Everyone knew it. And now Nick was leaving them behind for a starry future. He’d hoped that his last game wouldn’t be such a piece of crap.
The game restarted, but the light was so poor now that it was almost impossible to see the ball. Nick flailed up and down the swampy field, yelling out instructions, backing up his captain, and chasing down every stray ball.
As the minutes ticked down to the final whistle, Nick sprinted forwards, torturing his heaving lungs for one final push, gritting his teeth ready to receive, then abruptly changing direction with the flow of play. Suddenly, he felt a sharp, shrieking pain in his right calf, and grimaced over his shoulder to see which bastard had ankle-tapped him, and ready to evade being tackled, but the space behind him was empty.
Lame, with shock setting in, fear coating his lungs, he slowed to a limping walk, hobbling as the pain settled into a dull ache that spiked with every step. It was excruciating to put his full weight on his right foot.
“Shit,” he growled, and then got tackled, ploughing into the mud.
He reached for his back foot and knew something was wrong. He had two seconds to play the ball while his team were in an attacking position.
Then he turned to the bench and signalled that he needed a timeout. As he limped off the field, helped by the medical staff, Coach met him at the side-line.
Undefeated Page 1