“Pulled a muscle?”
“It’s my ankle. I can’t walk.”
“Alright, Nick. Off to the physio, see what he says. Good work today.”
Nick took one last look at his team, the men he’d played so many great games with, good memories, then turned and headed for the locker room in pain.
“What’s up, Nick?”
Alan was the club’s physio and a retired player.
“Don’t know. My right calf hurts like a bitch, it doesn’t feel right. I’ve never had this before.”
He sat on the table while Alan took off his boot, examined the back of Nick’s ankle, pressing all around an area that felt bruised and was beginning to swell painfully.
Alan’s face was grim, the heavy jowls drooping like a bloodhound, his eyes red and watery.
Nick could smell Vicks Vapo Rub, Deep Heat and Tiger Balm mixed with nicotine and body odour—physio room and physio, combined in a familiar and overpowering fug.
He tried to breathe through his mouth and act tough. When Alan pressed harder on the injured area, he inhaled on a sharp stab of pain that made his stomach muscles contract.
He leaned back, his soaked jersey and shorts making him shiver as his body began to cool.
“I think you’ll need to go to hospital with this one, Nick. Looks like Achilles tendon to me.” He grabbed Nick’s ankle, rotating his foot and making him gasp. “You’ve still got movement in your foot so I’d guess that it’s not snapped, probably torn. I’ll get you some gas and air.”
Nick’s world flipped upside down. A torn Achilles ended careers. Why now? Why in his last game before he entered the Championship league?
He swallowed and closed his eyes for a second, opening them to see quiet sympathy on the older man’s face.
“Are you sure? I haven’t just pulled a muscle?”
Alan shook his head.
“Sorry, lad.”
So much for the end of season party. So much for leaving his club on a high note. So much for proposing to Molly—he couldn’t ask her to marry him when he no longer had anything to offer her. So much for his entire fucking life.
He dropped his head in his hands as everything was swept away in a wave of mud and shit: all those stupid hopes and dreams, gone.
Full of misery and pain, Nick sent a text to Molly letting her know that he wouldn’t make the party. He didn’t say why and knowing Molly, she’d be too pissed off to ask. That gave him a few hours to hear from a doctor as well as an aging ex-Prop that his rugby career was over.
Hobbling from wall to wall as he cannoned off furniture and lockers, he managed to shower slowly, dumping his filthy kit in the laundry basket for the kit-man to take care of, and taking his boots into the shower with him to save time.
The hot water felt wonderful against his battered body and he idly rubbed his purpling ribs and swollen ankle, wondering if he’d ever need the boots again.
Dirt and blood swirled around his feet, and Nick gently fingered the cut by his eyebrow, but it was already closing, leaving another scar, another souvenir of a rough game.
Inside, his emotions whirled with barely concealed panic, but outside, his stern face was set in stoic acceptance.
Silently, he took a turn in the ice bath, letting the change from hot to freezing cold soothe his body. The rapid temperature change helped speed up healing, combatting the micro-trauma of small tears in muscle fibre caused by the game’s intense physical stress. Although it wouldn’t be enough to fix a torn tendon. A surgeon’s knife was in his future.
He closed his eyes, enduring.
Two minutes cold-hot-cold-hot was more than enough, and his headache was worse now, then it was back in the hot shower and he tried to let the heat and steam soothe the ache he felt bone deep, brain deep, the one that came from being on the losing side—the never-ending rugby rollercoaster; the one that came from being finished. Done. Ended. Milled. Thrashed. Beaten. Broken.
“Seriously, your Achilles?” Kenny’s face fell and he grimaced in sympathy. “Tough luck, pal.”
The other players muttered condolences as they trailed blood and dirt into the changing room, and Nick began to feel as if he’d died out there. Maybe he had. Maybe it was his ghost sitting here. Wouldn’t that be fucking pathetic? To spend eternity in a stinking locker room. He smiled grimly at the thought.
Dressing in a t-shirt and sweatpants, he could only put on one trainer. The other foot was too swollen and painful to fit, so he shoved the toes in and left it at that.
Kenny slung an arm around Nick’s shoulders as he hobbled to the post-match dinner. Tradition: win or lose, you fed the team who bled on your field. Hospital would have to wait—not that there was anything they’d do for him immediately. So instead, he sat with his teammates, pretending that a black hole of desolation wasn’t growing inside his chest.
Tanked up and full of curry, it was a noisy crew that headed to the waiting team bus. It was a two-hour drive back to the clubhouse, and only then would he get medical treatment. It would be different in the top league, but second division was almost nowhere when it came to fixing what they’d broken.
Eight years he’d given to this team. Eight years of success, eight years of heartbreak, just like every other professional athlete.
Nick didn’t want his career to be over.
Traffic was heavy on the motorway, and rain continued to pelt the bus, clattering noisily onto the roof and falling so fast it seemed to Nick as if they were underwater. He drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep, dozing through the drunken singing of his teammates. Usually, he’d be with them, singing the bawdy songs and laughing at stupid jokes.
Tonight they left him alone, respecting his retreat into silence.
Jerking awake with a grunt of pain, Nick sat up as the bus bumped across water-filled potholes and stopped with a sudden lurch at their clubhouse.
“You want me to drive you to the hospital?”
Nick stared up at his friend’s face, sickly yellow in the pale neon glow.
Nick grimaced and nodded.
Rotherham was a no-frills club. If you were conscious and vertical, you took yourself to hospital.
“Yeah, thanks, Ken. I don’t think I could drive right now.”
Kenny nodded.
“I’ll get Tufty and Gavin to take your car home on the way to the party. No worries.”
But Nick was worried.
His ankle was still swelling and trying to walk even a single step sent pain lancing up his whole leg. As Kenny drove him to the private hospital that the team paid for, Nick held a dripping bag of ice to his ankle, hoping it might help. So far, it hadn’t, and he’d maxed out on the painkillers he’d been given. But he was relieved that he’d traded up from a part-time team where you had to make do with the NHS.
The last time he’d been to an Accident & Emergency department, the walls had been a dull olive colour, institutional and depressing, with old posters warning of what would happen if you assaulted a member of staff. An old guy with dementia had kept on trying to open the fire exit and his tiny, white-haired wife could do nothing to stop him. A teenage boy had vomited down the front of his t-shirt.
A typical Saturday night.
Thank God for private healthcare.
Instead, Kenny pulled up in a quiet car park outside a new-looking building.
He slung a brawny arm around Nick’s waist and half carried him inside to register his name and details.
Coach had phoned ahead so they were expecting him.
Sensing he’d be here a while, Nick settled into a low, leather sofa and tried to relax.
He glanced up at his friend.
“Look, you go on to the party—no reason for us both to miss it.”
Kenny shook his head.
“I’m not leaving you here by yourself. What kind of mate does that?”
“I appreciate it, seriously—but Molly hasn’t replied to my text so she’s probably on her way there. She’ll need someone to keep an
eye on her.” And to stop it turning into an episode of ‘Geordie Shore’.
“Great,” muttered Kenny. “Think I’ll stay here then.”
Nick clenched his teeth and Kenny sighed. There was no love lost there.
“Fine,” Kenny grumbled. “I’ll go. Let me know if you need a lift later.”
Nick waved him away.
“Nah, I’ll call a taxi. I’ll be fine.”
He watched Kenny striding down the corridor, relieved to be free of the hospital sounds and smells.
Nick’s thoughts darkened.
Best case scenario, he’d be off for at least four months, probably much longer. Worst case scenario: he’d never play again.
Pain and frustration filled him. Of all the times to get injured, why now? Why me?
Was he supposed to laugh or cry? Was he supposed to laugh at the irony of having his worst injury in eight years of playing rugby professionally, his final game before starting next season with a Premiership club? Was he supposed to celebrate that someone had thought him good enough? Was he supposed to sound like Marlon Brando and howl at the moon, I coulda been a contender!
He didn’t do any of those.
He turned off his phone and closed his eyes, listening to the gurgling sound as his career disappeared down the toilet.
“HOW BAD IS it?”
Molly’s blue eyes were tinged with red and she looked the worse for wear. She pulled the sheet tightly around her as she stared at Nick.
“Bad,” he said quietly. “I need an operation—the sooner the better.”
“Will the new club pay for it or do you have to go NHS?”
Nick raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve signed the contract with the Minotaurs, but I got injured at Rotherham. I’m honestly not sure.”
She grabbed his phone from the bedside table, leaning across him as she did so. Nick drew back slightly because he was worried she’d jostle his bad leg which was hurting like a bitch, and because of the smell of alcohol on her skin was overpowering.
She was probably suffering more than him right now.
Grunting with irritation, she tossed the phone to him.
“Call them. You need to know where you stand. Or call that agent of yours—he should be doing something for the amount you pay him.”
“Mark’s a good guy,” Nick said defensively. “He got me the Minotaurs contract in the first place.”
“Took him long enough,” Molly grumbled, yawning and stumbling to the bathroom.
Nick sighed but did as she suggested.
“That is damn bad luck,” said Mark, when he answered. “I’ll check the contracts, but I think Rotherham will be picking up the tab for this—either way, you’re covered. I’ll make sure of it. How are you feeling?”
“I’m gutted.”
“Well, that’s to be expected. But you’ve had a good run of luck—no reason to think it’ll abandon you now.”
It already has, Nick thought sourly.
Two days later, Nick’s sister drove him to the hospital for his operation.
“Are you alright?” she asked for the third time.
Nick gave her a weary look.
“Sorry, sorry. I just . . . anyway, where’s her highness today?”
Nick rubbed his forehead.
“If you mean Molly, she has to work. But she’s picking me up from the hospital tonight.”
Trish pressed her lips together but didn’t say anything else. She wasn’t a fan of Molly, but then again, it was mutual. Nick knew better than to get between the two of them. He’d tried once before and had the scars to prove it.
“I can stay with you if you like,” Trish offered.
“Nah, you’re alright. I’ll be fine.”
After a bad break up, Trish had moved back in with their parents and worked from home, doing data inputting. She said it was boring, but paid okay. She’d volunteered to drive him as soon as he’d been given his appointment.
“I don’t mind staying,” she repeated. “Someone should be with you.”
“Honestly, sis, I’ll be fine. It’ll just be a lot of sitting around. Don’t worry about it.”
She sighed and gave in, dropping him off outside the hospital, then waving and driving away.
Nick limped inside and was admitted to the day ward, where a nurse took his blood pressure, and the surgeon talked him through the procedure then made him sign on the dotted line.
He wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything before his operation, and he was hungry and thirsty. Then, in the late morning, he was escorted to the operating theatre.
His heart began to race and he prayed fervently that the operation would be a success. The anaesthetist smiled at him reassuringly and one of the nurses offered to hold his hand. Nick was rather embarrassed about that, but it was nice of her to ask.
“Count from one to ten,” said the anaesthetist, giving him a professional smile.
“One, two, three . . .
The whole thing took just over an hour and Nick vaguely remembered talking to the same nurse when he woke up with his leg in a cast.
As he became more alert, he stared at his leg, swathed below the knee in plaster. It was the first time he’d worn a cast. His leg felt heavy and uncoordinated, but at least the pain hadn’t broken through the cocktail of medication yet.
He tried to relax because there was nothing else he could do. Easier said than done.
The afternoon passed slowly, and Nick was bored sitting in his private room. He read the sports pages on his phone, played some games, then gave up and switched on the TV in the corner. He hadn’t watched much daytime TV before. He soon gave up and tried to sleep, but pain was beginning to seep through, and he felt hot and uncomfortable.
When his mum walked through the door, his face lifted with a surprised smile.
“Mum! I didn’t know you were coming?”
She bent down and kissed his unshaven cheek.
“Well, of course!” she grumbled, pretending to be annoyed. “My only son has had surgery. How did it go? What did the doctor say?”
Nick shrugged uneasily.
“I haven’t seen him yet. He’s supposed to be coming when he does his rounds.”
“Do you want me to go and find him,” she said, immediately standing up.
It didn’t matter that he was 26 and had been living away from home for seven years, his mum still wanted to take care of him. She was the sweetest woman alive, but turned into a lioness when either him or his sister were involved.
“Nah, that’s okay, thanks. I have to stay here until they’ve sent the meds from pharmacy anyway.”
“Well, how about a cup of tea then?”
“Yeah, a cup of tea would be nice.”
She sprang up and marched out of the room to find a vending machine. Even though he was in pain, Nick smiled to himself.
Finally, just as his mum was leaving, the surgeon arrived.
“The operation went well. You’ll be up and walking about soon.”
“Thanks, doc. I can’t wait.”
“I’m sure, but don’t rush it.”
“Listen to the doctor, Nicolas,” his mum said sternly.
The doctor gave a small smile. “And the nurse will discuss aftercare with you. Good luck!”
His mum was reluctant to leave him, but Nick was worn out and promised that Molly was picking him up later.
Shortly after 6PM, Molly arrived. Nick had been waiting in the hospital’s lobby for the last 45 minutes, and had a bottle of strong painkillers in his pocket.
“Hey, Nicky baby. How’d it go?”
“Okay, I think.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I’ve had the day from hell. Megan is such a bitch! I hate working for her. I can’t wait till I can tell her to stick her lousy job.”
They’d talked about the possibility of Molly giving up her position at the beauty salon when Nick was promoted, but until he knew whether or not he’d be fit to play a
gain, they couldn’t afford for her not to work.
He manoeuvred himself on his crutches and sank gratefully into the passenger seat. Not being able to drive was going to be a giant pain in the backside. It was also the least of his worries.
He listened to Molly complain about her boss until they arrived home and Nick had settled in the living room with a heavy sigh.
“Mol, I don’t think that giving up work would be a good idea right now.”
She looked at him sharply as she tossed her car keys onto the coffee table.
“Why not?”
He stared at her incredulously.
“Because I’ve just had surgery. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to play again!”
“But you said you’re going to be okay!”
It was true. Nick had told her that. Finally, he met her eyes.
“I’m really hoping so, but it’ll be months before I know for sure. So it’s not a great time to chuck in your job.”
There was a long pause, and Molly looked shocked. She sat down heavily.
“You might not play again?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“God, Nicky . . .” she hesitated, but whatever she was going to say died on her lips. “Sorry. Your day has been way worse than mine. Shall I order Chinese for supper?” Then she gave a wry smile. “No, probably not. You’re all about healthy food, aren’t you, Nicky baby?”
Nick nodded and smiled tiredly. Eating the right food was a big part of training his body as far as he was concerned. Molly loved junk food and hated cooking.
“Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll make something healthy for you. But I’m going to need chocolate for myself.” Then she turned her innocent eyes on him. “And maybe a box of Ferrero Rocher?”
Nick groaned as Molly’s smile grew wider. She knew he had a weakness for that brand of chocolate.
“Sounds great.”
For the rest of the evening, Molly couldn’t do enough. She arranged the food around him, brought cups of tea, and reminded him to take his painkillers. Nick felt so grateful to have her taking care of him.
So he was surprised the next day when she announced she was going to work.
“I thought you’d taken the day off.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Undefeated Page 2