Undefeated

by Reardon, Stuart

  “Well, we need the money, right?”

  “It’s not that bad, Mol.”

  “Gotta do my bit,” she said as she searched for her car keys, then found them on the coffee table. “You’ll be alright, won’t you?”

  “Yep, fine,” he said, although in truth, the pain was pretty bad this morning.

  She gave him a bright smile and kissed him on the lips.

  “I’ll bring home pizza tonight.”

  Nick grimaced as his leg throbbed.

  “Pizza? Are you trying to kill me off? I’m trying to recover from injury, not make it worse.” Molly’s face hardened. “Any chance of chicken, or salmon, some vegetables?”

  “You want me to work all day then come home and cook?” snarled Molly. “Fine, whatever.”

  Nick frowned as she slammed the front door. He’d be putting on weight if he stuck with Molly’s idea of home cooking. He’d cook for himself. He usually did, and a plaster cast wouldn’t stop him hopping around the kitchen. He just needed something to cook with and he was regretting not stocking up more before the operation.

  He limped into the kitchen using his crutches, and rummaged around in the freezer.

  Finding little of interest, he sat at his laptop and ordered everything he needed from the supermarket, spending three times as long as usual. He wanted the distraction, but that simple job didn’t take up enough time.

  Nick was worried about bigger things than just unhealthy eating. Sitting at home all day alone with his pain . . . his mind teetered toward a dark place.

  He wanted to be well now. He wanted to know his future now.

  Nick hopped to the kitchen and washed down two painkillers with a glass of water. Gradually, his head began to feel fuzzy as his body relaxed, but dark clouds still hovered around the edges of his vision, and he dozed uneasily.

  When he woke up, groggy and feeling out of focus, the angle of the sun had changed, and the day was descending toward dusk.

  Prone on the sofa, he watched spirals of dust dance in the last light of the day.

  Will I play again? God, will I play again?

  The house seemed to be listening, but there was no answer.

  Sitting up shakily, his gaze fell on the packet of papers that the doctor had given him. He picked them up and turned on the table-side lamp, reading the instructions for post-surgery, willing the weeks to speed by, instead of dragging with dreary slowness.

  The first two days you will not be able take weight after the operation but use your crutches to help you get about. You will need to rest as much as possible with your leg elevated. You should limit activity to going to the bathroom. Continue taking your painkilling tablets.

  Great. The highlight of his day would be taking a piss.

  He tossed the papers aside.

  It was after seven when Molly walked through the front door. She was late and Nick’s stomach was growling.

  “Hey, Nicky,” she called.

  “I’m in the living room,” he called out. “How was your day?”

  “Same shit, different day.”

  She walked in and slumped next to him, her eyes closing as she kicked off her shoes.

  “Did you get anything to eat?”

  “Oh, no. I went out with the girls at lunchtime.” There was a long pause and an aggravated huff. “I could make you a sandwich, if you like?”

  “Yeah, that would be great,” he said. “I put in a Tesco order—it’ll be here soon. With chocolate.”

  “That’s why I love you,” she laughed, and Nick smiled.

  Molly slapped a slab of cheese between two pieces of bread, then cuddled up to him on the sofa, her eyes closing. A minute later, she was asleep, and Nick was alone with his thoughts.

  Nick’s days began to follow a pattern. He woke up alone, with Molly already gone to work.

  He spent the morning in bed, reading the sports pages on his phone, then getting up around lunchtime.

  Trish stopped by a couple of times a week and filled the fridge and hung out for an hour or two, then Nick would spend the rest of the day on the sofa, watching TV.

  After a week, Nick’s wound was checked, then another cast applied. A week after that, the stitches were removed and Nick was given a lightweight cast to wear. He knew it was too soon to feel any improvement, but his foot felt like an immobile lump of flesh, and his heart sank.

  He was bored and depressed, but too stubborn to admit it.

  Inside, his hope was dying a little more each day. He knew he was being a miserable bastard, short-tempered and snapping at Molly, but he felt her pulling away, too. She was impatient with him and bored of staying at home every night.

  Both their lives had changed.

  They used to laugh. They used to have fun, but now the foundations of their relationship were being tested.

  For once, Molly was home from work early, and Nick was relieved to see her.

  “Let’s go out tonight,” Molly suggested, her eyes lighting up at the idea.

  It was the fourth or fifth time she’d tried to persuade him to go out. But the thought of dragging himself around and watching other people drink while he stuck to water and painkillers was not his idea of a good time.

  “Amelia says there’s an epic new club that’s opened with an awesome new DJ. It’ll be fun.”

  Nick stared at her in disbelief.

  “Wearing this?” and he waved at the plaster cast holding his Achilles tendon in place.

  “You don’t have to dance. You can sit in a corner or something. Come on! It’ll cheer you up.”

  Sitting in a corner watching you drink with your sister and dance with other men? No, thanks.

  “No, I’ll stay here and . . .”

  “God, you’re so boring! All you do is sit in that chair and watch telly. Are you going to do that for the next month?”

  “Yeah, maybe I will!” he snapped.

  “Yeah, and maybe you’ll do it by yourself,” she shouted back. “I’m going out.”

  He didn’t even bother to try to stop her and frankly, he couldn’t take her nagging any longer.

  An hour later, while Nick was brooding on the sofa, Molly walked down the stairs dressed in a short, purple dress that was sleeveless and had a plunging neckline. She looked amazing and smelled even better. But her mood definitely hadn’t improved.

  “Don’t wait up,” she said icily. “I’ll be going home with Amelia tonight. She lives nearer to the club.”

  Nick grunted, his eyes flicking back to the TV and a biopic about the Formula One racing legend James Hunt. He’d crashed and burned, too.

  “When will I see you?” he called after her as she swept into the hallway.

  “When you’ve stopped being a boring sod!” she yelled back.

  He sighed and stretched out on the sofa, his right leg aching with a dull, relentless throb.

  Molly didn’t come home that night, or the night after.

  Molly had never officially moved in with Nick, and still had clothes at her sister’s flat, but they’d been spending most of their time together. Not so much lately. They hadn’t even had sex since Nick’s injury. Not that he was particularly interested anyway. Being in pain was a great way to kill off a boner.

  The next day, Trish came with him to his appointment.

  “Everything is looking good, Mr. Renshaw,” said the surgeon. “There will be some loss of muscle bulk of course, but you can begin gentle weight bearing. Your skin will be very dry, so I’d recommend moisturising. And an ice pack can be applied to your foot to ease any swelling. Of course, you’ll need to wear this orthopaedic boot for the next four to six weeks, but gradually your mobility and flexibility will improve. By four months, things will be getting back to normal, but full improvements can continue for up to 12 months. However, I see no reason why you won’t be playing competitive rugby again—we have every reason to be positive.”

  Trish gave a beaming smile.

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “You�
��re welcome, Mrs. Renshaw.”

  “Oh no, I’m his sister!” and Trish laughed awkwardly.

  “My apologies. Well, it’s good to see that you have so much family support,” he smiled at Nick.

  Nick nodded but couldn’t meet Trish’s eyes. The first thing she’d asked was why Molly wasn’t with him.

  But the doctor said he was getting better. He could live with that.

  Some of the gloom that had followed him for the last few months began to lift.

  September 2014

  AS SHE SLAMMED the cottage door behind her, Anna felt a shadow of unease, wondering again if she’d made the second worst mistake of her life.

  But she squared her shoulders and moved forward with confidence.

  “This is the first day of the rest of my life,” she enunciated clearly. “Each journey starts with a single step. I am the woman I am meant to be.”

  Then she stumbled over a cobblestone and nearly head-butted her car.

  “Aagh, crap!”

  She wrenched her arm muscles as she grabbed the Peugeot’s handle, trying not to face-plant.

  Sighing, she righted herself slowly and rubbed her sore shoulder. She’d have to ice it when she got to work, but at least it didn’t feel like there was any lasting damage.

  Massaging her aching arm, Anna couldn’t help smiling ruefully as she gazed at her new home. Old home. Um, new old home. It was a cottage—a genuine, roses-around-the-door cottage, stone-built and nearly 200 years old. Something she’d always wanted and never thought she’d have.

  True, it was small, with dark, odd-shaped rooms, and suffered from damp, but Anna was totally in love with it. It was so quaint, so English.

  She even loved the cobblestone path that became dangerously slippery in damp weather—which seemed to be every day since she’d arrived in Britain.

  She reversed down the short gravel driveway, exiting carefully onto the road.

  Must drive on the left, she reminded herself. She’d gotten used to that over the last few weeks, mostly. When she was tired or distracted, it was too easy to make a mistake and end up on the wrong side of the road facing an angry farmer in his ten-ton tractor.

  As she made the short commute to work, Anna couldn’t help but make comparisons. Today, she was driving along a peaceful, tree-lined street that slowly morphed into a small, redbrick Victorian town interspersed with more modern glass buildings, a trendy suburb of Manchester.

  A month ago, she’d been a resident of New York City, zipping on and off the subway, striding through the crowded streets like the native she was. But shit happens and things change. Hopefully for the better.

  She pulled into the paved parking lot, no, car park, smiling when she saw the plaque announcing her designated spot: Dr. Anna Scott.

  “Good morning, Belinda,” she said as she walked towards her receptionist/PA/right-hand-woman.

  She’d interviewed her a month ago and they’d gotten along wonderfully. Anna was smart enough to know that the success of her fledgling business would depend on a competent and caring assistant. In Belinda, she’d struck gold.

  It must be a sign—everything is going to be alright.

  “Morning, Anna,” Belinda smiled, waving a stack of messages at her enthusiastically. “I’ve had two enquiries from the local athletics club already this morning, and Mr. Jewell is waiting for you in your office.”

  Anna glanced up from the messages, frowning.

  “He’s here now? There was nothing on the schedule.”

  “Just turned up and charmed his way in,” Belinda said, raising her eyebrows. “I made him coffee. Do you want one?”

  “Oh, no thanks. But could you get me a hot water with a slice of lemon instead, please?”

  Belinda shook her head as she stood slowly.

  “One day you’ll drink my coffee.”

  Anna doubted it, but didn’t say anything. In every other way, Belinda was fantastic, but she couldn’t make coffee to save her life. In fact, she suspected that drinking Belinda’s coffee could be life-threatening.

  Anna opened her office door, smiling at the enormous man squashed into an easy chair that she would have sworn was big enough for two ordinary-sized people. He had a broken nose, round, thuggish face, and a surprisingly mischievous smile.

  “Anna, sorry to drop in on you unannounced.”

  “I’m delighted to see you again, Mr. Jewell,” she said sincerely. “How are you?”

  He winced.

  “Eh, it’s Steve. I’m not nearly old enough to be your dad, and we’re not so formal here either.”

  Anna smiled and inclined her head.

  “Steve, it’s good to see you.”

  Steve Jewell was a former professional athlete and friend of her father’s. He’d been the one to lure her here with promises of plenty of work and the chance to start her own practice.

  Within spitting distance—as he’d put it—were two professional rugby union teams, a rugby league team, numerous athletics clubs, and the mighty Manchester City and Manchester United premiership football teams.

  Steve was the head coach for top rugby club Manchester Minotaurs.

  “Settling in okay? Got everything you need?”

  “My assistant just told me that I’ve had two enquiries from a local athletics club today, so things are starting to look up.”

  He grinned.

  “Told you so! Once word gets out that we’ve got ourselves a top quality sports psychologist in the area, you’ll have more work than you can shake a stick at.”

  Anna hoped he was right, because she was putting her professional neck on the line by making this move. Besides, rugby was a similar game to American football. Sort of. Big, burly men chasing misshapen balls across a muddy field.

  Anna slid into her desk chair and folded her hands in her lap.

  “So, how can I help you today, Steve?”

  “Ah, nothing in particular,” he said, not noticing as her hopeful expression faltered. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I told your dad I’d keep an eye on you.”

  Anna smiled, hiding a small flare of irritation.

  Steve crossed one meaty ankle across a massive thigh, testing the limits of his cotton slacks.

  “I’ve got a couple of new players who’ve just started this season, Dave Parks and Nick Renshaw.”

  Anna made a note of their names so she could Google them later.

  Steve met her interested gaze, giving her the full benefit of his keen blue eyes.

  “I’ll want you working with them from the start. Both are coming from a lower league team, and I can tell you from experience that it’s a big jump getting promoted to a top team in the Premiership. And Renshaw is coming back after a long-term injury. They’ll need your help whether they know it or not.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, trying to hide her excitement. “When do I start?”

  Steve laughed.

  “You’re just like your dad—he could never wait to get his teeth into a scrap either. How is the old bugger?”

  “Hale, hearty and still a handful, as Mom would say.”

  “Glad to hear it. Well, I’ll be off then.”

  He started to rise as Anna spoke hurriedly.

  “These two new players of yours?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I have them for every day this week to meet the other lads and the rest of the team, but then they’re all yours. I’ll get my secretary to make the appointments. Take care, luv. Regards to your old man.”

  He waved as he walked out of the room, head thrust forward belligerently, already onto his next job.

  Belinda peered in, a cup of hot lemon in her hand.

  “How did it go? Everything okay with Mr. Jewell?”

  “Yep,” Anna said more brightly than she felt. “He’s promised me a couple of new players to work with very soon. Something to look forward to.”

  “It’ll be alright,” Belinda said, reading Anna’s anxiety as she placed the cup and saucer in front of her. “It’l
l just take a little time.”

  “Oh sure, I know. New girl on the block and all that. It’s fine.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Belinda, then frowned as she removed Steve’s untouched cup of coffee and marched out of the room with an annoyed sniff.

  Anna leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples. Two new players from a top league club like Manchester Minotaurs would be a real boost for her fledgling business, although she’d need more than two paying clients. She just had to have faith that it would happen. This was her new start and Jonathan was finally behind her. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. She’d paid penance for that mistake. Even thinking about him caused a twist of guilt inside her.

  She pulled a bag of ice from her office fridge and eased it onto her sore shoulder.

  NICK HAD PROPOSED to Molly, and she’d accepted.

  “You like the ring, then?”

  Since Molly was on her knees giving him an enthusiastic blowjob and it wasn’t even his birthday, Nick thought that was a pretty fair guess that she did.

  She mumbled something that he couldn’t interpret, but the vibration sent a wave of pleasure up his dick and down into his balls.

  He’d liked to have run his fingers through her hair and pulled, hard, but he knew from experience that she hated having her hair messed up and she was just as likely to bite his dick in half.

  He let the sensations wash over him, forcing himself to ignore the basin digging uncomfortably into his spine.

  He wasn’t even close. His brain was too busy, too many thoughts and images whirling around, and he also knew that he had about 30 seconds before she complained that he was taking too long.

  Exhibitionism wasn’t his kink, but since Molly had followed him into the gents, he wasn’t about to turn her down either.

  He wondered if Kenny had worked out yet that it was Nick who’d uploaded a terrible photo to Ken’s Instagram account showing him in his Minions underwear. One-hundred-and-fifty likes and counting.

  Kenny hadn’t congratulated Nick on his engagement, but he hadn’t walked out of the surprise engagement party either. He dared to be hopeful that one day they could get along with each other.

  Nick had invited his friends and family to celebrate his new job as Fullback at the Manchester Minotaurs. He hadn’t told anyone that he was going to propose.