She’d said yes. What had he been worried about?
Nick glanced down at Molly who was red in the face, her eyes beginning to water; he’d counted up to 22 before she spat out his dick with a tired grumble.
“God, Nick! I think I dislocated my jaw. You’ll have to finish yourself off.”
Nick grinned. Like he was going to apologise for his size? He shrugged and tucked himself back in his briefs, zipping up his trousers.
“Save it for later,” he said, semi-hopeful.
Molly didn’t reply. She was busy pouting at the mirror, replacing her frosted pink lipstick in a perfect cupid’s bow.
Nick watched her for a second, then bent down to pick up his jacket, shaking out the creases. Molly had used it as a cushion in the men’s room at the fancy restaurant where they were celebrating their engagement. Probably needed dry-cleaning. Nick idly wondered whether Sir Walter Raleigh had worried about a pissy cloak when he’d laid it across a puddle for Queen Elizabeth, back in the day.
Molly finished her lipstick, flashing a practice smile then fluttered the ring at her reflection.
“You’ll have to get me a matching necklace for our first anniversary, Nicky.”
He liked that she was planning ahead, but a new car or a necklace to keep the wife happy? Yeah, no contest, not if he ever wanted to get laid again.
As they made their way back out to the noisy restaurant, Nick stepped aside to let a woman pass him. It wasn’t like him to look twice, but this time he did. She was the polar opposite of Molly: dark where she was fair; tall where Molly was short; formal in appearance with her short, glossy hair and severe business suit, whereas Molly was all skirts and heels, hair extensions and false nails.
There was nothing about this other woman that he’d call his type, except for a set of soft, beautiful, blood-red lips.
She passed him with a quiet, “Thank you,” and he caught the familiar scent of her perfume. He chuckled when he recognised it: Tiger Balm. The camphor and menthol were unmistakeable.
As he followed Molly back to their table, the noise level had risen another notch and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, drinking and telling bad jokes. All his old teammates were there; his parents and sister, Trish; Molly’s mother and older sister Amelia, and her coven of best friends. Even his former coach had dropped in, but left early.
He missed the man. He missed his rants and his pre-game talks. He missed the swearing and camaraderie of his old team. He’d done a lot of growing up there.
He frowned, wondering why he wasn’t more excited now he’d finally joined a Premiership club. He’d met all the guys at his new team that day and they were fine, but he didn’t know them yet; didn’t feel completely comfortable with them. He definitely didn’t feel at home. He knew it would take time.
He flexed his right foot, feeling the weird drag in his ankle where a pattern of scar tissue left a ridge from his calf to his heel.
Since the surgery, he’d done everything his doctors and trainers had told him. Two weeks wearing a cast; a month wearing a boot and using crutches; weeks and weeks of physical therapy.
But now it was all within his grasp again: and it was a scary, tantalising place. He just wanted to be good enough.
No, that was a lie.
He wanted the fire back.
Four in the morning, and Nick was wide awake. He stretched out in the king-size bed listening to Molly’s soft snores. She’d been different lately, more distant. He wondered if she was regretting the engagement with his future still so uncertain.
With sleep further away than ever, he slid silently out of bed and padded through the house, restless and uneasy.
He hadn’t admitted to anyone that he was worried. But he knew his body, knew what it was capable of . . . and he knew that his ankle still hadn’t healed right. Yes, he could run, but he wasn’t as fast as he had been; he couldn’t turn at speed the way he did before, not like ‘the Rocket’ could. He wasn’t as strong when he kicked, the ball didn’t go as far or as high. Everyone around him agreed that he was still recovering, but to Nick, it felt more than that.
And the hovering doubt threatened to choke him.
He’d never lacked for confidence before, not like this. It was a slow poison that worked its way through his heart and mind.
When he thought of not having a club to play for, his pulse started to sprint. If he had to go back to working in a factory now . . .
Even making love to Molly hadn’t taken the edge off his fears, and his mind spiralled helplessly as he tried to force his body to relax. It was as if he was playing in fog: he couldn’t see his teammates or his opponents; he just knew that they were out there, waiting for him.
He sat on the sofa, shivering slightly at the feel of the cool leather against his bare skin. Predictably, his body ached, and a spectacular bruise had blossomed on his hip despite treating it with arnica. He rubbed it tentatively, remembering the bruising tackle that he’d endured during practice today. Another souvenir of my lifestyle, he thought grimly.
Rugby was a hard sport, a rough game. There was no padding, no helmet, just a gum guard for your upper teeth. That was it. You hurled yourself at your opponents and sometimes the ground rushed up to meet you. And some days you were cheered and some days you were booed, and every day your body ached. But for Nick, the pride of playing, the honour of being a professional athlete, made it all worthwhile.
And he wanted that. He craved it, needed it, would endure anything to play again.
Because what am I, if I don’t have rugby?
The answer hovered in the air, unspoken, threatening like the first echo of thunder in the distance.
Shaking off the feeling, he prowled into the kitchen and pawed his way past the healthy food in the fridge to a small piece of sticky toffee pudding that he’d brought back from the engagement party. He didn’t have many guilty pleasures, but sticky toffee pudding with custard was hard to beat. It was one of the reasons he’d insisted having it on the menu tonight. And the reason why he’d asked the restaurant to box him up another piece to take home.
His heart sank when he saw the empty container with a few crumbs and a blob of custard. Shit, he’d been looking forward to that—Molly and her bloody diets. She’d hardly eaten anything tonight at the party, but had obviously cracked when they’d gone home. She hadn’t saved him any.
He flattened the box with the palm of his hand then tossed it in the recycling.
And missed.
Nick jolted awake when his mobile rang.
“Answer your bloody phone,” Molly grumbled, turning away and pulling a pillow over her head.
He winced at the pain in his hip as he groped around until his fingers closed over his phone before the vibrations sent it skittering across the smooth surface of the bedside table.
It was a local number, but not one that he recognised.
“’Lo?”
His voice was gruff from pain and lack of sleep, and he held the phone away from his mouth to clear his throat, so he missed what the voice said next.
“Sorry, what was that?”
There was a pause, before a man’s terse voice replied.
“I said it’s Steve Jewell, your boss. I want you at the club by ten this morning. Don’t be late.”
“Who w’s tha’?” Molly mumbled.
Nick blinked, now wide awake.
“My Coach.”
“Oh my God, it’s so friggin’ early.”
Nick tossed his phone on the bedside table, pushed off the duvet and headed for the bathroom.
Pulling on a pair of track pants and an old t-shirt, he made his way downstairs wondering why Coach had called him so early on a Saturday morning. It couldn’t be good news because he’d have said, wouldn’t he? So it must be bad news. Perhaps he was getting fired. No, they weren’t allowed to fire him unless he’d been injured for more than six months—he still had two months to go. So what was it?
Cold sweat broke out across his b
ody and he licked his lips.
“Make me a cuppa!” Molly called after him.
AS NICK ARRIVED at the club, he cast a critical eye over his new team’s superior facilities, feeling a twinge of disloyalty when he had to admit that everything here was bigger, better, newer.
The locker rooms had actual lockers and not just a shelf and a peg for his kit. There were two physio rooms, an ice bath shaped like a Jacuzzi and big enough for six.
Dumping his bag in a locker, he jogged up the stairs to the manager’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come!” growled a voice.
Nick walked inside and found Steve Jewell parked behind a massive slab of white oak, rifling through an untidy pile of paperwork, an irritated frown tugging his bristling eyebrows together.
The walls were decorated with photographs from the team’s glory days, right back to its inauguration when Queen Victoria sat on the throne. Maybe she’d been a fan.
“Nick, take a seat.”
Steve Jewell shoved the paperwork away and looked up, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. Crossing his meaty arms, he leaned back in his chair, making it creak in protest.
“I think you need some help, Nick.”
He spoke flatly, delivering his punch with no preamble as Nick sucked in a sharp breath.
“I know you’ve got the potential. I’ve seen it at your old club, but we’ve not seen it here. During training, you’re missing easy passes and choking on the big moments.”
“I’ll train harder . . .” he began, but Coach shut him down.
“We don’t need you to train harder, we need you to play smarter. No one is questioning your dedication to getting fit, but it takes more than that to come back from the kind of injury you’ve sustained.”
He gave Nick a grim smile. Perhaps it was meant to be reassuring.
“I’ve made an appointment for you to see a sports psychologist that we have a relationship with. Dr. Scott comes highly recommended and has a good track record with athletes, especially men like you coming back from injury. You’ve got an appointment in forty minutes.”
He tossed a business card across the desk, and Nick took the small rectangle of stiff card with reluctance. He’d worked with two sports psychologists before: one had been useful, the other not so much. That guy hadn’t been able to take the locker-room banter and had resigned after three sessions. But those had been team-based sessions. He’d never had a one-to-one appointment before.
He rubbed his forehead. The Club’s management must be really worried about him if they were shelling out for this. He wondered again if they were thinking of dropping him. He could hardly blame them. They’d paid a lot of money for his contract and all they’d got was an injured second-rate player.
Why wasn’t his ankle getting better? He’d done everything the doctors and physios had asked of him. The surgeon had assured him that the repair was holding. So why did it feel like he was running through treacle? Where was the acceleration that had made his name?
He felt like a fake and a fraud, and now he was about to waste even more of the Club’s time and money.
“Yes, Coach.”
Steve nodded, already strewing his desk with paper. Nick stood quietly and saw himself out.
He shoved the card in his pocket, uttering a short oath and a longer prayer that this shrink would help him.
If he couldn’t, Nick didn’t know who could.
Following the directions from his phone, he drove to the clinic in a daze. Autumn mist rose from the fields drifting up to meet the low ceiling of cloud, making the world muffled and out of focus.
He was trying to be open-minded about this appointment, but right now everything was dragging him down.
He parked in front of an ugly two-storey building on an industrial estate a few miles from the club’s training ground.
As he swung out of his car, he felt a familiar twinge in his ankle that had him holding his breath until it passed. How was he supposed to play top level rugby when it felt like every step could be the one that finished him? How could he play with no fear, when fear was a molten core that burned him from the inside out?
Walking gingerly, he pushed open the door to the clinic.
A friendly woman with a short blonde bob smiled at him.
“Good morning, can I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Nick Renshaw. I have an appointment with Dr. Scott.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here. Please have a seat.”
Her?
He hadn’t expected the doctor to be a woman. There weren’t many women involved in his world, although more than there used to be. Several of the physios were female.
Nick felt wary and frustrated—what had this woman been told about him? He hated going into situations where he couldn’t predict the outcome.
The receptionist picked up her handset and pressed a button. “Mr. Renshaw is here . . . certainly . . . I’ll send him in.” She looked up and smiled. “Dr. Scott is ready for you—she’s through the double doors and the first room on the right. Can I get you a drink of anything? Tea, coffee, water?”
“Just water, thank you.”
She buzzed him through and he followed her instructions, tapping at the open door on the right.
“Come on in!”
Taking a deep breath, he walked inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the tall bookshelves filled with rows and rows of leather-bound books and a stack of magazines, Journal of Applied Sport Psychology. Several pieces of furniture that looked new took up most of the room: a wide black leather sofa flanked by two large arm chairs; and a curved wooden desk that held a laptop, phone and more books.
He saw a tall woman leaning against the window, silhouetted by the opaque light outside. She walked towards him and held out her hand.
“Hello, Nick. I’m Anna Scott. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You’re American?”
He didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did.
“Yes, I am. Have you ever been there?”
Nick shook his head. “I’ve always wanted to.”
“Well, I hope you find the time to visit,” she smiled. “Please sit wherever you feel comfortable.”
Nick looked around again, ignoring the sofa and armchairs, instead choosing the office chair opposite her desk. He wondered if his choice of chair was some sort of test. Maybe he’d failed already. He felt clumsy and stupid, blurting out that she was American. He must have sounded like a complete wanker.
He studied her carefully, looking for any signs that she was looking down on him. But she seemed calm and unflappable, the exact opposite of how he was feeling as his heart triple-timed. The severe black suit did its best to hide her slim curves but wasn’t entirely successful. He’d never been good at telling women’s ages, but bearing in mind she was a doctor, she must be older than she looked—possibly thirty?
Her hair was dark, maybe auburn in sunlight, and worn boyishly short. Behind thick-framed glasses, her eyes appeared steely grey. He jolted when his gaze dropped to her lips: deep red lipstick. He knew those lips, but how?
“Have we met before?”
He asked the question without thinking, then cringed at such a terrible line.
She cocked her head to one side.
“I was wondering if you’d remember. Rafters Restaurant, last night.”
Nick’s eyebrows shot up.
“That was you!”
Her amused smile sent a faint blush to his tanned cheeks.
“I guess so.”
“Nice restaurant,” he croaked.
“Not really my style,” she said. “I prefer something a little more relaxed, but the food was good.”
Nick wholeheartedly agreed, but he didn’t say anything. He was still assimilating the information that this was the woman who’d caught his attention the night before.
“And I believe congratulations are in
order,” she continued. “That was your engagement party?”
“Oh, yeah. Yes.”
She waited a beat but Nick was still floundering in the shallow end of confusion. He’d come to this session feeling defensive, only to find that he had one of the hottest shrinks on record. If Molly found out . . . he could only imagine the jealous arguments.
“So, we’d better begin. But before I do, any objections if I record this session?”
Surprised, he shrugged and shook his head.
“Great! Steve Jewell sent you to me because he thinks I can help you. But first, let me tell you a little about how I work, and then we can talk about your injury and rehabilitation.”
“Okay.”
“First, I’m not a shrink,” and she gave a light laugh. “A lot of people think that when they come to me for the initial meetings, but it’s a completely different discipline. Although, as with all aspects of our curious human minds and bodies, everything is linked.
“The simplest way to describe what I do is for you to think of me as part of your coaching team.”
You’re a lot sexier than any of my coaches, Nick thought wryly.
Her voice was strong and clear but had a strangely soothing effect. There was something peaceful about the way she spoke, the gentle, articulate humour. It seemed to be designed to put people at ease. It was working for Nick, and he felt himself start to relax.
“There are various ways that I can help athletes—I can teach you mental game skills to improve performance and learning. This is what I call my ‘Seven Times Lucky’ approach. But all of it is based on trust: I’ll trust you to answer honestly and fearlessly, and you’ll need to trust me to help you work through everything in the most beneficial way for you. Deal?”
Nick nodded, not really feeling like he had a choice. But the way she spoke, he liked it. It was refreshing. She was refreshing. And he liked watching her mouth as she talked. His body seemed to like it a lot too, and that bothered him.
“First, we’ll work on your coping strategies for performance fears. Second, we’ll target confidence, focus, composure, intensity, which can spill out usefully into all aspects of your life.”
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