Undefeated

by Reardon, Stuart

  She smiled at him encouragingly.

  Nick suspected he wouldn’t have any performance fears with her, then realized how utterly inappropriate his thoughts were.

  Maybe if you stop looking at her mouth, dickhead!

  “Third, we’ll work on some strategies to prepare for competition, specific situations on the rugby field. Fourth, and this is key for you, we’ll work on your recovery from injury. You might think that the scar from your operation is the only one, but athletes are often left with mental scars long after the injury is physically healed. We’ll look at methods for coping with the pressures associated with returning to a prior level of performance pre-injury.”

  That caught Nick’s attention.

  “Can you really do that, doctor?”

  He was leaning forwards, trying to hide the desperation in his voice.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered easily. “But please, call me Anna.”

  “Anna, right. I’m Nick.”

  “I know,” she smiled. “So, Nick, I’ll also help you develop a pregame routine, a mental preparation that will teach you to be more proactive with your confidence. We’ll also look at pre-shot routines, using mental skills to prepare for a specific motor skill, such as a dropkick, for one example. And finally, we’ll work on improving the efficiency of your practices by helping you to understand principles of motor learning and performance.”

  She seemed so confident, so sure of her ability to help him, that Nick felt the first weak pulse of hope.

  “We’ll use a variety of techniques as we work: positive self-talk; you know, I can do this! That sort of thing. Visualisation: seeing the action before you take it, seeing yourself achieve what you want to achieve. We’ll also discuss stress management and relaxation techniques. We’ll look at your sport and exercise goals, and find triggers to motivate you to achieve them. And most importantly, we’ll learn to evaluate the way you think and behave during a game, and how that affects your performance.”

  “Assuming I ever get off the bench,” he said dourly.

  “Positive self-talk 101: tell yourself you’ll get off the darn bench.”

  She stared at him, a challenge in her silvery eyes.

  “What, right now?”

  “No better time.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I’m going to get off the darn bench!”

  Nick repeated parrot-fashion, feeling like a knob.

  “Once more with feeling, Nick. Come on! You can do this! You want this, right?”

  “I’m not staying on that bloody hard bench any longer!”

  Anna clapped.

  “Nice! You made it your own. So, what do you think about what I’ve said?”

  “Sounds great, doc—Anna.”

  “Terrific. Let’s get to work.”

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Belinda walked in carrying a tray with a tall glass of water which she placed in front of Nick, and a cup and saucer with hot lemon next to Anna.

  “Thanks, Belinda.”

  “You’re welcome, pet.”

  Anna gave Nick an appraising look as Belinda left the office, closing the door gently behind her.

  “You were wise not to take the coffee.”

  He pulled a face.

  “Am I supposed to stay off caffeine?”

  Anna laughed, her head tilted back, and Nick caught a glimpse of a shiny gold tongue stud. It surprised him, and damn if he didn’t find it hot. She definitely wasn’t like any doctor he’d ever seen before.

  “God, no. I wouldn’t do that to you. A couple of caffeinated beverages a day won’t hurt you . . . it’s just that Belinda’s coffee might.”

  “Oh, right,” and he grinned at her as she smiled back.

  “So, tell me how you think your rehab is going.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, his smile dimming.

  “Yeah, good.”

  She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Really good,” he lied.

  “I’m happy to hear it,” she smiled.

  “Thanks.”

  “Why do you think they’ve sent you here?”

  Ah, shit.

  “To help me improve my game?”

  Nick was annoyed that his voice rose at the end, making it sound like a question, like he was uncertain. Which he was, but that wasn’t something he wanted to share with a stranger.

  He forced a smile. That wasn’t very convincing either.

  “Tell me about your childhood. When did you first pick up a rugby ball?”

  Nick was taken aback. He hadn’t expected something so . . . personal. It sounded like a shrink question.

  “When you’re ready . . .”

  Her expression was so open, so warm. He thought she’d be judgmental: weighing him and finding him wanting.

  She smiled encouragingly, suspecting that he wasn’t used to talking about himself. She waited, keeping a small smile on her face as he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Finally, he began to talk.

  “I don’t really remember a time when I didn’t play. I don’t even remember the first time I held a rugby ball. My dad and uncle were always tossing a ball in the back garden. It was just a patch of grass and you had to dodge the clothesline. Mum would get annoyed if the plants got trampled.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Maybe four or five.”

  “Isn’t that kind of young?”

  “Not really. Some kids played football, I liked rugby. We started playing in a team at primary school when I was ten, but there was no tackling at that age.”

  “Did you like school?”

  This time his smile was genuine.

  “Not really. Playing on the rugby team was the only part I enjoyed. I left school at sixteen.”

  He glanced up to see if she’d look down on him for that, but she just nodded to show that she was listening and made notes in tiny, spidery handwriting.

  “I never thought that I could make a career of rugby. When I left school I got a job in a paint factory. Good money, too, or that’s how it seemed at the time.”

  Nick shook his head. It had been enough to pay for his first tattoo, an ugly, fuzzy devil that he’d had inked on the back of his shoulder. He hated it.

  “How long did you work in the factory?”

  “Two years. I played for an amateur club on the weekends and trained most evenings.”

  Everything was simpler then. He’d been happy, doing all the usual things that a kid does in his late teens: clubbing, drinking, dancing, finding a girlfriend or two.

  “And what happened when you were selected to play professionally?”

  “A scout for local clubs had been keeping an eye on me. I was a skinny sixteen year-old but by the time I was eighteen, I’d filled out a bit.”

  He paused. Was she checking him out? But then her eyes dropped back to her notebook and Nick gave a mental shrug and carried on with his story.

  “Any road, I’d had enough of the paint factory and I was going to join the Marines.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, maybe I’d have been fast enough to dodge a few bullets.”

  He laughed awkwardly, but Anna’s expression was stony. He cleared his throat, hurrying on.

  “I was called in for a trial at this professional club who were in the second league, Championship Division it’s called. Anyway, I went in to meet the rest of the team. A week of training together followed by an actual match that was going to be televised.”

  Nick shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

  “I was eighteen years old, never been paid to play, didn’t know the other players, and didn’t think I’d be good enough.”

  She made a small note on the page.

  “But you were.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I was. I made the winning try in my first ever professional game. I think I was more surprised than anyone.”

  Anna made another note while Nick took a stroll dow
n memory lane.

  His salary quadrupled overnight, and while that might have messed up most eighteen year-olds, he kept his head down, worked hard, and never took any of it for granted. He rarely had a drink and he never missed a training session. Two years of working in a factory made him treasure this chance.

  “I was at my old club for eight years.”

  “You liked it there?”

  “Yeah, they’re good lads.”

  “How do you feel about playing for the Minotaurs?”

  “Surprised, pleased, happy,” worried, too.

  She gazed at him appraisingly.

  “Have you ever been red-carded? Sent off during a game?”

  He grinned sheepishly.

  “My last red card was when I was twelve, and I’d clotheslined another player. He was a lad who was three years older and two stone heavier.”

  “Clotheslined?”

  “I’d tackled him above the neck, which is like running into a clothesline: and I did it twice. Big no-no, because basically I could have broken his neck. I was sent off and I learned my lesson—I never made a dangerous tackle again.”

  Anna smiled.

  “As you may have guessed, I’m more familiar with the rules for football—American Football that is. I’m still learning about Rugby Union. Tell me about the position you play. Fullback, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Although I’ve played Centre and Wing, too.”

  His eyes lit up and he could feel the passion still inside him. He’d been humouring her before, but this, this was something that ignited the fire.

  He leaned forward, his eyes bright and focussed.

  “Fullbacks, we’re the last line of defence. We catch the ball deep in our own territory and then move the ball forward, fast. There are seven Backs and eight Forwards in a rugby team, so it’s not unusual for me to see all my teammates spread out in front of me during a game.

  “In scrums and line-outs, it’s the job of the Forwards to get the ball while the Backs find a nice wide open space, ready to receive. My position behind the backline allows me to see holes in the defensive line and I’ll either cover that gap, or get the two Half-backs to do it. We have to anticipate the opposition’s play.

  “We have to be fast, have good catching ability under a high kick, and be able to punt the ball accurately over long distances.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve seen old game footage of you taking goal-kicks. Is that usual for a Fullback?”

  “You have?”

  “Of course. I need to see how you move on the field.”

  He snorted through his nose.

  “Like an old man right now.”

  Her smile was comforting.

  “We’ll work on that. Nick, let me ask you something . . .”

  “Why stop now?” he muttered dryly.

  She flashed him a bright smile that settled inside his chest, warming him, and he found himself smiling back.

  “Oh, I have no intention of stopping,” she laughed. “Where do you see yourself in two years? What do you want to achieve?”

  “Those are two different questions,” he grumbled.

  She leaned forward, her grey eyes serious.

  “They don’t have to be,” she said. “In fact, they shouldn’t be.”

  He sat back, surprised by her words, a thoughtful expression on his face and shadows in his eyes.

  She waited, and Nick studied his hands, staring at the calluses on the palms, then folding his arms. Finally, he looked up at her.

  “You want to know what I dream about?”

  She nodded.

  “I was a good player at my old club,” he said, his voice contemplative. Then he met her gaze. “I want to be better than that. I want my new club to be proud of me. I want to help them win the Cup and . . .” He took a deep breath. “And I want to play for England some day.”

  Anna’s smile was warm and Nick found himself unwinding, his hands falling loosely into his lap again.

  “Then that’s both our goal and our motivation.”

  He liked the way she said that, like they were a team.

  “I’ll come out and watch you train on Thursday, if that’s okay with you?”

  Her pen was poised above her notes and she raised her eyebrows, waiting.

  “Do you usually come out and see your clients train?” Nick asked.

  “It depends on the client,” she said smoothly.

  Nick frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but she changed direction quickly.

  “But right now, I have some homework for you.”

  He blinked.

  “Homework?”

  “Yes, I want you to write down three things that you do well outside of rugby; and I want you to write down three skills that you believe define you as a rugby player. Got it?”

  Nick knew that he was staring at her owlishly, his mouth open. He licked his lips and tried to look unaffected. This woman! She asked the damnedest questions.

  “Six things I’m good at?”

  She smiled and stood up, indicating that the hour-long session was over.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Nick. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  She held out her hand and he shook it, still bemused by his ‘homework’. Her hand was smaller than his, although her knuckles weren’t scarred. Her fingernails were unpainted, short and blunt. He wasn’t sure why that intrigued him.

  “See you next week.”

  “Right, next week. Thank you, doc—thank you, Anna.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His head was spinning, but she’d given him a lot to think about. She was honest, but she was also optimistic. And most of all, she’d planted a kernel of hope inside him.

  Anna followed her newest client out of her office and watched him slide into a sleek, black BMW.

  Not the car she’d have picked for him. Interesting.

  She’d been deliberately disingenuous during the meeting. She knew as much about rugby as she’d ever known about football, but she’d wanted Nick to tell her; she wanted to know if he still had a passion for his job. Because that had been Steve Jewell’s biggest criticism—that Nick had no fire.

  She was sure that Coach was very, very wrong.

  On top of what she’d learned and her own instincts, when Steve Jewell mentioned that she’d be working with Nick, she’d watched as many of his old televised matches as she could find online, admiring his panther-like speed and attack. Very different from the quiet, diffident man sitting in front of her.

  She’d studied his face while they talked about his rehabilitation, sad to see his passion drain away, the fire dying to a few warm embers. He didn’t believe that he could improve again. That, she suspected, was the root of his problem. Of course, he could be right and he might never make it back to top level play, but Anna’s job was to work on his confidence.

  Anna played the recording on her phone and listened to parts of the conversation again. It had taken her a few minutes to get used to his accent. She knew from her notes that he’d been born and brought up in Yorkshire, and people from that part of Britain had distinctive accents. At least she didn’t mix them up with Scottish anymore.

  She listened for a few minutes, then pressed ‘record’, speaking her thoughts while they were still fresh in her mind.

  “Nick Renshaw, 26, Fullback for the Manchester Minotaurs. Currently benched with an Achilles tendon injury—surgery was fifteen weeks ago. Problem with lack of form and loss of confidence.”

  She leaned back, pushing her hair behind her ears, thinking about the man who’d sat in her office. They’d made a good start even though he obviously didn’t like talking about himself, but he did like talking about rugby—his passion was still there. She could work with a man like that.

  “He’s not arrogant like some players. He has the humility of a professional who’s known both good and bad luck, someone who’s had to struggle. He’s feeling beaten right now, worrie
d that he might never retain his top form.” She paused. “It’s true that some athletes never achieve complete rehabilitation or recover to a full extent after surgery such as his; permanent loss of form is a possibility. He was also extremely reluctant to talk about the progress of his rehabilitation—definitely an uncomfortable subject for him.” What are you hiding, Nick?

  She sensed a barely restrained panic that his career might be over. If it was, then part of her job would be to help him adjust. Many athletes struggled to make the transition to retirement. They were addicted to training and dietary support—too many went off the rails. And it wasn’t just that, physically, their bodies still craved the dopamine rush of competing, of winning, of being cheered by thousands of people.

  She spoke into her phone recorder again.

  “Belinda, make a note that I want Mr. Renshaw to have another MRI scan and a consult with an orthopaedic surgeon. Steve Jewell should know someone who specialises in athletes.”

  She paused again, arranging the notes in her mind.

  “I haven’t asked about the support he’s receiving at home. He didn’t mention his fiancée. Follow up in the next session.”

  She drummed her fingers on the table.

  She’d recognised him the previous evening. It was one of the top restaurants in the area and popular with all the footballers, rugby players.

  It hadn’t been an instantaneous recognition. For one thing, the only photos and footage had been of him wearing his rugby uniform. Seeing him in a designer suit had thrown her. Nevertheless, her eyes had been drawn to him frequently as he celebrated what turned out to be an engagement party. After a few minutes of surreptitious ogling, Anna finally figured out why she knew his face—and was both simultaneously pleased and disappointed that he was about to become her client.

  She’d been intrigued to see who he was marrying. But she was the first to admit that it took all sorts. Otherwise how could she explain Jonathan?

  She frowned at the thought of her ex and their last, painful encounter.

  Shaking away the memory, she stared at the photo of Nick in her file. The picture didn’t do him justice, the gum guard distorting his face.

  In person, she’d struggled to keep her eyes off him, his raven-dark hair, crazy curls combed away from a sculpted face with sharp cheekbones, penetrating hazel-green eyes that failed to disguise the strong emotions burning inside him, and a thick black beard hiding the softness of his lips.