Undefeated

by Reardon, Stuart

  The beard was a surprise. In all his rugby photographs and YouTube videos, he’d been clean shaven with military short hair, giving him a slightly boyish appearance. Now his hair had grown out, it was an unruly riot of dark curls, and with the beard, he seemed very much a man.

  And his body! When he said he’d filled out, she couldn’t help thinking, More than a little, remembering the biceps that bulged when he flexed his arms and the impressive chest that she’d seen underneath his closely fitting t-shirt. Even clothed, he exuded raw power, a sensuous magnetism that threatened to derail her thoughts.

  When he shook her hand, his touch called to her in a way that was primal and unfamiliar.

  It had thrown her for a loop, even though she’d spent her professional life working with many top athletes, all with hard, ripped bodies.

  She slipped the photograph back inside the file and added her handwritten notes, unwilling to continue with her highly inappropriate train of thought.

  He has a nice smile, too.

  She shook her head wryly. He’d certainly be a testing first client.

  And professionally, it would be interesting to see him in action during training on Thursday. She needed to see how his body moved post-surgery, but she also needed to understand how his mind worked. That would take more than one hour-long session. Anna wondered what he’d make of the homework she’d given him. He’d been so surprised, but he hadn’t said no. She could tell that he wanted her help—he definitely needed it.

  She finished reviewing her notes and put them together with the recordings for Belinda to type up. Then she spent the next two hours watching clips from his old games. He’d really been the backbone of his former team. She wondered if he’d seen how much they relied on him and how much the captain had turned to him for support on the field. It was clearly the reason that he’d been headhunted by the Minotaurs.

  At six, Belinda reminded her that she had a dinner appointment, and they left together, Anna locking up behind them.

  “I finished typing up the notes on your Mr. Renshaw,” Belinda said. “He seems nice, very polite.”

  Anna smiled. And sexy as hell.

  “I agree, and I’ve always thought that being nice is undervalued.”

  Belinda nodded.

  “People tend to think it’s a wishy-washy sort of word, like you’re weak.”

  “He’s definitely not weak.”

  Anna had glimpsed a core of something hard and determined inside Nick. But it was well buried—she needed to find ways to help him access that strength.

  “He’s not cocky, just nice and polite. Oh dear, there’s that word again.” Belinda laughed. “Handsome, too, isn’t he?”

  Anna smiled.

  “I’m his psychologist—I’m not allowed to notice things like that.”

  “Of course not,” Belinda said, lifting her eyebrows.

  Anna waved goodbye and drove back to the cottage to get ready for her date.

  All through dinner, she listened half-heartedly while her date talked animatedly about the latest applications for Artificial Intelligence in computing. It wasn’t that Graham was boring, in fact she’d thought him fascinating when they’d met at a conference the week before. But now her mind was on a certain black-haired rugby player, hoping that she could give him the boost of confidence he sorely needed.

  Why the hell did he have to be so attractive?

  And nice.

  NICK WAS RELIEVED when he arrived at training on Thursday and there was no sign of Dr. Scott. He’d told Molly about his appointment earlier in the week and ignored her jibes about having his head examined, but he may also have avoided mentioning that his psychologist’s first name was Anna.

  He didn’t analyse the reasons too closely . . .

  Think of me as part of your coaching team. Yeah, right. He couldn’t help thinking of Anna in a variety of ways that had nothing to do with coaching.

  Molly was fed up with him, that was clear.

  “I don’t know why you don’t get a job on the telly. It would pay more and you wouldn’t have to get all muddy and sweaty. You’re such a grouch when you’re injured. You should be thinking about our future.”

  “Seriously, Nicky, you think it’s fun for me to see you getting milled every week, as well as being a miserable sod when you lose all the time?”

  “I love playing rugby, you know that. I don’t want to just talk about it.” He frowned, irritation making him sharp. “And I don’t lose all the time. I’ll be playing for a Premiership team any day now!”

  Molly’s lips trembled and she widened her eyes. “It’s only because I love you.”

  Instead of holding her and reassuring like he usually did, he turned away, wondering what Anna would have said to him.

  He felt a little guilty for that: he’d only been engaged a few days.

  Nick grunted with annoyance.

  Clear heart, clear mind! That’s what his old Coach used to say. He understood it for the first time.

  Training today was a weights workout which they did two days a week during the season, or three times a week in the off season.

  He was looking forward to it, needing a brutal morning that left him too tired to think.

  It was all about building strength and core stability. To some of the players, the weights room was a necessary evil—something to prevent injuries and keep the body operating at its maximum potential. Others enjoyed it, the ordered calm where the only challenge was from yourself.

  Nick used to be somewhere in between, but during the weeks and months post-surgery when he hadn’t been able to train at all, he’d missed it mentally and physically. He’d missed the satisfaction of working his body hard, and he’d definitely missed all those happy endorphins flooding through his body after a workout. He missed it like a drug. He was a match-day junkie, and being benched was torture. Despite the injuries he accumulated year by year, the aches, sprains, cuts, bruises and concussions were a small price to pay for doing something he loved. But this . . .

  Molly said he’d been a grumpy git, and for a while their relationship had been rocky.

  But since he’d recovered and was back with a team, they were getting along better.

  He changed into his training kit, shorts, t-shirt and tracksuit and headed to the weights room with the other players, ready to push himself.

  He started with the usual dynamic stretches and active mobility before moving on to endurance weights.

  The metal of the bar was cool under his palms as he lay on the bench press and started to push. He felt the strain in his chest and upper body, but it felt right to be back with the group, training with the boys.

  “Are you just warming up with that weight?” Trev teased. “Because my mum could lift that.”

  “I’ve seen your mum and I bet she can.”

  Trev laughed and moved over to the free weights.

  For the next 45 minutes, Nick got in the zone, worked hard.

  “Getting the gains, bro?” asked a sweaty Trev.

  “You, me and your mum,” replied Nick.

  He sat on a bench, catching his breath, wiping his face and pushing his hair out of his eyes, but when he glanced up, he was startled to find Anna watching him.

  She wasn’t wearing glasses and her eyes were bright and inquisitive. Today they were the colour of a winter storm.

  She gave him an easy smile, then turned to talk to their assistant coach who was watching impassively.

  Ian nudged him.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Who?”

  Ian laughed.

  “Like that is it? The woman that made your eyes bulge. Maybe I’ll just go and introduce myself.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you do that. She’s Steve Jewell’s sports psychologist.”

  “The fuck you say?” Ian paused. “She any good?”

  “Jewell says so. She’s . . . easy to talk to.”

  Ian watched appreciatively as Anna disappeared f
rom view.

  “Very nice, mate. Classy. Too good for your hairy arse. Anyway, I thought you were engaged? Just window shopping, is it?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Ian smiled knowingly.

  While Nick trained, he thought again about the homework that Anna had given him, trying to think of what he was good at. Three things non-rugby, too, she’d said. As he took a breather, he chewed his lip and tugged on his beard thoughtfully. He pulled out his phone and opened the Notes app.

  He was good at sex, never had any complaints, but didn’t think he should put that on Anna’s list.

  He could make a mean Cottage Pie—did that count? He wasn’t sure, but with a shortage of other things to write, he put it at the top of his list.

  He drummed his fingers on the bench. There must be something else he was good at?

  Eh, he could play the guitar passably. Not that he found much time to practise these days. He’d learned to play the opening riff for ‘Smoke on the Water’ when he was ten—not that there were many chords involved.

  He added it to the list.

  Three things. Three. Surely it shouldn’t be that hard to think of something? He scratched his chin, thinking about meeting up with Kenny and some of the Rotherham lads last week. He’d driven Ken home after he’d had a few too many pints. Kenny was currently nursing his own injury, a minor knee strain, but nothing that wouldn’t fix itself with a couple of weeks rest.

  Nick tapped on his phone, adding ‘good friend’ to the list.

  The rugby ones were easier, or at least if he was talking about past form they would be. But what was he good at now? He could still see holes in the opponents’ play, and was still strong at planning a tactical game. He could still catch and pass well. It was speed that let him down.

  He closed his phone and scowled at the bench press before going back to work.

  Anna had been watching Nick since he’d arrived. She hadn’t wanted him to know, because she needed to see him being himself. Even though he’d relaxed with her a little toward the end of their first session, she knew from experience that her clients—women as well as men—would put on a show for her, pretending they felt better than they really did. She needed to see Nick candid and raw.

  He’d worked hard in the gym, but she had a suspicion that he was still favouring his right leg. More than he should at this stage in his rehabilitation. She was worried.

  She had two clients, two chances to impress Steve Jewell—and only Dave Parks was capable of making the grade right now. She sighed. Anna hated to fail. And there was something about Nick, a spark that excited her, a deep, burning passion—and a well disguised vulnerability.

  She was determined to help him.

  If she could.

  “The lad’s not fit.”

  Steve Jewell had arrived and was staring at Nick critically.

  “No, he’s not,” Anna agreed. “And not from lack of effort in training.”

  “He’s not backing his own talent, he’s just going through the motions. He looks injured. Your thoughts?”

  “I’d like him to have another MRI. I put that in my report when I emailed it to you.”

  “Urgent?” he barked, his expression worried.

  Anna considered.

  “I think it would be a sensible precaution. Sooner rather than later.”

  Steve gave a thin smile.

  “I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth. No offence.”

  “None taken,” she laughed.

  “Right. I’ll get an appointment set up. In the meantime, keep working with him.” He gave her a sharp look. “Now, tell me about Dave Parks. I need at least one of my new signings to make the grade.”

  Anna felt a certain amount of sympathy for Steve. Being head coach was bliss when your team was winning, and hellish when they weren’t. The Minotaurs had finished low in the rankings last year, and had already lost the first two games of the new season—the Board was breathing down his neck. They wanted to see some wins.

  She followed him as he led her up a flight of steps that took her to a viewing platform above the training ground’s swimming pool.

  Steve’s phone rang and he pulled a face, muttering, “Bloody management.” His heavy brows pulled together and he scowled, signalling that he was leaving.

  As she hadn’t a chance to ask, Anna made a note to find out if their programme included Aquafit or any hydrotherapy. Those activities were particularly good for players recovering from injury.

  Her eyes were drawn to the pool door as four muscled men strode inside. She recognised Nick immediately from his inky-black hair. His body was superb: trained and honed to perfection. A lot of fit, athletic men strutted past her, but few had the lean yet powerful physique, the narrow waist, the broad shoulders, those long legs and muscular thighs. And none of them made her breath catch in her throat.

  He’s off limits! Get a damn grip of yourself.

  Her father had drummed it into her: you don’t mix business and pleasure. And here she was making exactly the same mistake again.

  Anna’s eyes stung with humiliation. Why am I so bad at this?

  She forced herself to think and act like a professional. What could she learn by watching Nick and Dave swim? What clues into their psyche did the way they trained give her?

  As Nick dove into the pool, she saw that he had a small tattoo on one shoulder. But from this distance, she couldn’t tell what it was. Two of the other players were heavily tattooed, but Dave Parks was as unblemished as a new-born baby—if you discounted his astonishingly hairy chest.

  She wouldn’t be surprised if he waxed before his first match—because otherwise the opposing team wouldn’t be averse to grabbing a handful of chest hair and twisting hard. The same went for excessively hairy legs.

  Nick would have to shave that beard, as well. Shame.

  Her eyes were irresistibly drawn back to Nick. She watched him cutting through the water with grace and economy. He really was a beautiful man and out of bounds.

  She wasn’t usually attracted to jocks; in fact, she went out of her way to find nerds to date since she was unlikely to come across them professionally. But something inside her craved the company of this tall, quiet man.

  Anna watched for a moment longer, noting again a lack of flexibility in his right foot. It sickled slightly as he swam—the only ungraceful thing about him.

  She jotted down some more notes then concentrated on her other client. Dave Parks was shorter and heavier. His job on the field was to be as bulky and intimidating as possible. He would only be called to the field for short periods of time: the heavy cavalry that was brought on for specific plays, a human battering ram—especially useful when the ball was near the line.

  Unwillingly, her eyes were drawn back to Nick as he continued to swim lengths of the pool, water gliding sensually over his body. .

  She was looking forward to their next meeting.

  More than she should.

  “So, Nick. Welcome back.”

  “Thanks, doc. I mean, Anna.”

  “Either is fine. Use whatever you feel comfortable with.”

  Nick withheld a grimace and angled his chair so he could see out of the window instead. He exuded discomfort. Yup, the man really hated talking about himself.

  “How’d you make out with your homework?” she asked, a slight smile tugging up one side of her mouth. “Three things that you’re good at outside of rugby.”

  Nick pulled out his phone.

  “You had to write it down?” she teased gently.

  A faint blush rose up his cheeks making Anna regret her words, but he gave a small smile.

  “No one ever asked me what else I was good at. It’s only ever been rugby. Well, PE at school, but not since.”

  She nodded understandingly. Other athletes that she’d met were in similar positions. Many had been hot-housed as children, knowing only one way of life. It was particularly hard on them when their careers were over.

  Nick’s
life was a little more rounded than that since he’d worked after school.

  “So, hit me with it: three things that you’re good at.”

  She wondered if he’d asked his fiancée . . .

  Nick rubbed his hands over his jeans and read in a low monotone.

  “Cottage Pie . . .”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Cottage pie.”

  Anna raised her eyebrows in confusion.

  “I have no idea what that is!”

  He stared at her aghast.

  “You’ve never had Cottage Pie? I’ll have to make you one.”

  He stopped abruptly.

  “Would it be too much to assume it’s not a pie you make in a cottage?”

  He laughed, a quiet, carefree laugh, his eyes crinkling at the sides, his head thrown back. Anna wished she could hear him laugh again.

  “You could,” he grinned at her. “If you had a cottage, you could make a pie.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Minced beef with onions and carrots, topped with mashed potato.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “No pastry? No pie crust?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s a fraud! A pie with no pie crust? I want my money back.”

  Nick grinned at her.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Eh, I’m over it. So you can make Cottage Pie.”

  Nick leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk, staring directly into her eyes.

  “No, I make a fantastic Cottage Pie.”

  Anna shook her head and made a note.

  “Big words,” she said doubtfully.

  Nick’s smile kicked up.

  “Okay, other than your world-renowned Cottage Pie, what else are you good at?”

  “I play guitar. Not very well, but I like it.”

  “What does ‘not very well’ mean? You know which way around it goes? You’ve counted the number of strings?”

  “Yep, all four of them.”

  He grinned at her.

  “Talent indeed. What did you do with the other two strings?”