Undefeated

by Reardon, Stuart

  Except Nick wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on kidding himself—a lot of his thoughts about the sexy doctor were far from platonic.

  He could guess what Ken would say—he’d tell him to go for it, to enjoy himself with Anna before he got hitched and promised to sleep with just one woman for the rest of his life. But Nick wasn’t Kenny, and he wouldn’t disrespect either woman that way.

  But lunch would have been nice.

  November 2014

  THE PUB WAS busier than Anna was expecting, and she pushed her way through slowly, scanning each table in the hope that Graham would be there—so far, no luck. And she didn’t think a table would be freeing up any time soon.

  “What’s a nice doctor like you doing in a place like this?”

  She spun around to see Nick’s grinning face. Even in four-inch heels, she had to tilt her chin up to meet his amused gaze.

  “Looking for a place to park her weary ass,” she smiled.

  “Are you here by yourself?”

  “Yes, I thought it was women-only night. My mistake.”

  His eyebrows shot up. The whole team was there, so the pub was filled with burly men. Then he laughed at her amused expression, and she grinned at him.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Um . . .”

  “You’re off duty. That’s allowed, isn’t it?” He leaned closer. “Crowded pub, nothing shady . . . and I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  He was so close, she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. He was wearing a light cologne, cinnamon, maybe a hint of cedar, something that she couldn’t identify, something that was all man, all Nick. She swallowed and glanced around quickly. No harm in it, said the devil on her shoulder.

  The pub was crowded and they shuffled closer together, his arm steadying her when she was jostled. Up close, in her personal space, he smelled even better, and she had to resist breathing in deeply as her body was briefly pressed against his.

  By sheer willpower alone, she managed to inch backwards, even as she longed to move closer still.

  Anna realised that he was watching her with confusion, probably wondering why she was acting so weird . . . or maybe just wondering if she wanted a drink or not.

  “In that case, thank you,” she answered, giving him a bright smile. “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”

  He winced.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You can’t put ice in a good whiskey—that’s just wrong. It spoils the flavour.”

  Anna smiled at him, her eyes lighting with challenge.

  “First, I didn’t ask for a single malt, I asked for scotch—blended whiskey. And second, you’re wrong. A little dilution makes it more flavourful. That’s been scientifically proven. You need to thank guaiacol for that—it’s an aromatic herb, and it has a smoky aroma, some think it has a scent of creosote,” and she pulled a face. “Guaiacol tends to sink, so diluting it a little moves it closer to the surface—more flavour, more taste.” She smiled at his stupefied expression. “And it’s rather warm in here, so I’ll have it with ice.”

  “That is . . . how do you know this stuff?”

  “I read,” she said with a hint of a smile. “Plus, memory like an elephant.”

  He shook his head, still smiling.

  “Scotch on the rocks coming up.”

  He waded through the crowd in front of the bar, and with a nod of his head, was served immediately. Anna was jealous—she wished she had that effect on bartenders.

  Nick returned a minute later with her drink, and a bottle of water for himself, she noted.

  “You look . . . different tonight,” he said cautiously.

  “You’re missing the cape and superhero outfit I wear for work?”

  He slapped his forehead.

  “That’s it! I knew it was something.”

  “Ten out of ten for observation.”

  Then he spoke more seriously. “You look really nice, Anna.”

  She paused before answering. “Thank you.”

  They stared at each other and Anna’s pulse started to race. Damn, the man was intense. His eyes were narrowed as if he was about to say something important. She glanced away and took a sip of her scotch, enjoying the bite and slow burn, feeling as if this was dangerous territory. There was an attraction, a pull, a magnetism that seduced her.

  Anna held the glass in front of her, a weak defence against a battle she didn’t want to fight.

  “I’m hoping to get some match time on Saturday,” said Nick, leaning back, his expression relaxed again as he gestured with the bottle of water.

  Whatever he was going to say, he’d thought better of it. And now she was really curious.

  “So I’ve heard. Good for you,” she said with a neutral expression. “You’ve worked hard and . . .”

  “Hey, Nicky baby, where’ve you been?”

  They were interrupted by Molly who latched onto Nick’s free arm as if it was made of solid gold. She stared questioningly at Nick, her gaze turning hostile as she swung toward Anna.

  “Mol, this is Anna. Anna, this is my girlfriend, Molly.”

  She shot him a furious look and then smiled sweetly at Anna.

  “Fiancée.”

  “Yeah, of course. Fiancée,” Nick amended quickly, his eyes darting between them.

  “Hello,” Anna said pleasantly.

  Nick hadn’t introduced her as his psychologist, so Anna wasn’t sure if Molly knew about her. She decided to err on the side of caution since she was getting the keep off vibe.

  “How do you guys know each other?” Molly asked, jealousy glinting in her gaze.

  “We work together,” Nick answered shortly. “Anna’s a sports psychologist. She’s been helping me with aspects of my game.”

  Molly’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re Dr. Scott?”

  “Yes, I am. How nice to meet you,” Anna said politely.

  She was curious about this woman—Nick had mentioned his fiancée a grand total of three times in all their meetings.

  “Nick’s told me about you, Dr. Scott. Although I don’t remember him mentioning that you’re female.” She tossed her long hair over slim shoulders. “He probably doesn’t think of you as a woman.”

  Anna’s eyebrows shot up, wondering how Nick had gotten involved with someone so rude.

  “Mol! Jesus!”

  Behind Molly, Anna was relieved to see that Graham had arrived, because by her reckoning, Nick and his fiancée were about twenty seconds from a full-scale argument.

  “Well, it was . . . nice . . . chatting with you both, but if you’ll excuse me, my date has arrived. Thanks for the drink, Nick.”

  She walked away, but not before she heard Molly’s strident tones and Nick’s low, angry response.

  The day after seeing Anna at the pub, Nick arrived for a day of training.

  He’d been surprised to see her, but enjoyed talking to her out of office hours. Shame the evening had ended in another row with Molly.

  She’d accused him of lying. Not true.

  Of not telling her that Dr. Scott was female. True.

  That he fancied the pants off Dr. Scott. Also true, but strongly denied.

  That he’d disrespected Molly. False.

  That he had to promise to stop seeing Anna. No way.

  He’d slept in the spare room. In his own house.

  But his edginess was about more than another irritating row with Molly. He loved her, but he had to admit that since he’d met Anna, he was wondering if Mol really was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Since he’d just got engaged, his timing sucked. She was also still nagging him about trying to be a TV pundit. He wasn’t totally against the idea, just not yet. Rugby was his passion, his life: Molly had never understood that.

  He also knew that something was happening between him and Anna, but neither of them were in a position to acknowledge it. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was drawn to her, strongly, but he
wasn’t a cheater and never had been. With an older sister and a mum he respected, he’d have had seven bells knocked out of him by both of them if he’d tried anything like that. And he’d been with Molly for three years. It was confusing and disconcerting to find himself attracted to another woman just a few weeks after he’d asked Molly to marry him.

  Even so, Anna was very much on his mind when he walked into the locker room, only to find a post-it note with an instruction to see Steve Jewell. Nick’s heart kicked up a gear.

  Today was decision day for who’d be playing on Saturday. Nick was aching for the chance to prove himself.

  With some trepidation and a lot of expectation, he jogged up a flight of stairs to the head coach’s office.

  “Come in, Nick. Take a seat.”

  Steve’s voice was gruff and the frown lines on his face had deepened since the start of the season.

  “You’re not training today. I want you to take yourself down to the clinic. You’re booked in for an MRI scan on that Achilles tendon.”

  Nick was stunned. This wasn’t what he’d expected to hear.

  “Why’s that then, Coach?” he asked, feeling uneasy. “Why now? I thought . . . I hoped I’d made the pick for Saturday.”

  “Doctor’s orders,” came the reply. “Just a check-up. We want to make sure everything’s healing as it should. Right?”

  “Right,” Nick echoed doubtfully.

  The only doctor Nick had seen lately was Anna. He felt a small stab of betrayal—that she was sending him for this scan without discussing it first. Obviously he knew that she was reporting back—that was her job—but still, she should have mentioned it.

  Nick knew he wasn’t as fit as he could be; definitely not as fast as he’d been. But he was so much better than at the start of the season. He wanted to be out there, playing for his club.

  Feeling numb, he took the appointment letter that Coach held out to him, seeing the address of a private clinic that the Club used.

  When he arrived, he was ushered into a plush waiting area. Wide, comfortable sofas were arranged around a small coffee table that carried glossy brochures describing the clinic’s services. He scanned through one then quickly dropped it back onto the table with a heavy sigh.

  Thank God he didn’t have a prostate problem.

  Growing bored as he waited, he sent a text to Molly, telling her where he was on the off chance that she might actually care. They still weren’t speaking, but surely she’d want to know that he was seeing a doctor?

  Yes, things were rocky between them, but that didn’t mean they didn’t love each other. Nick’s injury had been a rough patch, but they’d survived, and it had made him stronger. Nick knew how worried Molly had been, but they were getting married next year and this was just a stupid argument.

  Right now, he needed her. With this new uncertainty hanging over his head, he needed to know that he and Molly were still good.

  She was working today, so he hoped she’d text back and he could kill some time, but she didn’t.

  He waited a few more minutes with growing disappointment, then pocketed his phone and scowled at his wristwatch, but a short while later, he was taken in for his appointment.

  Dressed in a hospital gown, the kind that left your arse hanging out, he slid onto the cold plastic of the scanner tray and put the earphones over his head, listening to classical music playing. It was relaxing in a weird sort of way.

  The heavy, rhythmic thumping of the MRI scanner rolled through him. Somehow, this huge metal tube was taking pictures of the inside of his body. It was a pity it wasn’t doing his brain as well—it would have been interesting to see the mess inside his head.

  Twenty minutes later, he was out, dressed and sitting in the consultant’s office. Definitely not as much waiting around as in an NHS hospital.

  “Well, Mr. Renshaw, I have the results of your MRI scan.”

  The doctor glanced at his computer screen then up at Nick, small round glasses perched on the end of a long nose that bristled with nasal hair.

  “I’m afraid the tear in your Achilles tendon has not been successfully repaired. It’s going to require further surgery. In fact, the tear is at 90 percent, you’re lucky it hasn’t snapped completely. It’s hanging on by a thread. It could go at any moment, even if you weren’t playing a physical sport like rugby. Frankly, it’s a miracle,” and he smiled broadly so Nick could share his appreciation. “We’ll need to schedule surgery as soon as possible. This week.”

  Nick felt the blood drain from his body then replaced with ice. The shock of the doctor’s prognosis felt like a life sentence . . . or a death sentence. He’d suspected that something wasn’t right because he wasn’t moving like he used to. But he’d just assumed he needed to train harder, not . . . not this.

  He swallowed a bitter taste as all those hopes that Anna had given him disappeared in the smoking remains of his career.

  It was all over this time. He couldn’t think of a single athlete who’d come back from two surgeries like that and play top level rugby. It was no coincidence that most careers ended in injury rather than retirement.

  He remembered the release form he’d signed before he had the last surgery. He’d waived pretty much all his rights then, it seemed.

  “I can’t say I’d have done it like that myself,” said the consultant, frowning. “Too much chance of dead material being left in—as is the case here. You really can’t partially keyhole an Achilles tendon repair. Of course, the wound heals more quickly, however . . .”

  The consultant continued talking, but Nick barely heard a word of what he said about scheduling surgery and rehabilitation. All he could think was, it’s over.

  When the doctor stopped talking, if, maybe, could, perhaps, he shook hands wordlessly and drove home.

  The house echoed with his footsteps as he paced through the living room and out to the kitchen, staring at the narrow back garden that he’d never got around to planting out.

  It was too empty and he couldn’t bear to be around so much silence when the voices in his head were threatening to deafen him. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his first instinct to talk to Anna. He needed her quiet reassurance, but he hesitated. Anything he said could be reported to Steve Jewell.

  He stuffed the phone back and jumped into his car, driving too fast to see the only other person who’d understand.

  Kenny was still on the injury list and had physio most afternoons, so Nick knew he’d be home at this time of day.

  The thirty minute drive usually gave Nick time to think, but today the time filled a great well of depression that had sunk inside him.

  He pulled up outside a redbrick, semi-detached house of the type that Manchester suburbs specialised in. Except for the flashy car parked outside the garage.

  But then he saw another car on the short driveway, and his stomach plummeted. It was the Mini Cooper that he’d bought for Molly last year.

  Why was Molly visiting Kenny at this time of day? An answer sprang to mind, but it seemed too improbable because they hated each other. That’s what they’d always told him . . .

  Nick gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening as sheer rage filled him.

  He was out of the car before he knew what he was doing and he strode up Kenny’s short driveway.

  Music was blaring through the house, blocking out the sound of his approach. He glanced through the front window and exhaled slowly.

  It was the knee brace that clued him in.

  Kenny had been wearing a knee brace for weeks now.

  A woman was bent over an armchair, and Nick watched as his best friend slapped the plump backside while he pumped inside her, his hairy white arse pistoning roughly.

  Nick’s heart stumbled.

  He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing, but he knew it was her, knew it was Molly. He recognised the dress that was pushed up around her waist and the shoes that she’d worn when she walked off in a huff this morning.

  Sh
e turned slightly, and Nick could see the soft curve of her cheek, flushed and sweating.

  I’ve got to be at work early today, Nicky baby. Lie Number One.

  Your girlfriend, sorry, fiancée, does my head in. Lie Number Two.

  I’m supporting you all the way, Nicky baby. Lie Number Three.

  I’ve got your back, mate. Lie Number Four.

  Love you, Nicky baby! Lie Number Five.

  Nick’s stomach turned over when Molly’s mouth dropped open with pleasure.

  It was supposed to be him who made her cry out like that, not Ken. Never Ken.

  How long? How long since his fiancée and his best friend had been fucking? How long had he been a naïve, trusting fool? How long? How long? How long!

  As if someone had lit a match, his blood began to boil in his veins. Flames of rage fanned by the fires of humiliation consumed him.

  He burned.

  He ran back to his car, grabbing a wrench from the toolbox in the boot. The cool metal felt right against his hot skin.

  Nick swung the wrench like a baseball player, shattering the large pane of glass in the front window. Molly screamed and Kenny yelled obscenities. Nick charged at the front door, BAM! BAM! BAM! Then shoulder barged the door and booted it open.

  Molly screamed again when she saw him and cowered on the floor.

  Kenny was still trying to pull sweatpants over his knee brace, his now flaccid dick swinging wildly.

  “Nick! Mate! It’s not what it looks like!”

  Nick ignored the words, more lies, and moved around the room methodically smashing everything in there.

  SMASH! The TV screen shattered and sparked.

  CRACK! The tall reading light was bent in half.

  CRASH! The Bluetooth speaker met a bitter end.

  Kenny grabbed his arm, trying to stop him, but Nick didn’t even think as he hooked Kenny around the neck, the clothesline manoeuvre that he’d so graphically described to Anna all those weeks ago.

  Kenny was yanked backwards, shrieking as his bad knee buckled, and then the scream was cut off as Nick gripped his windpipe and squeezed.

  His rage was so huge, so overwhelming, so filled with blinding fury that he stared wordlessly at the two people he’d trusted most. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t . . .