Undefeated

by Reardon, Stuart

  “I am though.”

  “You didn’t cheat on anyone!” Nick said hotly. “The douchenozzle was the cheat.”

  “I’m the same,” Anna said quietly, “because I didn’t care who was hurt so long as I got what I wanted.”

  And that was the ugly truth that shamed her.

  Nick sighed but didn’t try to contradict her again. The honesty seemed to weigh them down, another brick in the wall of truth that they used to keep others out.

  “You’re a good person, Anna.”

  “Well, I . . . thank you.”

  His refusal to blame her warmed something in Anna’s heart.

  “You’re a good person, too, Nick.”

  He grimaced and stared out of the window.

  “I’m trying to be.”

  “And that’s all we can do.”

  They arrived at the curry house and hurried inside, blanching as the freezing air snapped at their faces and the icy wind whipped through their clothes.

  Nick stumped across the car park, pausing to hold open the restaurant’s door for Anna.

  They were seated quickly and Anna sighed with pleasure as warmth flowed through her again, the spicy air making her empty stomach rumble.

  “What’s good here?” she asked, studying the menu.

  “Everything, but probably best avoid the vindaloo, unless you want to lose a layer of skin from your tongue.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “The voice of experience?”

  “The voice of someone who thought it sounded like a good idea after nine pints on a night out with the lads—for a bet.”

  “It went bad?”

  “My eyes watered, my nose swelled up, and my tongue nearly fell off.”

  “Wow! In that case, I’ll stick to the chicken korma with naan bread and one of those cucumber yoghurt dishes on the side, just in case.”

  He grinned at her disarmingly. His hazel-green eyes sparkled with humour and she felt herself relaxing in his company. I like this man, she thought to herself.

  They placed their orders and Nick sipped a mineral water while Anna asked for a herbal tea.

  Anna broke the silence.

  “So, your tattoo sounds pretty awesome—do I get to see it? Uh, unless it’s somewhere really embarrassing!”

  Nick laughed.

  “Nah, but I’d have to take my shirt off and I don’t think the restaurant’s owner would be very happy.

  No, but I would. Anna dismissed the random thought quickly. They weren’t on a date, they were just . . . having a friendly meal. Although, sometimes it had seemed like there was a spark in the air, but then one or both of them would pull back.

  The food started to arrive and they dug in hungrily, sharing the many dishes and talking, talking, talking, about their families and growing up, about work and the things they did to relax, about music they liked and movies they loved, about everything and nothing, about life. Anna admitted that she was hard on technology and had to buy replacement phones, tablets and laptops regularly. Nick admitted that he could be really messy but had trained himself to keep all the chaos under control.

  It was the connection of people who just fit, for no particular reason. They differed and yet they were alike—changed, altered by events from their past.

  The evening sped by too quickly, and despite the hours they’d talked, there seemed so much still unspoken between them.

  Nick stared at his hands, large and rough compared to Anna’s, then looked up, meeting her enquiring gaze.

  “I never meant to hurt Molly.”

  Anna met his pained gaze.

  “I know.”

  “Really? You believe me?”

  “I do.”

  He closed his eyes in relief. She’d said it in emails, but he needed to hear the answer from her own lips.

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded slightly, an expression of sympathy and understanding on her face.

  Nick took a sip of water, embarrassed by the rush of gratitude he felt. He needed to know that he didn’t disgust her, that she hadn’t just been humouring him because she was kind.

  When he looked up again, he could see goodbye in her eyes.

  “Tonight’s been fun,” she said, brushing her fingers over the back of his knuckles, before leaning over to pick up her bag. “I don’t take nearly enough breaks. I’m very bad at taking the advice I give out.”

  “We can do this again any time,” Nick said quickly, not wanting her to leave. “As friends . . . or as a date.”

  Her mouth popped open.

  “Oh, wow, um . . . I don’t think that would be a good idea—dating, I mean.”

  Nick waited for the sting of disappointment to fade before he spoke again.

  “I think it’s the best idea I’ve had for a long time,” he said carefully.

  Anna frowned, twisting her bag’s strap in her hands.

  “Nick, you’re my client. There are rules about this. What Molly’s lawyer said in court . . .”

  He scowled, his eyes darkening.

  “That bastard was slinging mud, hoping some of it would stick. He has nothing to say about who you do or don’t date. And anyway, I’m not your client. I haven’t been your client for months. There’s nothing stopping us—if you want to.”

  Having laid his cards on the table, he leaned back, watching her, his gaze intense.

  Her eyes studied his face, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, contemplating him as he sat waiting for her verdict.

  “I guess it couldn’t do any harm,” she said at last. “Just friends. My reputation—I can’t risk anymore scandal. You understand?”

  Nick’s body sagged with disappointment, but he nodded half-heartedly. Friends was better than nothing. She’d been there for him at a time when friends were hard to come by. He wanted her in his life.

  “Yeah, I can do friends.”

  She smiled and Nick thought he could see relief in her expression. He had no idea what his own face showed.

  “I guess we’ve kind of nailed the getting-to-know-you questions,” Anna smiled at Nick. “All that stuff you ask when you first meet someone.”

  “Nah, you know way more about me than I do about you.”

  “You think?”

  “I spent hours talking about myself,” he smiled sadly. “My favourite subject.”

  “Hardly!” she snorted. “Getting you to talk about yourself was worse than pulling teeth. The only times you really enjoyed it was when I asked a rugby question. Then you lit up. It was kind of amazing. Those were the best sessions.”

  Nick’s cheeks flushed. Molly said rugby was boring, but she’d enjoyed being a WAG. If he’d tried to talk to her about training or a match, she quickly changed the subject. He wondered now why he’d ever thought they should get married.

  He shook his head—he didn’t want to think about the bitch with Anna in front of him.

  “Why did you want to be a sports psychologist?”

  “Oh, wow, the big questions,” she said, sitting up straighter and losing her smile.

  Nick was surprised. Of everything he could have asked her, he didn’t think that would upset her. But she sat stiffly, her expression tense, her body rigid.

  “You don’t have to . . .” he trailed off lamely.

  “No, that’s fair. I don’t mind, it’s just . . . kind of hard to talk about. Well, not so much with you.”

  He was surprised by her comment but wasn’t sure what to say. But then Anna began speaking again.

  “My father was a big shot football player—American football, NFL hall of fame. It was practically all we ever talked about in our house when I was a kid. He read me game-plays to get me to sleep. True story!” She looked down. “My dad’s a great guy, but football always came first. I was kind of a typical daddy’s girl—always wanting to please him. I trained to be a doctor because it impressed him. But I guess all of that football had seeped into my blood. One day, a guy came into the hospital with a ruptured C7 vertebrae. He was a
Running Back for a college team and became one of my long-term patients—we talked a lot. I even visited with him when I was off duty. He admitted how scared he was about the possibility of football being over for him, but also scared to go back on the field and risk getting injured again. It got me interested in the mental blocks that stop athletes from achieving their full potential. I wanted to help guys like him, so I decided to specialize as a sports psychologist with a specific interest in football.” She paused. “Dad wanted me to be a surgeon—get to the top in a male-dominated career. He was really disappointed.” She gave a small laugh. “Although I did choose another male-dominated career. It’s part of the reason I came to the UK. I just couldn’t get the kind of work I wanted over there. But here, sports psychology is much less established, and Steve Jewell was a friend of Dad’s, so it was the natural place for me to come. I think Dad’s kind of over it now, I guess. I think he’s proud of me. I hope so.”

  “How could he not be?” Nick said, shaking his head. “You’re really good at your job. It’s helped me a lot. I saw how you helped Dave, too. You were the one who spotted that I needed another operation.” Nick winced. “Without it, the surgeon said the tendon could have snapped at any time. I never thanked you for that.”

  They stared at each other across the table until Anna dropped her eyes.

  “Wow, that was some getting-to-know you conversation,” and she gave a brittle laugh. “But I have an early train to catch in the morning, so fun as this has been, I really need to get home.”

  Nick signalled the waiter and dropped his credit card on top of the bill.

  Anna started to offer to pay half, then stalled halfway through the sentence when Nick’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. He was a proud man and he’d asked her to come out tonight so he could thank her. Even though he’d had to move back into his parents’ home and didn’t have much money, she should be graceful and let him pay.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  They walked out to the car together, the wind cutting through their bulky coats and snowflakes settling in a thin blanket. Anna shivered as she pulled out her keys.

  “I didn’t think you’d get snow this late in the year.”

  “It’s rare, but it happens. This probably won’t stick. Bloody freezing though, isn’t it!”

  “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “That’s okay, thanks. I’ll call an Uber.”

  “Well, at least wait in my car. You’ll turn into a popsicle otherwise.”

  Nick pulled out his phone, frowning when he saw that it was at least a ninety minute wait.

  “Shit, I should have booked earlier.”

  “Can I drive you instead?”

  Nick grimaced.

  “It’s a forty minute drive each way. I won’t ask you to do that.” And he really didn’t want his mum or sister opening the door and asking questions.

  Anna sucked her teeth, then made a decision.

  “Look, I’m only five minutes away. Come back for a coffee and tell the Uber to pick you up from my place.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind? You said you had an early start . . .”

  “It’s no problem. And I can’t leave you out here.”

  The drive was short, and soon Anna was pulling up outside her cottage. She was happy that she’d left a light on. It was one of the things she hated about living alone—coming back to a dark, empty house. And it felt good to have some company for a change. She’d been so busy establishing herself in Manchester that Nick would be her first guest. Not that she was going to tell him that.

  “Be careful on the cobbles,” she advised, second-guessing her impulsive decision to invite him home. “They’re real pretty to look at, but very slippery, especially in weather like this.”

  Nick wasn’t looking at the cottage but the snowflakes that clung to her lashes and her breath that frosted in the night air. As she spoke, he swung around to study her home. The cottage looked like a Christmas card, the stonework feathered with snow and warm glimmers of light peeping from a gap in the curtains.

  Nick made his careful way up the snowy path and through the heavy wooden door, glancing around Anna’s hallway. A vase of cut flowers stood on a side-table and a Tiffany lamp sent a warm glow of coloured light across the walls and ceiling. It was upmarket and sophisticated, just like her, but also warm and inviting. Just like her.

  He shrugged off his heavy coat and followed her into the living room.

  He had to duck as he walked inside, avoiding the low beams that told of the cottage’s age. Walking slowly, glancing at the antique furniture and olde worlde charm, he found Anna kneeling on a rug in front of the grate. She held a lit match in her hand and a hint of sulphur hung in the air.

  She hadn’t turned on the lights and the only illumination came from a small lamp with a red shade that gave a soft, romantic glow.

  Nick’s heart rate kicked up.

  “I love having central heating,” Anna murmured, preoccupied, “but there’s something about a real fire, don’t you think?”

  She still hadn’t turned around, coaxing the small flames that licked up the shredded newspaper and kindling.

  Nick imagined making love to Anna on that sheepskin rug in front of the fire, then had to look away. This friends shit was going to be hard.

  The flames threw dancing shadows across her cheeks, and when she glanced up at him, a lock of shiny hair slipped across her face.

  He stood in the doorway, admiring the long curve of her neck and the bunched muscles of her legs tucked up underneath her.

  “You’re staring,” she said uneasily, glancing around at him.

  He took a pace forward and hesitated. Anna’s heart stumbled at the intensity of his gaze, and something in her body woke up, alert.

  This beautiful, honourable man was in her home, looking at her as if she was his next meal.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. You’re so . . .”

  Nick stopped, worried that he was going to scare her. He was in her home, taller, stronger and heavier than her, with a criminal record of violence against women. One woman. Another second, and she’d be freaking out or throwing him out. He should have kept his damn mouth shut.

  Anna continued to stare up at him, her eyes shadowed by the low light of the flickering flames now dancing along the logs stacked in the fireplace.

  What was he saying? What did he mean? Could she do this? Could she risk everything again. She had all the reasons to retreat at her fingertips.

  But she didn’t.

  “I’m so what?”

  Her voice was low and husky, her expression hidden. Nick swallowed.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Anna stood up in a single, fluid motion, moving closer to him.

  “I’m so what?” she repeated.

  “Sexy,” he coughed out, his throat contracting on the word.

  She paused, her head cocked on one side.

  “You think I’m sexy?”

  “Jesus, that tongue stud,” he croaked. “I’ve had dreams about that, what you can do with it.”

  A slow, amused smile spread across her face.

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuck, yeah!”

  The smile died away and her lips parted.

  She still hadn’t taken a step toward him and Nick waited, his heart beating furiously in anticipation of her touch.

  Her silver-grey eyes darted over him, his hair, his beard, then came to rest on his mouth. She stepped forward cupping his cheeks with cold hands, then kissing him lightly on the lips.

  It was the permission he’d needed.

  Nick shuddered, a deep tremor triggering a tsunami of emotion.

  His large hands wrapped around her waist, tugging her toward him, pressing his lips against hers as the wind howled around the chimney, whining and ravenous.

  Her mouth opened and he tasted mint from the herbal tea she’d been drinking as well as som
ething spicier and darker.

  She kissed him back hungrily and for the first time he felt the metal of her piercing against his own tongue, hard and erotic, totally unexpected from someone like her. It was such a turn-on.

  She gripped his beard to angle his head to suit the slant of her mouth. Her aggression sent shockwaves through Nick, and his hands travelled along the length of her back—one up to cup her neck, one lower, stroking down her spine then wrapping around her hip.

  A moan rolled out of her, and she sounded like she was in pain, drowning and lost, and all the protective core of Nick bristled with pride and lust.

  His cock thickened in his jeans and he tore his mouth from hers, kissing and biting her neck, his beard soft and rough against her skin.

  Her hands skittered under his sweater, pushing the thick cable knit upward so it bunched uncomfortably under his arms.

  He swore, tearing himself free and yanking the Aran over his head together with the grey Henley he’d been wearing, and tossing them away.

  Anna’s eyes widened at the black ink scrolling across his heart, across his left shoulder and arm.

  Her hands reached out to touch him, his smooth skin bronze in the firelight, the flat masculine nipples, pebbling slightly.

  “Beautiful,” she breathed, warming his skin as her fingers trailed over the ink. “So strong, so vivid . . . like you.”

  Nick stood as still as stone as her fingers travelled over his body, but everywhere she touched him, his skin tingled and his blood ignited.

  “It’s so intricate. Does it mean anything?”

  Nick had to swallow before he could speak, and when he did, he hardly recognised the strangled tightness of his voice.

  “Ta moko—the ancient Maori art. The marks showed your achievements—and a warrior didn’t cry out while he was being tattooed. Withstanding the pain was a matter of pride.”

  She paused in her exploration, her eyes locking with his.

  “And you? What does your tattoo mean?”

  Nick hesitated, the answer more revealing than his naked flesh.

  “That I’ve survived. That I’ve gone through the pain, through the trial by fire.” A wry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth although he didn’t feel like smiling. “I was so down on myself after everything that had happened—the injury, the surgeries, the court case—I needed something for me, something to show I’d survived and come through it stronger.”