“Well, Nick, it’s been quite an eventful couple of years for you.”
The interviewer gave a soft, diffident chuckle that the audience echoed.
She’d been excited about this, interviewing the famously private Nick Renshaw, golden boy of English rugby, but he was making her work for it, giving polite, one-word answers.
In truth, ‘eventful’ didn’t even begin to cover the beautiful, terrible chaos of the last twenty-two months of his life.
He leaned back in his chair, increasing the distance between them as he continued to stare at the interviewer while she waited expectantly for his answer.
The silence lengthened and she licked her lips, glancing at the producer as the studio lights drew beads of sweat on her heavily powdered forehead.
“How would you describe the last two years, Nick?”
The Team England publicist was staring at him wide-eyed from behind the cameraman, willing him to say something, praying that Nick didn’t freeze on national TV.
His fingers drummed quietly on the arm of his chair as if he was choosing his words carefully. He wasn’t.
“Yes, Jasmine, you could say it’s been eventful.”
The words rolled out in Nick’s distinctive Yorkshire accent—taciturn, economical, the flat vowels making him sound bored.
The interviewer’s eyes tightened and she clutched her clipboard harder.
“There have been highs and lows . . .” she said encouragingly, giving him another lead-in. “Perhaps you could tell me how those have been, from your perspective?”
She wasn’t wrong, but her questions weren’t tapping into the well of emotion that she sensed underlay his weary answers. She knew it was there; she sensed it.
Physically, he’d never looked stronger, his athlete’s body draped in a designer suit and crisp white shirt, his raven-dark hair combed away from a sculpted face, penetrating hazel-green eyes now shuttered, and a newly grown, thick, black beard hiding the softness of his lips.
But it was there, barely perceptible, an undefinable something. To the interviewer’s experienced gaze, he looked . . . defeated.
Nick closed his eyes momentarily. Yes, there had been incredible highs, flying so far he thought he’d never come back to earth. But he did. He crashed and burned, shattering spectacularly.
Broken in body and spirit, he’d clawed his way back, step by painful step. And she had been there. For every time when it seemed too hard and he wanted to give up, Anna had kept him going. For every time the shadows threatened to choke him, she’d driven them back, her brightness blazing.
And when she’d needed him most, he’d watched her fall.
“Playing for your country, that must have been an incredible feeling,” the interviewer urged, becoming more agitated as Nick choked on the words crowding at the back of his throat. “How does it feel to stand in front of 82,000 people all chanting your name?”
He glanced up at her, frowning slightly, as if offended by her question. It revealed her basic misunderstanding of why he played rugby at an international level or any level for that matter. It wasn’t for adulation. When he played, he focussed on the game, on the white lines painted on the field. He rarely looked up at the people in the first tier, let alone higher. So how the hell could he answer her? Not that it was a bad question—everyone said it was the greatest moment of his life. He didn’t agree, but that’s what they said.
How had Jonny Wilkinson felt when he scored the winning drop goal in the last ninety seconds of extra time during the Final of the 2003 Rugby World Cup?
She may as well have asked how Neil Armstrong felt when he took his first step on the moon? Or how Michael Collins felt when he didn’t and was left behind in Apollo 11? Unless you’ve walked in those men’s shoes, you can’t know.
But how did he feel? How had he felt? Stunned, overwhelmed, invincible? Lost, broken, destroyed?
He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a wide, meaningless smile.
“You had to be there.”
“I was!” she said enthusiastically. “I was there cheering my head off in front of the TV along with everyone else in the country. I’m sure people will remember that day, where they were at that actual moment, for the rest of their lives! And after everything that you’ve been through, after being told you’d never play again, it must have been an extraordinary moment.”
“Yes, extraordinary,” he said quietly, lost in the memories.
He’d played for Anna that day. He’d played for her every day since.
“I’m told that you recently got a tattoo,” the journalist said, trying a different tack to get him talking, to unlock the story and save the interview from being a car crash. “ . . . A phoenix. I think I can guess the relevance of that: not just for the Finchley Phoenixes, but rebirth and renewal, recovery from injury, rising from the ashes?”
A photo of his new ink was shown on the screen behind him, the camera scrolling pornographically across smooth tanned skin, swooping over muscles and polished flesh, dipping erotically low. Several of the women in the studio audience whooped and cheered, wolf-whistles piercing through his fog of despair, making him smile despite himself.
The interviewer felt a blast of euphoria. Of course! The fans! They’d always been Nick’s weak spot. He was always kind to them.
As his fame had grown, his natural boy-next-door friendliness had morphed into a wariness of strangers, and he’d learned that self-deprecating way of the superstar to smile and slide away without causing offence.
“Your fans are important to you,” said the interviewer. “Have they been part of your recovery?”
His eyes flickered and something inside him gave way—emotions dammed for too long.
“Yeah, definitely. They’ve supported me through some of the lowest moments in my life,” he agreed, leaning toward her for the first time. “And the phoenix is to symbolize starting over. But not just in my career, in my life, too. I didn’t think I’d make it back on a team again, let alone play for England. It wasn’t just the injury, it was fear.”
And he tapped his chest.
“Inside, I didn’t believe in myself. But then I met an amazing sports psychologist who helped me get back on track.”
“You’re referring to Anna Scott,” said the journalist, her eyes glinting with the excitement of a potential exclusive.
The Team England publicist was shaking her head, making a slashing movement with her hand, warning him not to talk about Anna. He saw her, no question, but the devil in him decided to ignore her insistent advice and give the interviewer what she wanted. And it might be the only way he could get Anna to hear him.
For a moment, pain flared behind his eyes.
“Yes, I’m talking about Anna Scott. She pulled me out of a very dark place, helped me start playing again, and playing well—winning. Without her, I’d never have made it.”
The interviewer leaned toward him, her tone warm, confidential, just two old friends having a chat, but her body quivered with excitement.
He knew it. He knew all about reading body language, knew what she wanted. And maybe, just maybe it was the last roll of the dice.
“And you started a relationship with Ms. Scott?”
The audience were silent, a collective holding of breath. Wondering if he’d take another step toward the cliff edge.
“I think you know that already, Jasmine,” he said, arching one eyebrow at her. “The newspapers and gossip sites wouldn’t leave her alone. She was torn apart by the Press. And I couldn’t do anything to help her. Journalists crucified her.”
The interviewer squirmed uncomfortably, then squared her shoulders.
“Were you in a relationship with her from the beginning?”
His eyes darkened, whether with anger or passion, no one but Nick could tell.
“All relationships have a beginning, but to answer your question, no. Despite the allegations, that’s not how it was.”
“How was it exactly?”
How was it? Perfect. Perfectly wrong.
“She healed me, we became . . . friends—good friends—and then . . . she left.”
He spoke as if at confessional, quietly, humbly, almost as if he’d forgotten the interviewer was there.
She stared at him, a shocked but avid expression on her face, and she leaned even closer, her red nails wrapped around the clipboard, her script abandoned.
“And then what?”
Nick blinked slowly, his eyes coming back into focus as he buried his feelings deeper.
“And then I got picked for the England team.”
Not the answer she wanted.
The interviewer twitched a shoulder in irritation.
“What happened to Dr. Scott? What happened to Anna?”
“Nothing happened.”
Her forehead creased with frustration.
“But . . . but that can’t be the end of the story!”
He leaned back and gave her a small smile.
“’Fraid so. That’s it. That’s the end.”
“I don’t believe that!”
Nick didn’t want to believe it either.
ANNA STEPPED ONTO the gangplank that led from the jumbo jet to the arrivals hall at Heathrow airport.
It bounced slightly as she walked, making her feel off balance. And wasn’t that the truth. She hadn’t spoken to Nick since the day of her father’s funeral.
She didn’t know if she was doing the right thing, but as her mother had pointed out, there was only one way to know for sure.
So, she’d bought an open-ended return ticket to London. She didn’t know how long she’d be staying.
Waiting in line at Immigration, she glanced across at a newspaper stand on the other side of the row of booths.
Nick’s Heart to Heart: Rugby Player Shows Soft Side
She knew it must be about him, but she wondered what the headline referred to. The Immigration Officer did a double-take when he saw the name on her passport, checked her paperwork and studied her face intently, but he didn’t hold her up or cause any delay.
Anna rushed over to buy the newspaper. As she read the story of his TV interview, her eyes filled with tears. No one had ever been so candid about the way they felt about her. It was humbling and a little scary. But hopeful. She felt hope for the first time in so long.
The journey to Nick’s house took 45 minutes and Anna watched the dawn break, a thin, watery sun beginning to rise. But as the taxi drove along Nick’s road, she still had no idea what she’d say.
She struggled out with her suitcase and handed a shockingly large number of bills to the cab driver. Then, taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.
After half a minute, she heard some muffled cursing and the door was yanked open by a bad-tempered 6’ 5” Samoan with a hangover.
“What?”
“Hi, Fetuao. How are you?”
He blinked, then a huge smile spread across his face.
“Anna Scott! Malō! You’re here! Nick is gonna split his shorts!”
“Um, great?”
He grinned widely and pulled her into a hug.
“The boy’s been pining for you.” He drew back, his face serious. “It was a bad thing they did to you. We’re all behind you—and our boy.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“Sure. Come on in. Did you see any paps out there?”
Anna looked horrified.
“No! But I wasn’t really looking.”
Fetuao shrugged and shook his head.
“Been coming and going ever since . . .”
He shrugged again, picked up her enormous suitcase with one hand and led her inside.
“You been here before?”
“No.”
“Huh. Well, Nick’s upstairs, second on the left. He had a late night.”
Fetuao stowed her suitcase by the door and abandoned her at the bottom of the stairs while he shuffled into the kitchen. From the back, he looked even more rumpled, and Anna smiled. He was one of the good guys.
The house was quiet, although it was nearly nine o’clock. She heard Fetuao turn on the radio, singing along to something. Down the corridor, she could hear snoring.
Steeling herself, she knocked softly on the second door on the left.
Then she heard Nick’s sleepy, grumpy voice.
“Fuck off, Fetu.”
Smiling to herself, she pushed the door open—and nearly got hit by a flying pillow.
“What part of fuck off didn’t you understand?!”
“Um, it’s Anna.”
She risked opening the door a couple of inches again and saw the duvet slip off Nick’s shoulder as he sat up in bed. Stunned, she stared at the new tattoo that covered the other half of his chest, a phoenix spreading its wings.
“Anna?” He stared at her and she took a tentative step inside. “Shit, Anna!”
“Hi, Nick,” she said shyly, unable to meet his gaze.
The room was messy with clothes scattered over every flat surface, but the walls were bare. A photograph of him with his parents and sister was displayed on his dresser, but that was the only personal thing in the room.
Then she spied his guitar, half-hidden with a t-shirt hanging from the neck. He’d never brought it to her apartment; she’d like to hear him play that one day.
He cleared his throat and her gaze snapped back to his intense eyes.
“Will you play for me?”
“What, now?”
“Please. I’ve always wanted to hear you play.”
Nick rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, a faint pink staining the skin.
“Okay. Um, what do you want to hear?”
“Anything. Anything you want to play me.”
Nick picked up the guitar tentatively and began to sing softly.
Shivers ran through Anna, and when she heard the lyrics, her breath caught and tears started in her eyes.
His voice stayed low and intimate, and when he finished, it was several seconds before he met her gaze.
“The woman in the song has sad, grey eyes?”
He shrugged sheepishly.
“It’s one of my dad’s favourites. He played it all the time when we were kids. Yeah, Girl with Grey Eyes.”
“Who’s it by?”
“A Scottish band, ‘Big Country’.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you for playing it for me.”
He glanced up to meet Anna’s eyes, silvery-grey in the dawn light.
“I watched the match against Ireland. I heard what you said. Was it a message for me? Did you mean it?”
An uncertain smile lifted his lips.
“I didn’t know how else to tell you. I was desperate. I didn’t care if I came over like a dickhead. I just . . . I needed you to know how I felt. I needed you to hear me.”
Anna nodded her head slowly.
“It was the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me. Ever. And I love you so damn much.”
His mouth dropped open and then he lunged across the room, grabbing her and pulling her against his body in a hug, unembarrassed by his magnificent, naked body.
Anna’s skin flushed as they clung together, her hands gliding over his smooth, golden skin. There was just so much of him, so warm, so male.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he murmured into her hair, his soft lips brushing against the skin of her neck, his beard tickling her. “Are you staying? This time, are you staying?”
She pulled back so she could see his eyes, those glorious hazel-green eyes, the longing in his expression.
“If you want me. Yes, I’m back. I don’t know what I’ll do or where I’ll go . . .”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. “Just . . . don’t leave me again.”
She laughed as tears sprang to her eyes.
“You really mean it? I’ve brought you nothing but trouble!”
He shook his head vehemently, his eyes flaring.
“You’re the best thing that�
��s ever happened to me.”
“Better than beating Ireland in your first international?” she teased.
“Yep, almost as good as that,” he grinned, sitting back on the bed and pulling her with him.
He stopped abruptly.
“Are you allowed to be here? You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?”
Anna touched a finger to his lips.
“The police decided that there’s no case to answer. I’m a free woman.”
Nick kissed the tip of her finger then rested his forehead against hers.
“Thank God,” he said. “Thank God.”
Then he kissed her: deeply, reverently, joyfully. And as she rested her hand on his bare chest, she could feel his pulse pounding wildly beneath the silky skin. Her fingers drifted across the breadth of his chest, following the intricate lines of ink.
“This is new, the tattoo.”
“It’s a phoenix.”
“I see that. It’s beautiful.”
Half of Nick thought he was still dreaming. He’d woken up hearing her voice and he’d seen her and held her and the world started spinning his way again, but it didn’t seem real. It didn’t seem possible that after all this time she’d come back.
When she hadn’t got in touch after the Ireland match, the little spark of hope he’d had was extinguished. But now . . .
He kissed her again, savouring every second, every brush of her tongue against his, every time their teeth clashed in a messy, unplanned, unpredictable kiss. And that fucking tongue stud—it was so hot. He remembered vividly the way she’d dragged it across his simmering flesh, driving him to distraction.
He was in a hurry to claim her, but wanted to make it last, too. His brain warred with his body, but it was Anna who slowed him down.
“We have forever, but if we didn’t, what would you do?”
“I’d kiss you in the daylight.”
Anna laughed in surprise.
“What?”
“All the time we were together, we had to hide. I don’t want to hide anymore. I want everyone to know.”
Anna’s smile slipped.
“With all the pictures out there, I’m pretty certain people know,” she said sadly.
Undefeated Page 28