August 2015
BRENDAN HANDED ANNA her schedule for the week, along with a file on her new clients, Finchley Phoenixes. Her mind half on her emails, she scanned through it, then choked on her drink, spitting a mouthful of hot lemon over her keyboard.
Her eyes watered and her face turned red as she fought to clear her airways. Brendan thumped her on the back and attempted to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre, but Anna waved him away, standing to catch her breath.
When he was certain she wasn’t about to expire, Brendan flopped down into the chair opposite her and pressed a hand to his chest.
“You know, boss,” he said thoughtfully when she sat down again cautiously, “I like to think of myself as pretty low rent—mostly on Friday nights at Heaven—but sometimes you really make me look classy.”
Anna pulled a sour face, and Brendan laughed hysterically with relief and delayed shock.
“So what caused that little vom? Your eyes bulged and then . . . bleurgh!”
“My drink went down the wrong way, that’s all. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“If you say so,” he tossed over his shoulder as he stood up and walked away. “I’ll get the truth out of you.”
That’s what Anna was afraid of.
Her choking fit had been caused by reading through the Phoenixes’ file and coming across the names of four new team members. Nick Renshaw was listed as the new Fullback, wearing the number 17 shirt.
“How did I not know this?” she groaned shaking her head. “Why is this my life? Of all the clubs in all the world, you had to walk into mine. Ugh!”
Anna knew that every Thursday afternoon for the next six weeks, maybe longer, she’d be seeing the man she fucked and dumped. Nope, not even a little bit awkward. Just hugely, enormously, cosmically awkward.
“I am a professional. I can do this!” Anna put her head in her hands. “I can’t do this!”
The thought of seeing him across the team meeting room every week knowing what he looked like naked, knowing what he felt like naked—no, it was too awful to contemplate. But even if she could cancel the contract—which she wouldn’t—this was her business. Pulling out now would not help her to build her client base.
So she decided to face it head on. Well, slightly head on. Head on as in completely not facing him while she did it.
She logged into her email and sent a message.
3rd August 2015, 8.45AM
Dear Nick,
So, it’s been a while. I hear that you’ll be wearing the number 17 shirt with Finchley Phoenixes this season. I’m really happy for you. I always knew that you’d get a club.
By now, you’ll probably also know that I’ve been hired by your team to work with the players over the next few weeks before the new season kicks off. I want you to know that I’ll be totally professional and do my best to help you all have a really good season.
I also know that I owe you an apology for the way I behaved in April. It was rude and cowardly and I’m really sorry. I could have dealt with the situation much better. I should have. And I’m sorry that I didn’t.
But what I said then still stands—even more so now we’ll be working together again. I know that we can both be professional, but I hope that we can be friendly, too. Despite how I behaved, I have the greatest respect for you and what you’ve achieved.
Warm regards,
Anna Scott.
Then she scowled at the screen, realising that admitting she’d crossed a line, putting her guilt into writing wasn’t smart. Sighing, she hit delete and started again.
3rd August 2015, 8.52AM
Dear Nick,
So, it’s been a while. I hear that you’ll be wearing the number 17 shirt with Finchley Phoenixes this season. I’m really happy for you. I always knew that you’d get a club.
By now, you’ll probably also know that I’ve been hired by your team to work with the players over the next few weeks before the new season kicks off. I want you to know that I’ll do my best to help you all have a really good season.
I have the greatest respect for you and what you’ve achieved.
Warm regards,
Anna Scott.
She re-read it four times, hesitated, then pressed send and waited. And waited. And waited.
Then she sighed, and went to make herself a fresh cup of hot lemon, since her last one had cooled—what was left after she’d spat most it over her keyboard.
But when she returned to her desk, Nick had replied.
3rd August 2015, 9.16AM
Dear Anna,
It won’t be a problem.
Nick
When Anna read his terse reply, she winced. He obviously wasn’t happy with her. Maybe she shouldn’t have put that bit about being friends. It probably sounded . . . hell, she had no idea how it sounded. Like a brush off? Like it had just been a meaningless fuck to her?
The problem was she’d liked it too much. Far too much to be seeing the man every week. It hadn’t been meaningless.
She rested her head in her hands. What a clusterfuck.
“I’ve just got to get through the next six weeks,” she muttered to herself. “How the hell do I do that?”
It was all very polite.
Very British, Anna decided.
When Sim Andrews introduced her to the team, Nick nodded, shook her hand and said, “Nice to see you again, Dr. Scott.”
Nice. Nice? Suddenly, she didn’t like the word anymore.
Surreptitiously, she studied his face, but nothing in his stoic expression revealed what he was thinking.
Nick looked good—really well, fit, broader in the shoulders than he had been, tanned, and his thick thighs seemed more muscled, his sweatpants clinging to his legs as he moved. But his eyes were harder and colder than before.
He’d cut his hair and shaved his beard, too, and she’d bet her last dime that he’d waxed his chest, as well. For half a second, she had to close her eyes as the memories of that chiselled chest pressing over her leapt to the front of her mind.
She caught the faintest scent of soap and his cologne as he walked past. Why was this the most evocative of the five senses. Five? She felt that at least a dozen had woken, simply from being in the same room with Nick.
But other than greeting her politely, he hadn’t acknowledged her again.
Once, maybe twice, she thought she detected something in his eyes, a flash of emotion, but it was gone so quickly, it could well have been wishful thinking.
Was he still angry with her? Maybe even hurt? She couldn’t get a read on him. Or was it just wounded pride that he’d been humped and dumped?
Sim Andrews walked to the front of the room and began his pre-season motivational pep talk.
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome. I’m Sim Andrews, Head Coach. Most of my playing career was with Bath and Bristol. I’ve been a Cup winner seven times and been capped for England twelve times. I was assistant coach with the Saracens for nine years. This season, I want to take the Phoenixes back to the top of the league table, where we belong.
“Joining us we have Giovanni Simone from ASR Milano playing Fly-Half, Bernard Dubois from the Stade Toulousain playing Scrum-Half, Fetuao Tui from Apia West in Samoa as our new Tighthead Prop, and Nick Renshaw from Manchester Minotaurs playing Fullback.
“I hope you’ve all had a good rest over the summer and have come back fit, because we’ll be training hard from now on. We’ve got our work cut out for us, and I want to see the Phoenixes back on top, where we belong!
“I’m going to talk about our goals for this season and about the values we have here at Hangar Lane. I know some of you have heard this before, but it’s worth repeating. We play hard, we play fair and we don’t give in. Ever. How you conduct yourselves off the field is as important as on it. I don’t want anyone here getting in the newspapers other than for playing bloody well.”
He looked around him, making sure he met the eyes of every player. Over the summer, two England football players had been caught paying prostitutes, and one had been taking cocaine at the time. For a few days, it was a big scandal—there’d been heavy fines and suspensions; there was talk that they’d all be dropped from the national team.
Once Sim was satisfied that he’d made his point, he turned to introduce Anna.
“Part of our new team is Anna Scott. Dr. Scott is an experienced sports psychologist and it’ll pay you to listen to what she has to say. She’ll be working with you in groups this afternoon.
“We’ll be going over specific goals in a few minutes, but you know what I’m going to ask of you: let’s keep those missed tackles to less than ten per cent, and mistakes or tries conceded to two or three a game or we’ll fall behind quickly.
“We’ve got a great team here, and if you keep your heads down and your noses clean, we’ll be bringing home the Cup this year. We can have fun along the way, but we’ve all got a job to do. It’s a long season and we want to have fewer injuries. So here’s to a successful year.”
Nick forced himself to concentrate, but as the morning wore on, he found it impossible to be in the same room with Anna. He caught himself looking at her every few seconds, even though he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t. And he’d been irrationally furious when Giovanni Simone, the Italian player sitting next to him, had taken one look at Anna and smiled appreciatively, murmuring, “Ciao, bella!”
Sim’s voice droned on as he made the players write down their personal goals for the season, as well as those of the team.
Nick pulled a pencil and piece of paper toward him reluctantly, and scratched his neck. He glanced around, seeing that everyone else was squinting over their own work, scribbling away. He sighed, and wrote down some thoughts.
What I’m going to do
- no mistakes
- play better than my opposite number
- help my teammates
- score
- give it all I have
Anna leaned over to read what he’d written, and his spine stiffened as he caught the all too familiar scent of her shampoo so close to him.
“That’s good, Nick, but you need to be more specific. Is it realistic to say you’ll make no mistakes? That’s probably not achievable. What would be more realistic? Think about that.”
He scowled as she walked away, and Giovanni raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Nick shook his head and tried again.
1. Less than two mistakes
2. No missed tackles
3. Be loud, be confident
4. I’m here to do my job and help my team
5. Stick to the game plan
6. Give it all I’ve got
7. Leave everything on the field
8. Enjoy this moment, enjoy the game and be grateful for being in this position to do what I do.
Anna passed by again, paused to read his words and smiled. But it was her professional smile. Nick was angry that he could tell the difference.
Later that day, when the lecture became interactive, he found it impossible to speak to her naturally, so he didn’t. Even when they broke into smaller groups to practise some of the techniques she’d suggested to help with their focus, Nick couldn’t concentrate. His energy was spent on trying to avoid looking at her, but his traitorous eyes continually sought her out, and he found himself listening for her voice, drawn by her laughter. It was a fucking nightmare.
His silence was obvious and noted with concern by his new head coach. Nick wanted to kick himself for giving the impression that he wasn’t interested, that he couldn’t get involved like the other team members. But just shaking hands with Anna had sent flames leaping across his skin. She didn’t appear to have noticed anything, but sometimes he felt her eyes on him as she talked, soft and questioning, then hard and irritated.
In every other way, he was back in the groove, training like his life depended on it, even on his off days, and ready to take his place on the team.
“What’s up with you and the psych woman, Anna something?” asked Jason Oduba, a Winger, as they filed out of the lecture room.
“What do you mean?”
“You know her from before, right?”
Nick glanced at Jason uneasily.
“Yeah, from when I was with the Minotaurs.”
“Yeah, right. So what’s your problem with her? I think she’s pretty good—I’m definitely going to try out her ideas. But you . . .”
“What about me?”
“You look like you want to kill her or fuck her. I dunno, man, you just seem to have an issue with her. You never joined in any of the group discussions.” He lowered his voice, “Sim asked if there was something up with you, I heard him. Man, you gotta shape up! Or you’ll be benched before you get a chance. Know what I’m saying?”
Nick’s stomach twisted. Jason was a straight up kind of guy, so what he said was on the level. And in any case, Nick knew exactly what Jason was saying. He’d done his best to fly under the radar with Anna, but it wasn’t working. He’d have to try harder. A lot harder.
Sim Andrews was of the same opinion when he pulled Anna to one side.
“You knew Nick Renshaw when he was with the Minotaurs, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Hmm. And how did he seem to you?”
Hot, sexy, amazing in bed.
“Determined, very keen to improve his game. But he was being dragged down by a persistent injury, so that coloured his judgement at the time.”
Sim tapped his fingers against his thigh impatiently.
“Is he a team player?”
“From what I can see, yes. Although he never got to play for the Minotaurs, as you know. But I studied a lot of footage of his games with his previous team . . .”
“And?”
“He wasn’t the captain, but he was the spine of the team. They all looked to him in matches. He was that team.”
Sim Andrews sighed and shook his head.
“Then why isn’t he engaging with your sessions? The man turns into a block of stone as soon as you speak. What’s his problem?”
Anna felt her cheeks heat up. Me, I’m his problem. “I’m not sure. Probably just getting acclimated.”
Sim Andrews frowned in annoyance. “Talk to him. Get him engaged. I need every team member 100 percent committed, or they’re out.”
A rush of guilt made Anna feel nauseous. “I’ll talk to him.”
Sim gave a sharp nod of his head, glaring at Nick’s broad back, then stalked away.
As if he’d felt the angry stare, Nick swung around to watch Sim, then his gaze fell on Anna, and his eyes narrowed.
She smiled weakly, but he turned away, heading to the locker room to change for the team’s cardio workout.
During her next session, Nick avoided interacting with Anna and sat conveniently near the door so he could be first out of the team meeting room. Sim Andrews wasn’t the only one who noticed his behaviour. But it was another ten days before Anna finally had the chance to talk to Nick alone.
This time she was prepared. She’d simply wait him out.
So while Nick joined his teammates in ninety minutes of cardio, Anna completed paperwork, then leaned against the wall outside the training room.
The players streamed back to the locker room, hot and sweaty and chatting animatedly. Some headed for the showers, others for the ice bath, but Anna caught Nick before he did either.
“Can I talk to you?”
He folded his arms across his broad chest, his damp t-shirt clinging to him, and he stared down at her, his expression guarded.
“Sure.”
“Not here,” she licked her lips and Nick’s hard stare darted to her mouth.
“I have to get a shower,” he said coldly, his lip curling slightly as he spoke.
Anna straightened her shoulders and took half a step back when she realised how close she was standing to him, close enough to smell the salt and sweat on his skin.
She licked her lips again nervously.
“Sim Andrews asked me to talk to you.”
Nick’s stony stare became worried.
“Let’s just step inside the physio room for a minute so we can talk privately,” Anna said firmly.
Nick followed her down to the corridor to the second of the two physio rooms.
It was a smallish space crammed with two massage beds, three chairs and a medicine cabinet that held bandages, anti-inflammatory gels and a range of treatments for sprains, grazes and other minor injuries.
With Nick glowering down at her, the room felt even smaller.
“What do you want to talk to me about?” he asked, his body language defensive, his tone terse.
Anna cleared her throat.
“Let’s sit down,” she suggested, pointing at two of the chairs.
Oozing reluctance, Nick sat.
“It’s been noticed,” she began carefully, “that you’re not engaging with the team or . . . or with me during my teaching sessions.”
His lips pressed together and his scowl deepened.
“Look, I know this is all kinds of awkward,” she sighed, “but your behaviour is already giving Sim concerns. It’s making him wonder about your commitment to the team.”
Nick exploded, his anger filling the space as he leapt to his feet and began to pace up and down, hands scrubbing over his face roughly.
“He’s questioning my commitment?! I train harder than anyone! I train on my off-days,” he spat furiously, his voice tight with emotion.
“Nick . . .”
“I’m out there, slogging my fucking guts out harder and longer than anyone else during practices!”
“Nick . . .”
“I’ve fought to come back from injury. I’m fit! I’m ready! I . . .”
“NICK!” Anna slapped her hand down on the massage table. “Will you listen to me!”
His jaw snapped shut and his stormy eyes narrowed on hers.
“Sim didn’t see that commitment during my sessions.”
“And we both know why that is,” he sneered. “You don’t want any commitment from me.”
Anna’s eyebrows shot up and Nick looked as though he was already regretting his words. He took a deep breath and looked away while Anna chose her next words carefully.
“You assured me that you could be professional and . . .”
“Yeah, well excuse me if seeing you again is fucking with my head! Not everyone can be as cold and calculating as you!”
She knew she deserved his anger, but her own frustration was rising to meet his. The volcanic pressure inside started to build, searching for an exit, searching for weakness.
“I cannot have any sort of relationship with a client!” she hissed, her body rigid. “You know that!”
“Didn’t stop you before,” he taunted.
“You weren’t a client then,” she choked. “But you’re right—I should have stopped. Oh boy, am I regretting it now!”
And she tossed her clipboard onto the table, pointing a finger in his face.
“Are you trying to ruin this for me? Is that what this is? Your ego can’t bear it, so you’re going to make sure I lose this contract? Or maybe ruining my reputation forever will settle the score. You tell me, Nick! What do you want from me?”
She was breathing rapidly, and two points of colour marked her cheeks in an otherwise chalky complexion.
He prowled toward her, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists.
“What do I want? I want to fuck you so hard you’ll never forget it’s my cock that’s been inside you. I want you screaming my name. I want you to say it wasn’t a mistake. That’s what I want, Anna, and it’s fucking killing me to not even touch you!”
He was so close, she could see the flecks of gold in his angry eyes, smell the salty sweat on his skin, and feel the heat from his large body.
She remembered. She remembered it all. The way they’d moved together, the way his neck corded and his eyes squeezed shut when he came, the way he’d tucked his face into her neck, his breaths racing.
Her body filled with heat.
“Oh, God! I . . .”
Nick didn’t let her finish the sentence, although it seemed unlikely that words would come to her.
One large hand wrapped around her waist, jerking her toward him, and his lips covered hers possessively, his tongue invading her mouth.
Her head screamed no, but her body was in the driving seat.
Anna’s hands scraped over Nick’s short hair, and when her fingers scrabbled futilely against the bristles, she wrapped her hands in his damp t-shirt, tugging him forward so their bodies were pressed together.
She lapped the salt at his neck, dragging her tongue stud over his skin in a way she knew that made him crazy.
He half growled, half groaned as she yanked the t-shirt over his head and he ripped her blouse open, the buttons popping and skittering across the floor in all directions.
His hard cock was tenting the front of his shorts, lodging itself hot and thick between Anna’s thighs. She moaned and bit his throat. Nick swore and snapped open her bra, squeezing her breasts and twisting her nipples almost painfully.
She retaliated by shoving her hand down the front of his shorts and wrapping her fingers around him, making him grunt and curse, goading him.
He smacked her backside, making her gasp, then forced her pants and panties down her legs.
Without a word, he spun her around so she was wedged against the massage table, and he pressed his hand between her shoulder blades, forcing her down.
“Yessss!” she hissed.
Nick’s face was a grim mask as he freed his cock, pushing his shorts and briefs over the curve of his arse.
He gasped a ragged breath, then drove inside her hard.
Anna screamed into the table, then bit a seam in the plastic covering, a muffled shriek rolling out as Nick’s thighs slammed against her, his cock ramming inside her ruthlessly.
He gritted his teeth as their skin slapped together, his hands gripping her hips, his sweat dripping onto her torn blouse. All the anger and frustration and longing were combined in a brutal fuck that sent him spiralling out of control.
Within seconds, his sac was drawn up tight and when Anna gave another muffled cry, clenching around him, he exploded, pouring himself inside her as he collapsed, pressing her even harder into the table.
His breath was harsh and his thighs trembled when he pulled out of her, his dick glistening.
Swearing to himself, he tucked his still hard dick away, yanked up his shorts and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Anna didn’t move.
She felt a trickle of warm cum slide down her thigh, and she forced herself to stand on shaky legs. Her hands trembled as she plucked a paper towel from the dispenser and cleaned herself up as best she could, but when she caught her reflection in the mirror, her face was bright red with an imprint of a seam down her cheek. Her lips were swollen and bruised, and her hair clung sweatily to her scalp.
She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. She could still taste him.
Anna stumbled to the washbasin and splashed water on her face, combing her hair with her fingers.
Slowly, she pulled up her panties and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress pants, but there was nothing she could do about her torn blouse. She tucked it into the waistband and buttoned her suit jacket tightly over the top.
Her reflection mocked her. No matter how she tried to repair herself, she looked guilty.
And freshly fucked.