NICK HAD PROPOSED to Molly, and she’d accepted.
“You like the ring, then?”
Since Molly was on her knees giving him an enthusiastic blowjob and it wasn’t even his birthday, Nick thought that was a pretty fair guess that she did.
She mumbled something that he couldn’t interpret, but the vibration sent a wave of pleasure up his dick and down into his balls.
He’d liked to have run his fingers through her hair and pulled, hard, but he knew from experience that she hated having her hair messed up and she was just as likely to bite his dick in half.
He let the sensations wash over him, forcing himself to ignore the basin digging uncomfortably into his spine.
He wasn’t even close. His brain was too busy, too many thoughts and images whirling around, and he also knew that he had about 30 seconds before she complained that he was taking too long.
Exhibitionism wasn’t his kink, but since Molly had followed him into the gents, he wasn’t about to turn her down either.
He wondered if Kenny had worked out yet that it was Nick who’d uploaded a terrible photo to Ken’s Instagram account showing him in his Minions underwear. One-hundred-and-fifty likes and counting.
Kenny hadn’t congratulated Nick on his engagement, but he hadn’t walked out of the surprise engagement party either. He dared to be hopeful that one day they could get along with each other.
Nick had invited his friends and family to celebrate his new job as Fullback at the Manchester Minotaurs. He hadn’t told anyone that he was going to propose.
She’d said yes. What had he been worried about?
Nick glanced down at Molly who was red in the face, her eyes beginning to water; he’d counted up to 22 before she spat out his dick with a tired grumble.
“God, Nick! I think I dislocated my jaw. You’ll have to finish yourself off.”
Nick grinned. Like he was going to apologise for his size? He shrugged and tucked himself back in his briefs, zipping up his trousers.
“Save it for later,” he said, semi-hopeful.
Molly didn’t reply. She was busy pouting at the mirror, replacing her frosted pink lipstick in a perfect cupid’s bow.
Nick watched her for a second, then bent down to pick up his jacket, shaking out the creases. Molly had used it as a cushion in the men’s room at the fancy restaurant where they were celebrating their engagement. Probably needed dry-cleaning. Nick idly wondered whether Sir Walter Raleigh had worried about a pissy cloak when he’d laid it across a puddle for Queen Elizabeth, back in the day.
Molly finished her lipstick, flashing a practice smile then fluttered the ring at her reflection.
“You’ll have to get me a matching necklace for our first anniversary, Nicky.”
He liked that she was planning ahead, but a new car or a necklace to keep the wife happy? Yeah, no contest, not if he ever wanted to get laid again.
As they made their way back out to the noisy restaurant, Nick stepped aside to let a woman pass him. It wasn’t like him to look twice, but this time he did. She was the polar opposite of Molly: dark where she was fair; tall where Molly was short; formal in appearance with her short, glossy hair and severe business suit, whereas Molly was all skirts and heels, hair extensions and false nails.
There was nothing about this other woman that he’d call his type, except for a set of soft, beautiful, blood-red lips.
She passed him with a quiet, “Thank you,” and he caught the familiar scent of her perfume. He chuckled when he recognised it: Tiger Balm. The camphor and menthol were unmistakeable.
As he followed Molly back to their table, the noise level had risen another notch and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, drinking and telling bad jokes. All his old teammates were there; his parents and sister, Trish; Molly’s mother and older sister Amelia, and her coven of best friends. Even his former coach had dropped in, but left early.
He missed the man. He missed his rants and his pre-game talks. He missed the swearing and camaraderie of his old team. He’d done a lot of growing up there.
He frowned, wondering why he wasn’t more excited now he’d finally joined a Premiership club. He’d met all the guys at his new team that day and they were fine, but he didn’t know them yet; didn’t feel completely comfortable with them. He definitely didn’t feel at home. He knew it would take time.
He flexed his right foot, feeling the weird drag in his ankle where a pattern of scar tissue left a ridge from his calf to his heel.
Since the surgery, he’d done everything his doctors and trainers had told him. Two weeks wearing a cast; a month wearing a boot and using crutches; weeks and weeks of physical therapy.
But now it was all within his grasp again: and it was a scary, tantalising place. He just wanted to be good enough.
No, that was a lie.
He wanted the fire back.
Four in the morning, and Nick was wide awake. He stretched out in the king-size bed listening to Molly’s soft snores. She’d been different lately, more distant. He wondered if she was regretting the engagement with his future still so uncertain.
With sleep further away than ever, he slid silently out of bed and padded through the house, restless and uneasy.
He hadn’t admitted to anyone that he was worried. But he knew his body, knew what it was capable of . . . and he knew that his ankle still hadn’t healed right. Yes, he could run, but he wasn’t as fast as he had been; he couldn’t turn at speed the way he did before, not like ‘the Rocket’ could. He wasn’t as strong when he kicked, the ball didn’t go as far or as high. Everyone around him agreed that he was still recovering, but to Nick, it felt more than that.
And the hovering doubt threatened to choke him.
He’d never lacked for confidence before, not like this. It was a slow poison that worked its way through his heart and mind.
When he thought of not having a club to play for, his pulse started to sprint. If he had to go back to working in a factory now . . .
Even making love to Molly hadn’t taken the edge off his fears, and his mind spiralled helplessly as he tried to force his body to relax. It was as if he was playing in fog: he couldn’t see his teammates or his opponents; he just knew that they were out there, waiting for him.
He sat on the sofa, shivering slightly at the feel of the cool leather against his bare skin. Predictably, his body ached, and a spectacular bruise had blossomed on his hip despite treating it with arnica. He rubbed it tentatively, remembering the bruising tackle that he’d endured during practice today. Another souvenir of my lifestyle, he thought grimly.
Rugby was a hard sport, a rough game. There was no padding, no helmet, just a gum guard for your upper teeth. That was it. You hurled yourself at your opponents and sometimes the ground rushed up to meet you. And some days you were cheered and some days you were booed, and every day your body ached. But for Nick, the pride of playing, the honour of being a professional athlete, made it all worthwhile.
And he wanted that. He craved it, needed it, would endure anything to play again.
Because what am I, if I don’t have rugby?
The answer hovered in the air, unspoken, threatening like the first echo of thunder in the distance.
Shaking off the feeling, he prowled into the kitchen and pawed his way past the healthy food in the fridge to a small piece of sticky toffee pudding that he’d brought back from the engagement party. He didn’t have many guilty pleasures, but sticky toffee pudding with custard was hard to beat. It was one of the reasons he’d insisted having it on the menu tonight. And the reason why he’d asked the restaurant to box him up another piece to take home.
His heart sank when he saw the empty container with a few crumbs and a blob of custard. Shit, he’d been looking forward to that—Molly and her bloody diets. She’d hardly eaten anything tonight at the party, but had obviously cracked when they’d gone home. She hadn’t saved him any.
He flattened the box with the palm of his hand then tossed it in the recycling.
And missed.
Nick jolted awake when his mobile rang.
“Answer your bloody phone,” Molly grumbled, turning away and pulling a pillow over her head.
He winced at the pain in his hip as he groped around until his fingers closed over his phone before the vibrations sent it skittering across the smooth surface of the bedside table.
It was a local number, but not one that he recognised.
“’Lo?”
His voice was gruff from pain and lack of sleep, and he held the phone away from his mouth to clear his throat, so he missed what the voice said next.
“Sorry, what was that?”
There was a pause, before a man’s terse voice replied.
“I said it’s Steve Jewell, your boss. I want you at the club by ten this morning. Don’t be late.”
“Who w’s tha’?” Molly mumbled.
Nick blinked, now wide awake.
“My Coach.”
“Oh my God, it’s so friggin’ early.”
Nick tossed his phone on the bedside table, pushed off the duvet and headed for the bathroom.
Pulling on a pair of track pants and an old t-shirt, he made his way downstairs wondering why Coach had called him so early on a Saturday morning. It couldn’t be good news because he’d have said, wouldn’t he? So it must be bad news. Perhaps he was getting fired. No, they weren’t allowed to fire him unless he’d been injured for more than six months—he still had two months to go. So what was it?
Cold sweat broke out across his body and he licked his lips.
“Make me a cuppa!” Molly called after him.