by Cd Brennan
“Let’s get started. I’ll talk you through the positions and your breathing. Stand with feet slightly apart, comfortable.” She pointed to the hooker. “A bit farther apart, Shane.” When he shifted, she continued, “That’s perfect. Now raise your arms up and let them fall back to your sides. Each move is partnered with a breath—in for one movement, out for the next. Now, swoop down until your fingertips touch your toes. If you can’t touch now, don’t worry, we’ll work on getting you a little bit closer each time.”
Gillian took one step back, then another, her bum up in the air in an inverted V. He tried to follow along with her but was mesmerized by the movement of her body. So beautiful and graceful. And he looked as much an idiot as the boys next to him.
“This pose is called the downward dog. Get used to it. We use it a lot.”
Snickers came from across the room, but they continued the routine. Gillian led them through a sequence of movements that she called the sun salutation, and a basic starter, she explained, for novice yoga practitioners. Which they all very much were. When they were in their second downward dog, Padraig shifted his gaze over to the lads next to him to see how they were faring. Was he the only one embarrassed as fuck about this?
All their beefy hands were spread at the top of the mats, the downward pressure causing white knuckles and fingers. At least he wasn’t the only one with crooked legs. None of the boys’ legs were straight, all bent with their bums sticking up at awkward angles, like sprinters at the blocks.
During the third round of the sun salutation, Gillian said, “Okay, I’m going to go around to each one of you to help with your positions. I’m happy to see you can all do the plank well, not a far stretch from a push-up, but correcting the others will do wonders for your flexibility. Also, try not to jerk from position to position. Smooth. Go from plank to cobra in a smooth motion.”
She started at the far end with Shane, but Padraig could see no more for the large bodies between. When he pressed up into downward dog, he noted her at Dick’s shoulder. “Press back into the balls of your feet so there is a nice line from your hands on the floor along your back. That’s better.”
They had to hold the placement for five breathing repetitions. His bad knee was fine but his back ached. Padraig wanted badly to shake out his hands, just for a moment to relieve some of the pressure. But there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to be the first one.
She stepped out of the corner of his vision. As per the sequence, he took one step, then another forward until his feet were between his hands. As he lifted his head to stretch his back, he felt her hands along his spine. He shivered with a small jerk, which he hoped she hadn’t noticed. If the boys felt what he did, none of them wanted to rise out of the current position to stand in front of her. Every one of them would have a hard-on, not easily disguised when you were stretching your hands in the air, lengthening your body upward. And there, a big boner standing to attention. Why did Coach let her continue with this alternative therapy? Didn’t he realize how embarrassing it was for the boys? Did it even help? Padraig had his reservations, and in the midst of “breath in…breathe out…” he determined he was going to have a word with Coach. Fuck this.
“When you stretch out with your palms on the ground—or in your case, your fingertips, but don’t worry, the more yoga the do, the more flexible you will become—make sure to keep your back straight.” When he curved in his head to bring it to his knees, she gently applied pressure to his shoulders so that his knuckles rested on the ground. “See? Every time you stretch, take it a bit farther. Without hurting yourself, of course.”
Of course, thought Padraig. What would she know of pain? But then…there had hardly been any pain today. Whatever she had done with her magical hands yesterday was just short of a miracle.
“That’s the last of sun salutation. I’m going to walk you through a few yoga floor stretches now to cool down, a brief meditation, and that will be it.”
Thankful to be able to move, to adjust his shorts around his front, Padraig flopped to the ground. The other boys did, too, joking about the downward dog in the only way a man could, references to sex rampant. Dick was mid-joke when his voice broke. All eyes were on Gillian as she kneeled on all fours on her mat, arching her back up like a cat, then a few breaths later, lowering it until her belly curved downward, her back bowed, her head and chin lifted to the ceiling.
That had to be one of the most erotic things Padraig had ever seen. And unfortunately, he had to share it with four of his teammates, two of them immature little pricks. Padraig couldn’t move. He was frozen, sitting on his mat, mesmerized by the movement of her body. The motion and the curves—so beautiful. Her braid dangled over one shoulder; her toes pointed like a ballerina.
“C’mon boys, you have to do it, too.” Her voice broke the spell, and all five of them scrambled to do the same. As majestic as it looked on Gillian, it was mortifying for Padraig. God, he hoped she didn’t walk around helping the lads with the floor exercises. They all looked fucking ridiculous.
But she didn’t. After the cat pose, she took them through some leg stretches with their backs on the floor. One of the lads farted loudly when they had to tuck both of their knees into their chest, rolling on their lower backs.
When the others started laughing, Padraig couldn’t hold back and chuckled, too. Then Dick farted louder, as if he had forced it out, and that led to more laughter. The pain in his lower back eased as he gently rotated it back and forth along the floor. It felt good. To laugh. To let it out. Because he had been serious for too long.
She must have known she wouldn’t be able to keep their attention after the farting so asked them all to take ten minutes for personal meditation, lying supine on their backs, arms and legs relaxed. Padraig released his knees so they bent naturally, feet on the floor, his hands behind his head. He lay there, staring up at the light fixture. It was a typical locker room light, long and rectangular, black bug spots piled up at the corners. How did the flies get in there?
Gillian’s face, thrust in front of his own, broke apart his reverie, shattering it into pieces like a ball through a window. Strands of her hair fell down to him like threads. “You’re pretty flexible for such a big guy.”
“Thanks. I’ve worked with some of the best physios in the world.”
“I’ve heard. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you.” She had squatted behind his head, but he couldn’t read her expression as gravity had puffed out her face.
“What are you going on about? I’m doing what you ask me to.”
“But you don’t believe in it.”
“Oh really? How can you tell?”
“Your attitude.”
“And all the other lads are lovin’ it, I guess.”
She tilted her head as if she was pondering that one. “I can’t say they are all on board with everything—”
“Really? You think—”
She hovered a finger over his lips, and Padraig waited for it to drop so he could get a small taste, his eyes fixated on the tip. “Ah-ah, don’t interrupt me. You didn’t let me finish. I was about to say, the others are at least approaching it with more of an open mind. It’s like you don’t give a shit about what we are trying to do here.”
She rose without another word and walked toward the table where her bag sat. As she passed Dick, he flicked out his wrist and pinched her ass. If Padraig hadn’t been watching her bum himself, he would have missed the slight movement.
He roared to his feet, and in two steps, pushed Dick at the shoulder. “What was that, ya cunt?”
Ugliness painted Dick’s face as he snarled at Padraig. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything. And watch who you’re calling a cunt, or I’ll kick your ass.”
Padraig glanced to Gillian who hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d swung around in search of the culprit. Her mouth was slightly open, but she said nothing.
“Apologize,” Padraig directed at Dick.
“F
or fucking what?”
Again, Padraig tried to engage Gillian, but she had turned back to the table where she donned her glasses once again. Ignoring the boys, she slipped on her oversized hoodie and walked out the door that led to the pitch.
Had he imagined it? No. Not with Gillian’s reaction. He pointed a finger at Dick. “You better apologize.”
“Whatever, ya paddy.”
Padraig could have torn his throat out, but instead he punched an end locker on the way to his own. So much for not getting involved.
Chapter 9
Padraig left the pitch a bit early to make his appointment with Gillian and headed to the showers. He’d been surprised on many levels today. First, his body felt as limber as it had in a long while, and second, the boys had played hard today. Their scrum was tight, their wings fast, their centers navigated the pitch, and their scrumhalf was a creative wee devil. All in all, not a bad bunch.
But then there were moments he was back in junior club rugby. Their technique was lacking and even with Del’s leadership, there were plays where it was mere organized chaos. But they had potential, something that Padraig hadn’t seen on Tuesday.
He grabbed his towel off the rack, and then walked dripping over to his locker, scrubbing his face and hair. After a quick wipe-down, he wrapped the towel around his waist and jerked open his locker. None of the cubbyholes had a combination or padlock. Coach said they didn’t play that way. Fair enough. It didn’t really promote goodwill in a team if everything was on lock down. They had to trust one another, but it still made Padraig nervous.
Before he deodorized, he patted the pocket of his folded jeans on the top shelf, checking for the pill container. His throat tightened when the hard cylinder shape wasn’t there. He pushed the panic back and retraced his steps in his mind. He was almost sure he had secured the bottle in his jeans before training. He had been running late, but always took a minute to place it somewhere safe.
He yanked out his jeans, then his shirt, socks, and shoes, patting down every piece of clothing—but nothing. Adrenaline raised the bar, and his world focused, every nerve ending poised for fight or flight as panic set in. Flight wasn’t an option—he hadn’t had a chance to get a refill on the pills, no backup, not even fucking Motrin here or at the house.
He dove through his training shorts and shirts, then his cleats. Unlikely places, but when desperate… He went through every inch of his locker and bag again, zipping and re-zipping, his rage bubbling like a teakettle. And he had the feckin’ appointment in ten minutes. He couldn’t even get to a pharmacy by then. Where was a fucking pharmacy? Not anywhere near the club, he knew that much. But he had no control, relying on Del for lifts everywhere.
By his third search, panic and anger overwhelmed him, and he kicked hard the bottom of an adjacent locker. The boys had started to filter in from the pitch, chatting and laughing, splitting up to their different locker rows. Head down, seeing red, Padraig started to shove his dirty gear back into his bag.
A shape loomed up to his right. “You looking for this?”
The sound of rattling pills snapped his attention to Dick, who shook the container like a maraca.
Padraig raised himself up to his full height, expanding his chest, dominating the space. He was only four inches taller than Dick, but he outweighed him by a couple stone, twenty-five pounds, at the least. “They’re mine,” Padraig said, wanting badly to say “ya prick” but Dick held the pill case, not Padraig.
Dick threw the bottle at him, but it was only a gesture, and he laughed when Padraig reacted, jerking his hands out to catch. “What is this”—the ignorant tosser squinted at the bottle—“Oxy…co-tin you are on? Some good stuff, O’Neale? Must be, the way you were looking for it just now.”
A few of the other lads with lockers near him had gathered around to see the fuss. Padraig was barely holding his rage in check, but didn’t want to make a scene. The towel still wrapped around his waist, and he had to get dressed to meet Gillian in Coach’s office in less than five minutes.
At least he was calmer than before. Dick wasn’t helping, the cunt, but the pills were in sight. Not lost or gone, so there was still hope. He tried to play it cool. “Thanks, I thought I had lost them.”
“So the all-powerful Padraig is on drugs.”
Padraig shook his head, rolling his eyes. “They’re just pain meds for my back. Not much stronger than anything you can get over the counter here in the States.”
Dick hesitated, and Padraig could tell he was considering whether it was the truth or not. He tossed the container up in the air and caught it, then repeated the action faster, over and over. All the while Padraig watched the bottle up and down, up and down.
“Well, if it’s no big deal, maybe I’ll keep them for myself. I did find them after all.”
In a second, Padraig had slammed Dick up against the locker, his forearm pressed into Dick’s neck. “Did you fucking take them out of my locker?”
The commotion brought the team running. For good measure, Padraig lifted him and threw him back into the metal, an almighty clang echoing through the room. “Did you?”
Dick’s eyes showed no fear. With all his teammates around him, he knew he was safe and Padraig was making a show of himself. To make Padraig look even worse, he gasped out, “I found them on the floor this morning. Just under there.” He freed his one arm to point under a bench across from Padraig’s locker. The hand he pointed with also held the bottle.
“Hand it over.” Padraig motioned with his free hand.
Dick slammed the plastic container into Padraig’s outstretched palm. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Let him go, O’Neale.” It was the Kiwi, behind him with the rest of the team.
Dick’s face had turned red, his eyes bulging from lack of oxygen. With one last stare-down, Padraig released him, and Dick’s body relaxed off the lockers.
“Pretty big words for such a small prick,” Padraig sneered and turned his back on him.
Wrong move. Dick shoved him hard from behind into his open locker with a mighty crack. Having lost his towel, too, Padraig swiveled around to face him again, all naked fury. Dick stood his ground, his hands fisted in a boxing stance. “C’mon, ya Irish junkie, have a go, then.”
“Stop! Don’t act like stupid knuckle-grazers.”
All heads turned to see Gillian standing with her hands in her hoodie pocket. And there Padraig stood in all his glory. Bad enough all the team sided with Dick. Now he looked ridiculous standing there butt-feckin-naked in front of the team physio.
“You’re late for our meeting,” she said. Her eyes lowered to the pill bottle in his hand. At least, that’s what he hoped she was looking at.
He scooped his towel off the floor and haphazardly wrapped it around his waist and held the two sides together. “Give me a minute.”
“Okay, lads.” Del clapped his hands loudly together once, a big whack. “Who wants to go to the pub?”
Some murmurs, and the boys began to disperse. He waited for Dick to move on. His locker was in another row. No reason for him to have been here in the first place. With his chest puffed out, his shoulders back, Dick pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at Padraig. He mouthed, “I’m watching you.”
Padraig didn’t bother responding. Dick finally pranced away on the balls of his feet. Within minutes, the rest of the boys in his row had left, as if their proximity made them guilty by association. Guilty of fealty to the new guy, guilty of taking meds themselves, guilty of…what? What exactly was Padraig accountable for? Thousands of athletes took medication to help with injuries. But, going natural was all the rage these days, and medicating was voodoo.
He stood there, staring into the darkened space of his locker. He re-tucked his towel. His breathing under control, he untwisted the cap, shook the pills until one spilled onto his palm. It went down with a quick sip from his water bottle.
He probably could have done without one, the pain bearable today, but h
e was seething with rage. He quickly dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved Irish rugby jersey, tucking the pills into his pocket. Outside, it was still warm so he slipped on his flip-flops and headed to Coach’s office.
The door was open. Typing away, she had her laptop in the center of the desk. He knocked on the opened door and remained standing in the entrance. She looked up, then glanced at her watch. “Glad you could make it. Please take a seat.”
Padraig took the same chair he had the first day he’d arrived, laying his arms along the wooden rests. Since the age of nineteen, he had been his current height, the last eight years filling out the pounds and muscle. Rarely did he fit into normal chairs comfortably, and this was no exception. He was wedged into the chair, his knees bending well over the edge.
She shifted her laptop to the side so there was a direct view between them. The obscene overhead office light reflected off her glasses, but the boys were right. There was something about her. A bit of something. Especially in her yoga gear.
“So what happened out there?” she asked, jerking her head toward the locker room.
“Nothing important, and you’re not Coach, so none of your business.”
She seemed to expect his smart-arse reply. She ran her top teeth over her bottom lip, sucking it gently before letting it be. More titillating than Padraig wanted to admit.
“It is if one of you guys get hurt.”
“Well no one did, but doesn’t mean no one will, if they don’t stay out of my business.”
She nodded. “Is that the business of your oxycodone?”
He was taken aback for a moment until he realized Coach must have told her. “It’s a prescription…and legal,” he added when she didn’t respond.
“It is, but may not be for long. What is your dosage?”
Fine. If she had to have the information, he’d give it to her. He dug the bottle out of his pocket and tossed it to her without warning. She was quick and snatched it from the air. She turned the bottle around, read the label, then set it down on the desk. She didn’t push it back toward him or offer to return it.