In Touch (Play On Book 1)

by Cd Brennan

  They followed their captain, chugging the first beer until empty. Jimmy let out a booming belch behind him, while Padraig patted his sternum bone to release the air, trying to let it out quietly in a big puff from his cheeks.

  A chorus of cans opening followed, and then Del got them busy. “If you can lift him with a beer in your hand, you’ll be able to lift him in any condition.”

  Interesting theory. Leave it to a Kiwi to suggest. But the other boys were already on board, and Del had lined up downstream from them, waiting to toss the ball at their makeshift lineout.

  The first attempt was a total cock-up, Jimmy and Dave more interested in saving their beers than getting Padraig in the air. He barely was up before he was down again into the freezing water.

  “Again,” Del said, the ball already poised above his head.

  The second try, Padraig was raised higher but he locked his knees, his bum jutting out behind him. The balance lost, he took Jimmy down, landing on top of him with a massive splash. Surprisingly, Jimmy didn’t say a word. Just raised his beer in salute and finished it off, tossing the empty onto the shore near where Rory still sat, watching the spectacle.

  “Another one, Rory, my boy!” Jimmy commanded.

  “Me, too!” Dave yelled.

  Rory returned, trailing a small cooler on wheels behind him. Just as the Scot was about to throw out another can to Padraig, the boys lifted him from behind, nice and straight. He caught the beer in one hand before the lads set him back down gently into the sandy riverbed. He tucked the spare into his short’s pocket.

  He turned his palm out to Jimmy first, then Dave, each slapping him five and congratulating each other on the lift. Del had snuck up behind him and clapped him on the back. “See, mate, relax and trust in the hands of your pack.”

  He trudged across the river to the other side. “Again,” he said. The sun had moved across the sky, and Del had repositioned himself to be directly in front so that Padraig had to squint to see the ball coming. The rays danced off the moving water, causing distraction along with the buzz from the beer that had started in his gut and had moved into his head.

  Two more beers down, and the lifts were getting easier, but seeing the ball had become more difficult. Twice, it had hit him smack in the face. Swearing at Del, he took a small rock and sent it flying at the captain, letting the splash tell Del off.

  “Irish, you got to trust that your hooker is going to send that ball to you. Don’t go grabbing for it, reaching out with those long arms of yours, putting yourself off balance. Those boys will hold you steady if you hold steady.”

  So what was Del saying? He was the problem with the lineout? It was his greatest strength in the game. Always had been. The Kiwi must be drunk to think that Padraig, a paid professional, was what caused their lineouts to be shite. He had played on the international level, a game that the boys in this club would only dream about.

  “Now, again. Don’t bloody move, Irish. I’ll get the ball to you.”

  So they tried different lifts and counts, most often ending with Padraig in the water, sometimes taking one of the other lads with him. Del just laughed, and they got up and did it again. And then Padraig was laughing with them. His anger had melted away with the buzz, and he was enjoying himself. Splashing with the lads, dunking Del when he got too bossy. They would submerge him, but Del’s hand always remained above the water to save his beer.

  Chapter 17

  Gillian joined the small crowd watching the spectacle in the river, players and friends from both teams shouting each time Padraig went up in the air. It was loud and obnoxious, but Padraig was doing well. Better than that. He seemed to be enjoying himself. And the other boys were enjoying him. The beer possibly helped.

  Gillian had never been at the cabin before. She had avoided the plaque, but the place still reeked of Andrew. His scene. His mates. His sport. She felt as if she were fifteen again, entering his room at her mother’s request to retrieve dirty laundry and dishes. She rarely had lingered, the smell so offensive, it was suffocating. A combination of body odor, sweat, and cologne overkill, just like the Blues locker room. Andrew’s posters were just as offensive—half naked women in risqué positions. Just yuck. Demeaning to all women.

  Coach had sent her on a mission to ring the dinner bell so no more walk down memory hell. She shouted, “Food’s ready.”

  Water churned and sprayed as the boys all ran for the bank, jostling each other to be the first out of the water and to the food table. Padraig remained where he was, a half smile on his face. Grabbing her non-burger, a bun with all the fixings except the meat, she set her plate down on an old wooden bench and walked into the water, flinching when her legs met a river that ran deep and cold.

  She waded over to him, maneuvering over an uneven bed, tricky rocks, and slimy branches, worn smooth over time from the abrasion of the running water.

  “No glasses today?”

  “Nope, it’s too much of a pain to keep swapping them and my sunglasses, so I have contacts in.”

  “You look great without them.” He continued, “Not that your glasses aren’t hot…”

  “Ya, ya, I get it.” She had even worn flip-flops in lieu of her Converse but had donned her favorite outfit, a white razorback tank and a skull-and-daisy skater skirt over her bikini, which she still wasn’t sure she would uncover. Padraig was one thing. The rest of the team and their families? Maybe not.

  Stepping into his personal space so that he had to lower his chin to his chest, she lifted the non-burger to his mouth. “Are you hungry?”

  He grabbed her wrist to move it out of the way and bent to steal a kiss. Nope, nope, nope. Not ready yet. It was like openly admitting that she was a hypocrite. As he dipped his head, she shoved the non-burger to his lips, squashing the mess against his teeth. He could do little else but open his gob when she shoved half in.

  She laughed as he stepped back, poking the loose bits of lettuce, onion, and bun back into his mouth. Then he swiped the back of his wrist across his lips, streaking his hand with sauce.

  He washed his arm in the river. “So vegetarians just eat a bun and salad? Toss on some tomato sauce and mayo and call it a burger?”

  “It’s not half bad. Even Burger King will make you a veggie Whopper with cheese.”

  “That’s wrong in so many ways. If you’re going to be a vegetarian for health reasons, why eat that crap?”

  Okay, she was a big ol’ hypocrite now. She didn’t know what to say so she finished the rest of her non-burger while Padraig watched. She could feel the weight of his stare, but couldn’t meet his gaze. She was confused by the constant battle between her head and her heart. Logically, she and Padraig were a dead end. For so many reasons. But her heart insisted on trying, insisted there was something more there that should be explored.

  Gillian bumped his shoulder with her own in a friendly way.

  “Not in front of the lads?”

  She defended her action, or lack of action, as was the case. “Sure, Del knows now, but it still seems weird to me.” She reached out and rubbed his arm in a friendly but distant gesture, searching his face for understanding. When Padraig didn’t move, she dropped her hand from his arm.

  “I thought you just started with the team this season?”

  “I did, but I knew Coach from before.”

  “How’s that?”

  “My brother played for the Blues when I was younger.”

  An awareness registered in his eyes, but then his face went blank again. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Yeah, I asked Coach not to say anything…ya know, to the boys.”

  “How come?” He laid his palms against his back and arched.

  “Still painful?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  Gillian knew he wouldn’t pry. Their relationship was still undefined and vague enough that they hadn’t crossed over to intimate territory. It was best to keep a bit of distance. Leave things physical.

  “Not too bad. Del was righ
t. Easier to fall into the water than onto the ground.”

  “The last couple of lifts looked pretty good. Really good, actually. I’m impressed.”

  Padraig spread his legs and put his hands on his hips in a superhero pose. “’Twas nothing for a man of steel, like.”

  She laughed and then punched him softly in the gut. “Is that you, Irish, joking around?”

  He exaggerated the reflex from the punch, bending over, grabbing his belly. “You got some serious action with those arms, Miss Sommersby.”

  She smiled. “I like seeing you this way.”

  “I like seeing you in any way.” He meant it, and Gillian braced for the embarrassment that usually followed a compliment. Heat crept up her neck but at least she didn’t go into a panic and start rambling, which always made it worse.

  “How about we go join the others?” She motioned with her head back toward the party on the lawn. As much as she didn’t want to, she needed a breather from the intensity that they created. Plus, her legs were going numb from the cold, and even though Padraig hadn’t said, she could see goose bumps rising up amongst the dark hair on his arms.

  He laid his hand on the small of her back to lead her to the bank. That was nice, and not too much. Such a simple gesture, yet so profound to her heart. She’d always been so focused on her independence, she’d never let a man try anything like this. Preempting any romantic attempts, she’d thwart their chivalry before they could try. She sighed as Padraig led them both toward the group. So many years wasted having her head up her ass.

  They separated as they approached the group. Padraig donned his T-shirt, then headed for the food table. As he scooped potato salad and beans onto his plate, Gillian sat next to Shano’s wife and their little boy.

  Instead of taking a chair, Padraig stood beside her alone, his plate in one hand, eating with the other. It wasn’t a bad day. Someone had turned the music down instead of up, which seemed strange, until one of the young ones started belting out “The Seven Days of Rugby.” Their numbers had grown, and now there was a scattering of children running around, a few staying close to their mother’s chairs, a couple older ones playing guns with sticks, using the shrubs by the river for camouflage.

  Del approached with a couple more beers, handing one to Padraig who dumped his paper plate in the trash to take it. “Cheers.”

  “Why don’t you come sit over with me and the boys? See that blue and white, plastic piece of junk beach chair? It has your name written all over it.”

  When he didn’t move, Gillian nudged him in the arm. “Why don’t you go?”

  “Come on, O’Neale.”

  Padraig looked to Gillian, but at that moment Tania’s little boy chose to climb up into her lap. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

  He nodded and let Del tug him along by the bicep.

  Trying not to be obvious, Gillian watched from behind the safety of the toddler.

  Rory handed Padraig a full shot glass. “Come on, Irish, I know you know this one.” Whether it was the beer or the sunny day or the camaraderie, she didn’t know, but when the boys hit the chorus for “Whisky in the Jar,” Padraig joined in. And when he did, they honored him, the Irishman, with beers raised high. She was glad for him, that he finally had started to let the walls crumble. But it was at happy times like this that sad memories always crept in. Like she’d never have a moment without Andrew there, hovering, a grayness that eclipsed all the color.

  She imagined him, sitting where she was now, beer in his hand and most likely a girl on his arm. He’d been a charmer, all right, and always had a few girls after him. That alone was enough to turn her off jocks. So full of themselves. Insensitive and selfish. Andrew had made the girls sweat it out. Leading them on, using them, and tossing them away. There had been times when she was ashamed to call him her brother.

  When two of the lads ran naked into the river, their bits bouncing about, Gillian lifted the boy back to his mom and excused herself. She had nothing against a bit of fun, but she had to pee.

  Andrew had always thought her a miss prissy, goodie two-shoes. Wound tighter than an eight day clock, he used to say to her. But that’s only because she didn’t agree with what he did, how he acted.

  She shut the sliding door harder than she expected. Just because she didn’t play by someone else’s rules didn’t mean she was an uptight bitch. And look where following the crowd got Andrew? Six feet under. That was where.

  The bathroom door was ajar, so Gillian pushed it open with one finger. Slowly, her heart pounding. What did she expect to find? One of the boys lying in a pool of their own vomit?

  Or maybe Andrew. Alive and crabbin’ at her again for interrupting his privacy.

  But there was only a pile of dirty towels on the floor, the seat up, and soap dripping out of the dispenser onto the sink. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. Taking a deep breath, she circled the room…but felt nothing. No last remnants of Andrew. No ghostly energy lingering here. Of course, it had been five years. And Gillian was sure this was the last place any spirt would want to hang out. She shook her head at her own stupidity. There was no closure here.

  A pounding on the door, and Gillian clutched her chest. “Just a minute.”

  She pulled down her bikini bottoms and peed quickly. There was only one bathroom at the cabin, the boys instructed to pee in the bushes, but there were plenty of girls out there today.

  More pounding. “Hurry up!”

  Gillian rolled her eyes. Fucking Jenn. Last person she wanted to see. She washed her hands and dried them on toilet paper instead of the towel hanging from the bar. It had seen better days.

  When she opened the door, Jenn had her hand up, ready to hammer again. “’Bout time.” She shoved past. “Nice skirt.”

  As Jenn went to shut the door, Gillian blocked it with her hand. “Hold up.”

  Jenn cocked her fist onto her hip. Wearing only a bikini top and shorts so tight she had camel toes, she looked sluttier than usual. Plus, she was obviously intoxicated. She couldn’t hold her pose and slopped sideways, stumbling and then righting herself. Her mascara had melted and ringed the bottom of her lids. “Do you mind?”

  “I do. I mind when you slam my favorite skirt.”

  Her lids half mast with drink, Jenn smirked.

  “What is your problem with me, Jenn? I’ve only been professional to you since I’ve started with the Blues, and yet you feel the need to treat me with disdain.”

  “Wha—?”

  Gillian wasn’t going to get anywhere with her like this. “Never mind.”

  She let go of the door and left, but not two steps away Jenn spoke at her back. “He’s just using you for sex, you know. He’s much too hot for you.”

  And like the coward she was, Jenn slammed the door and clicked the lock.

  What an evil cow. Gillian smiled. But obviously feeling threatened. Barbie receptionist was worried. Good.

  Chapter 18

  His arm had fallen asleep where her head lay, the buzzing in his fingertips unbearable, but he didn’t want to wake her. She slept so peacefully, spooned up against his side.

  He pulled the hair away from where it had fallen over her face. How could that not bother her? Scratchy…or something. She hadn’t moved, so the possibility of getting loose to take his pill was not likely. The meds were in his bag. At least, he remembered putting them there, but after yesterday’s party, things were a bit foggy. Panic seized him, and he shivered. Gillian stirred but didn’t wake.

  Torn between the warmth of the woman lying by his side and the need to take the med, Padraig was thrumming inside. He struggled, and the struggle lasted too long. Minutes that were hours in his head.

  He pressed his eyes shut tight, then released them. Here goes.

  He moved his hand along her belly—soft caresses that feathered over her skin. She groaned in her sleep, and he took that confidence and moved to her breasts. He embraced one then the other, and when she stirred, he ran his fingers over her
nipples until they hardened.

  Her eyes fluttered open, but she stared out into the distance, caught between sleep and waking. He nuzzled her neck, pushing away her long hair to kiss along her chin.

  As he had hoped, she turned into him. A soft smile he couldn’t resist, and he pressed his lips to hers. How different everything felt over here. In the States versus back home in Ireland. Like he was on holiday, and nothing was quite real. As if he knew he had to return to a life filled with repetition and work and…what? Nothing.

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him, long and sensual before she pulled back and whispered, “Good morning.”

  She was so close, he couldn’t focus and had to withdraw farther to take in her rested face, flushed from the kiss, freckled from the sun yesterday, and so beautiful.

  He couldn’t talk, so he kissed her, caressing his hands down over her naked body, her skin soft as a warm Irish summer, light and lovely, holding so much promise.

  And then the burn began. The hunger to be inside her. As much as he pressed against her, it wasn’t enough. There was nothing so stimulating, nothing so right, as the tactile feel of skin on skin. As if humans weren’t meant to be clothed, and like children in the sprinklers in summer, would choose the freedom and fun of nudity in the hot sun.

  He readied himself with a condom. Scooping one arm around her waist, he pulled her under him and gently prodded at her opening, and then slipped into a heaven on earth. So perfect. So complete. Unlike last night when he was buzzed up and giddy on booze, when the lovemaking had been playful, nips and sucks and laughter. This morning it was slow and sensual—emotionally charged as he used his body to try and show what his mind and words could not communicate to her.

  It was a slow build to climax, Padraig holding on until Gillian released with a tremble, pulling him against her chest when she came. And then Padraig let himself go, ducking his head into her shoulder so that she couldn’t see how his eyes watered. For the guilt he harbored, for the affection for this amazing woman. But for once, it wasn’t for the pain. And yet he craved the pills in that little plastic bottle. Right then, he knew he was messed up more than he’d ever let himself believe. And why his rugby career was here instead of over there.