In Touch (Play On Book 1)

by Cd Brennan

  He drew in two deep breaths to settle his racing heart and to clear his eyes so Gillian wouldn’t see. Pecking her on the nose, he threw off the covers. He withdrew faster than she must have expected as a small gasp escaped her. “Sorry,” he mumbled and threw his legs over the side of the bed. “Need to get some headache tablets.” He faked a laugh. “I’m in bits.”

  She smoothed her hand over his thigh before he was able to get up. “What does that mean?”

  “Got a bit of a hangover.”

  “I’m feeling rough, myself. Will you bring some back for me? And a gigantic glass of water.”

  “You didn’t even drink,” he teased her.

  She stretched. “Yeah, but must have gotten too much sun. I feel yuck.”

  “Grand, so.”

  Padraig lifted off the bed, a bit of a sway when he did. Her soft hand trailed his leg as he rose. He slipped on his rugby shorts from yesterday, now caked with mud and smelling of stale beer and sweat. Nice. He’d been in better positions. He hooked a left out of the bedroom to where he’d dropped his bag the night before by the kitchen counter. He was pumped up, ready for the pill. It was like when he had to piss real bad. The closer he got to the toilet, the more he had to go. The nearer to his bag, the harder his heart thumped against his chest.

  In such a hurry, he snagged the zipper on the fabric and cursed under his breath. It was stuck, and the more he struggled, jamming it back and forth to release it, the more fabric the zipper took between the teeth. “Goddamn it!”

  He rocked back on his heels and drew in a deep breath. When he did, he noticed his back didn’t ache as much this morning. His knee still hurt like hell, but he had learned to live with the strain years ago. Another couple of deep intakes, and he tried again. This time with gentle motions, breathing deeply in and out of his nose like Gillian had taught them in yoga. Calm. Keep it together. A smile burst onto his face when he freed the side zipper and there it was. Right where he had left it, on top of his dirty socks and the old tape he had ripped off after the game.

  “How many pills left?”

  Gillian stood leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, his Irish rugby T-shirt over her naked form. Her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head, her glasses on.

  He must have taken too long to return to the bedroom or she’d heard him going off and had followed him into the kitchen. She moved into the middle of the lounge room looking vulnerable, unhappy. Sadness radiated from her eyes, but no judgment. He couldn’t have borne it if she passed a verdict on his addiction.

  He looked away from her to the cupboard. “Eleven.”

  “To the right of the sink.”

  His fingers around the handle, he rested his forehead briefly on the smooth wood. “Thanks.”

  She waited and said nothing. With a pop, he wrenched the cupboard door open and grabbed out a drinking glass. He filled it at the sink and popped the pill in his mouth with his back to her. “I never meant to stay.”

  “What?”

  Padraig shook his head, his gaze stuck on the corner of a chipped tile on the floor.

  “What do you mean?” Her question had taken on an edge. Anger roughened a voice normally filled with an iridescence of tranquility and grace. A voice that could calm the angriest of beasts. “Will you look at me, please?”

  He turned as she had asked, leaning his bum against the front of the sink. “I don’t want to be here. Is that clear enough?” Raising his glass, he took another drink. His throat had tightened from the change in her. “I am only here until my agent can find me a better club to play for.”

  “Does Coach know?”

  “Nope.”

  “So why are you telling me now?”

  He rolled his eyes and released a loud sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “So we aren’t good enough for you, is that it?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Gill, come on. For fuck’s sake. I need a club that will challenge me.”

  “Maybe it’s not all about you. Maybe you are meant to be here to challenge them.”

  “They hate me.”

  “They’re intimidated. That’s all. But God, Padraig, if you gave them the time, they could learn so much from you.” She took a step closer. Still too far away for him to wrap her up in his arms and try to make her understand, but it was better than a step back.

  “Why would I do that?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “And you call yourself a rugby player?”

  He hissed through his teeth. “I do. It’s my profession. My job,” he emphasized.

  “Is that all rugby is to you?”

  “Right now it is.”

  She slapped her hand hard on the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  Padraig shrugged. “Believe what you want.” As much as he wanted her on his side, his temper had flared and the meds hadn’t kicked in yet. Top that with the worst hangover he’d had in ages, and foul was a light word for his mood.

  “You know the boys are volunteers at the club, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Swirling his glass, he concentrated on the water that made elliptical movements around the glass.

  “They go out there every week as underdogs. The Blues can’t compete at the same level as the bigger cities. We are a rural club. We don’t have a large pool of talent to pull from, and those who start with the Blues and are any good are recruited by the larger clubs like Chicago. Even the high school kids are usually enticed away to the college programs.” She pointed a finger at him. “Which you probably didn’t even know or care are up-and-coming in the States.” Gillian was on a roll, and Padraig wasn’t about to stop her. His anger had subsided, replaced by wonderment of the woman before him. “You know some of the team travels as far away as Boyne City and Harbor Springs to play with the Blues? That’s over seventy-five miles away. Just so they get a chance to participate.”

  Padraig turned his back on her and placed his empty glass at the side of the sink. When he was younger, all he’d wanted to do was play. Like the Blues’ players, he had simply just wanted to be a part of a team, playing the sport he loved. When he’d been recognized for his ability, his drive had changed to what he could achieve in the game. But even then, it had still been about the passion. After years and multiple agents, the politics and bullshit of the club sport had drained him.

  In a softer voice, she continued. “You could really help the Blues get to the top of their division.”

  He whirled on her. “Are you done with your preaching yet?”

  She looked as if he had stabbed her in the stomach. Then rage surfaced. It had arrived on her face and in her stance way before any words were spoken. A side of Gillian he had not seen, and yet he knew he had provoked her. Why? As if he was sabotaging on purpose the only thing he cared about here.

  “Those boys on the team are some of the most courageous and unselfish men I have ever met. Their strength is in the pride they have in their play. They love, bleed, and breathe to keep the club strong and going.”

  “Why do you do it?” He needed to know. She’d been evasive about it long enough.

  Her eyes watered, and Padraig wondered if she was going to cry. That he couldn’t deal with. Her anger kept him poised on defense. If she shed one tear, that would be the last of him and he would break, promising her anything to get her to stop. “Because I enjoy what I do. Because it makes my life fuller. Because I believe in them. But mostly because… Ah, fuck you, you don’t deserve to know.”

  “For Andrew?”

  Her eyes widened with anger. Her teeth clenched and she took a few slow steps toward him. “Don’t you dare change this back on me. This isn’t about me. This is about you and your stupid pills.”

  “What do you know about me?” he yelled. “Absolutely nothing. So don’t go judging anything in my life.”

  She was right on so many levels. Padraig was a shit and had be
en to the lads. He had stood on a pedestal, believing he was above the Blues and their club. He had put in only a half-arsed effort since he’d arrived.

  He was older and on his last professional legs of rugby, but he wanted to get to the World Cup. The drive had been poison in his veins. And only the call to represent Ireland would have relinquished his body of the taint that had cloaked him for years.

  Gillian continued when silence hung over them for minutes, the room claustrophobic with tension. “You’re right. I don’t know you at all.” She began to pace back and forth in front of him. “For all I know, you are using me for sex.”

  “I don’t need this shit.” He set into motion. She was wearing his only clean jersey, so he grabbed out the wrinkled and dirty Blues jersey from the game yesterday and pulled it roughly over his head. He didn’t bother with socks, nor untying his runners that he had slipped off the night before. He crammed each foot in, struggling with the back of the second one. It wouldn’t slip on, so he grabbed his bag from the floor and wore it out like a flip-flop.

  “So that’s it. You’re just going to leave.”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe I’m using you for sex!” She was yelling now, fuming as she still paced back and forth. “You’re just like the rest of them.”

  Who was the rest of them? He wanted to slam the door. He should have, but he also wanted to be that good man she thought she saw. He controlled his anger enough to let the door click quietly behind him. But the adrenaline kept him going, pounding through her physio room and out the front door. He didn’t even think which way to turn, only that he did, and he kept moving.

  When he reached the traffic lights and the red hand blinked at him to stay, only then did he take a look around to get his bearings. From the drive, he knew there was quite a distance between her apartment and his house, but he hadn’t a clue how to get there. More than anything, this infuriated him. His helplessness here. No car. Shared accommodation. Relying on others for lifts. It was as though he was back in high school instead of one of the best Irish International rugby players. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the funds to buy a car, but he wasn’t planning on staying. How he missed his Toyota SUV from back home. Black and all decked out, even tinted windows. One of the few vanity purchases he had allowed himself. Hell, he was from north side Cork City. His family never allowed him to forget where he was from.

  Why the hell had he ended up here? As much as he tried, Padraig could not see any benefit in the future. Like how his ma always said there was a reason for everything. What is for you won’t pass you by. He had always been taught to take life in stride, to know that one day when he looked back on things, it would all make sense. But right now, his heart aching, his gut about ready to spill the contents on the pavement, he could see absolutely no fucking reason for him to be here.

  He kept walking toward the water. From there he could find his way back. He had a few miles in front of him.

  Padraig considered calling Del for a lift, but then squashed the idea. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone about anything right now, including Gillian. And the worst part was, he didn’t have the foggiest notion what his address was. Having glanced at it only briefly on the paperwork, he had relied on lifts from either Del or Gillian, and occasionally, one of the other lads after practice. Like it wasn’t important enough to remember because he had one foot out the door. He’d have to describe to the cab driver how to get there and hope he knew more than Padraig did. He had never felt so out of control in his life. Back home, it was comfortable, easy. With the exception of the last six months, things had been going grand.

  The traffic swished by, and even the sight of the blue water didn’t soothe him. Too much commerce here, too much noise and interruption to the beauty. But it was more than that. His heart, now, was utterly broken. For everything he could have been. For all the regrets he had. He stood there, unmoving as the memories threatened to pound him into the ground.

  Padraig blinked out of the reverie. There wasn’t one single cab in sight. The streets of Cork and Dublin were chockers full of taxis. Here, he rarely saw a handful at night. Did everyone drink and drive?

  At the next gas station, he bought a takeaway coffee and asked for the name and number of a taxi service. After calling to book, he set himself outside on a curb, the farthest away from the door. As expected, people parked as close as possible to the door and left Padraig alone.

  The day was already heating up, and it was yet nine in the morning. Exhaust from cars floated over to Padraig as they came and went from the servo. When he closed his eyes, he went into head spins. His stomach lurched, but he held it down. He blinked rapidly and focused on a sailboat on the horizon. When his stomach clenched again, Padraig ran to a weedy area along a fence. Bent over, his hands on his knees, he vomited coffee. His eyes watered and stung. Then he vomited again, heaving until only bile came out in spit.

  If the Irish could see him now. In front of a gas station in a foreign land, no family and not one friend to call on, Padraig hit rock bottom. Oh, how the mighty had fallen, and he knew some fans would get sadistic pleasure out of a man brought to his knees. At least there were no cameras and no backlash of media. Sure, very few even knew he was here.

  Straightening, he took a couple deep breaths before he made it back to his cement stoop on wobbly legs. Since he had vomited the contents of his stomach, the majority of the pill would have come up as well. He dug for the plastic container again, and with shaking hands, emptied another into his palm. Only ten left.

  Chapter 19

  Gillian had blown until her lips were sore. When she took a peek at a mirror, a red oval ring had imprinted on her mouth like a mime. Without the white makeup. But the tears were real. Not the painted black drops, but tracks stained both sides of her face.

  As much as she hated Padraig right now, she hated the situation more. How the hell did she get messed up with some druggie athlete? She should have kept her distance, helped professionally but remained objective about him and his treatment.

  As soon as he shut the door behind him, she’d whipped out her trumpet and blasted some notes of an old marching tune that she knew by heart. With the windows open to the summer air, businesses down the block had then been subjected to an unpleasant, out-of-tune version of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” And it was a Sunday morning. Nice. Sure to get some client recommendations that way.

  If the Blues weren’t good enough for him, then Gillian wasn’t. That’s what it came down to. And what jock thought band was cool?

  Andrew. He had always teased her about playing the trumpet, but he had told her when he was a senior that he had always been secretly jealous. He had chosen sports, and she had gone with the arts. But then he had overdosed, found by their dad in the bathroom at the Blues cabin, the syringe still in his arm. The autopsy had listed steroids, pain meds, and heroin in his bloodstream. Her folks had been completely blind to any of it. They were a middle-class, hard-working, American family. Andrew had been raised in a caring, supportive environment. What had he been thinking?

  With her trumpet across her lap, Gillian rested her head back against the couch. For the millionth time, she deliberated on why. But nothing was revealed to her. No matter what she tossed about, she could only come up with stupidity. Ignorance. He hadn’t a clue what he’d been doing, what risk he’d been taking. He was just a follower.

  She surged to her feet, the trumpet clunking onto the floor.

  After pulling her hair into a ponytail and chucking on flip-flops, she grabbed a small wrapped gift from the table and was out the door.

  When she turned into her parents’ driveway, Gillian realized they were probably at church, not even home. Didn’t matter. She’d only come for the car.

  She slid the cover off from front to back and thrilled in the reveal of the beautiful, classic car she and Andrew had restored from bare bones. It had been a piece of junk, the frame and floorboards completely rusted through, the body in decent s
hape but the steering wheel had been missing and the old black vinyl seats had split, pale yellow foam stuffing scattered throughout the car.

  They had built her back up to her original glory, even repainting her the color she’d come off the line. Now, the chrome polished, the retro white-walled tires shiny, the horse emblem sitting proud on the hood, it was time to give her a spin.

  The only upgrades Andrew and she had agreed on were proper over-the-shoulder seatbelts and a new radio with speakers. Gillian turned up the Alpine loud, and only when she was on her way out of town did she roll down the window. The old way, with a silver handle and black knob. The car purred, eating up the road faster than she had imagined.

  She passed the turn-off to the cabin and kept going, rural northern Michigan quilted beyond her windscreen. She blasted Andrew’s favorite music—AC/DC. He hadn’t cared that it was old-school. He had loved it. She pulled along the side of the road and reached over to roll his window down. That was better. Almost as if he were there with her.

  She stomped on the gas pedal and spun out, gravel from the side of the road spitting up rocks under the carriage. Probably should have thought that one through, new paint job and all. At the next intersection, she pulled a U-turn and headed back into town. She wasn’t ready to see Padraig yet, if ever. But Junipers on a sunny summer morning was what she needed. Plus, she had a little something to drop off to Charlie.

  When she arrived, Matt let her in, dressed in a ratty pair of shorts, no shirt, then promptly returned to the couch where he’d been watching a morning show on TV. He looked none too pleased to be interrupted so early on a Sunday. Gillian stepped on a nude Barbie doll as she walked through the living room to the kitchen.

  “Barbies for you or Charlie?”