In Touch (Play On #1)

by Cd Brennan

  Cover Copy

  Sexy. Passionate. Fierce.

  Irish rugby star, Padraig O’Neale, has fecked up his life and is one angry man. When caught using a banned substance for his back pain, Padraig is excused from both his provincial club and the Irish International team. Right before World Cup selection. Out of choices, his agent convinces Padraig to play for a small American club in Michigan. Just until things settle down. But when Coach asks the team physical therapist, Gillian Sommersby, to help the newest Blues player with his issues, Padraig finds himself trying every wacky treatment out there from stinky salves to music to yoga. Like her therapies, the therapist herself is a bit…odd. The cute college grad in Converse and glasses doesn’t seem all that impressed with Padraig’s celebrity status, nor gives a shite about his excuses. As it turns out, she might be exactly what he needs…

  Visit me at http://www.cdbrennan.com

  Books by Cd Brennan

  Play On

  In Touch

  Love Where You Roam

  Watershed (Book 1)

  A World Apart (Book 2)

  In Touch

  Play On Book 1

  Cd Brennan

  www.cdbrennan.com

  In Touch

  Copyright © 2015 by Cd Brennan

  Copyright © 2015, Cd Brennan

  First electronic publication: September 2015

  Cd Brennan

  www.cdbrennan.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the Traverse Bay Blues Rugby Club.

  And, as always, to my sons, Finn and Keelan, ruggers in the making.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost to everyone involved in the Traverse Bay Blues RFC who invited me into their world and with kindness and patience answered my ten million questions about US rugby. Huge kudos to my editor, Paige Christian, whose talent and support make this book what it is today. Thanks also to my copy editor, Georgia Macey, my critique partner, Ashlyn Brady, my friend in all things helpful, Heidi Senesac, and a super thanks to the cover designer, Tera Shanley, for her fabulous cover art.

  A special mention to my alpha readers Junette Stronge for the Irish elements, and Tania Santos with Active Physical Therapy who volunteers for the Blues as their PT—both whose suggestions made this book a better read. Can never thank you enough. And to my beta reader, Coach Matt (Scotland) Szatkiewicz, the legend that he is. Any remaining inaccuracies are my own.

  Anthony Dell’Acqua, President of the Blues, gave me hours of his time to speak passionately about the future of rugby in America. My husband, Dick Brennan and Dave (D-day) Wenkel offered their time and knowledge to help me stay as true to the club and sport as possible. A special hug for my hubby for being such a good guy about being the bad guy.

  And finally, I’d like to acknowledge the National Irish Rugby Team 2000-2007 who impassioned me with the sport, where I gained my love of rugby, where I watched every match with heart in throat.

  Author’s Foreward

  The Traverse Bay Blues Rugby Club is not a Division 1 team. I used creative license for the story. As a Division 3 team, they don’t have a locker room, trophy room, reception area, nor spectator stands. But they have hope and they have drive, and I believe they will achieve their dream of such soon. Rugby is a tremendous sport—the raw energy, athleticism, strength, and pride that goes into each and every game is beyond compare. Especially for your local teams in the US. The sport is on the rise, but all players are volunteers and clubs run on donations and sponsors, so I urge you to seek out your local club and support where you can. But particularly, my favorite team, the Blues, any donation will be received with heartfelt thanks. www.tcrugby.com

  Chapter 1

  The wind pressed against the small window, and the pane of glass moaned in return.

  Gillian pulled a spare pillow over her head and squeezed. Just as she was almost asleep, another groan sounded through the room like a foghorn. A strong westerly.

  Gah! She was so tired. She’d loved storms when she was younger—the thunder and lightning…the wind—all mixing to create a passionate display over Traverse Bay. And before, the ionization of the air, the excitement as the energy shifted, growing intense and bold.

  Now, storms at night were just another something that kept her awake. And then the incessant worrying would start, and she couldn’t turn it off. If she still dozed between wake and sleep, sometimes she’d be able to talk herself down, dream herself back into slumber with any sweet thought she could grasp onto. But once fully conscious, that was it.

  The worrying began and the anxiety latched onto her like Velcro. God, it sucked. Caught between the living and the dead. Not enough energy to be active, but too aware to stop the jumble of images and scenarios that would bombard her head until daylight.

  At this point, it was useless to try to sleep. All it would produce was a grumpy-as-hell Gillian the next day. With a growl, she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. Bending automatically for the incline of the ceiling, she felt her way in the dark to the door.

  Might as well start with the upstairs bathroom.

  The door creaked. Nothing to do about that. The house was old with two of the bedrooms upstairs in an attic conversion. Each room had slanted outer walls and what she and her brother had always referred to as hobbit doors. Not full size and not fully centered, the doors didn’t close on their wonky, warped hinges. When she and Andrew were teenagers, her brother had resorted to duct tape to try to retain some privacy.

  Gillian grabbed the plastic grocery bag used as a liner in the trash bin in the bathroom. Only a few Q-tips and used Kleenex. It would suffice. She began her systematic search of the cupboards and the overhead medicine cabinet. Nothing. But she didn’t expect much. Her parents rarely came upstairs anymore.

  Her mom still kept a night-light in the upstairs hall even though Gillian was now twenty-four. The soft glow had come in handy since she’d been staying at her parents’. She didn’t have to turn on the overheads during her midnight trawling.

  Maneuvering the stairs, Gillian made it down to the lounge with only two squeaks. Pretty damn good for a rotting, old house. She traversed the hall and shut the downstairs bathroom door quietly before she fumbled for the switch.

  Even behind the loaded drawers full of old make-up, tiny bottles of hotel shampoos and conditioners, headbands, and jars of anti-aging cream, she found nothing. Nor in the bottom cupboard that held the spare toilet paper and hand towels. Her parents were getting smarter, but she had all night. She’d find their stash. But she needed a flashlight.

  She went to the utility closet first and snagged the large, yellow Eveready. A bit big, but it would do. As she turned away, she stopped, her hand still on the doorknob. She’d never checked in here. Hmmm…

  How much shit could her dad cram into one small closet? Everything from baseball
gloves with a ball still bedded inside to cans of WD40 and bottles of half-empty cleaning spray. She shifted the cans to the side, but when she reached around to the back, the largest fell onto the wooden shelf with a clunk. Shit again. She paused, listening for her parents. But nothing. She tossed the can onto a pile of rags on the shelf below and continued her search. Aiming the flashlight at the back, she was rewarded with white caps and brown bottles. Nice.

  She pulled out two at a time. A bottle of expired amoxicillin tablets. What the hell? Into the bag. Her mother’s Xanax. Only five milligram tablets, but that went into the bag, as well. Some generic pink stomach medicine, cough drops, a box of anti-gas tablets, extra-strength ibuprofen. Gone. She left the Tylenol. The Chinese had been using acetaminophen for over three thousand years. The safest of all pharmaceuticals on the market.

  Gillian clicked off the flashlight and placed it on the shelf. She tiptoed past her parents’ room to the kitchen and snagged a yogurt drink out of the fridge.

  Not bad for a night’s work. After gulping it down, she placed the empty container into the plastic bag and tied the top. The door to the garage creaked, so she quickly stepped through and closed the door behind, leaving it slightly ajar. Flicking on the lights, she squinted at the harsh glare of the overhead halogens. She grabbed the keys from where they hung by the switch and worked her way around her mom’s old Mercury to the covered car along the far wall.

  She stopped mid-step. Pain and sadness lodged in her throat. It was the same reaction every time she looked at the old car shrouded in its own misery underneath a ratty cover. The beautiful beast couldn’t sit here forever.

  She pulled away the tan canvas over the trunk. The body was a dark green. Painting the car was the first thing Andrew had done. He had told her if she looked good, she’d feel good. He’d spoken of the classic car like a man in love with a woman. Gillian ran her hand along the surface, leaving a finger-stripe trail through the dust. It was a pity they hadn’t finished bringing her back to life.

  It was time. She damn well would get the ol’ girl running.

  Gillian popped the trunk with the key and stashed the plastic bag inside. There were a half dozen other bags already there, mostly plastic, but one night she had resorted to an old pillowcase.

  After replacing the tarp, she eyed the result. If someone looked close enough, they could easily identify fingerprints in the dust on the lip of the cover. Gillian blew out raspberries. Not much for covering her tracks, but she doubted her parents looked too closely. Of course, they could have changed their ways. She batted the air, negating the possibility they would find out, and made her way across the garage that smelled of oil and stale rubber. She flicked off the light before she opened the door to the house.

  As she turned, her father grunted out, “Gillian.”

  She screamed, flattening herself against the door, and then covered her mouth fast, as if she could hold back the shriek that was already out.

  Her dad switched on the light over the sink. He wore his holey pajama bottoms, the once red-checkered pattern now faded to pink, and an old Niagara Falls T-shirt from a long-ago family vacation. He ruffled his already disheveled bed hair. “Well, I was hoping not to wake your mother.”

  “If that was the case, you shouldn’t have been lurking around in the dark.”

  He motioned toward the door with the glass in his hand. “Well, I didn’t know my daughter was lurking out in the garage. I woke up and was thirsty.”

  Gillian was slowly inching her way through the kitchen, her small steps fueled by guilt.

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “Not much.”

  He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “You weren’t out there hiding anything, were you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like all the medicine you’ve been taking from your mom and me.”

  Damn.

  “What? You think we are too old to notice?”

  “Yeah, ancient, Dad. Ready for the old folk’s home.”

  “We’re not going anywhere just yet.”

  “You don’t need that crap, anyway.”

  Her dad turned around to the sink and placed his glass on the counter. “Yeah, we do.”

  “No, you don’t.” Gillian motioned to a basket in the middle of the counter. “You have all the teas and herbs I’ve left for you. Even some of my new salve rubs for your arthritis. And neither of you have touched any of it.”

  Her dad let out a long sigh. “Gill, as much as we believe in you and appreciate the thought, we still want to do it our way.” Before Gillian could interrupt, he continued. “We’ll use your stuff, too, but you know your mom needs her Xanax to fly. It’s not like she uses it every day. And no matter how much of your tea I drink, it still doesn’t help the aches after I get home from work. Like you said, I’m ancient. And your poor Dad can’t move around like he used to.”

  “That’s the thing. You have to use the teas all the time, and the rub, too. It’s preventative, not reactive care.”

  He dumped the remaining water into the sink and placed the glass on the counter. “Gill, we’ve heard this all before.”

  She could tell he was starting to boil, but she kept pushing. “Then why don’t you try?”

  “Because we want to live the way we want to live. That’s not up to you.”

  “You don’t need that shit, Dad!”

  He slapped his hand onto the counter so hard it made her jump. “That’s not for you to decide!” His shoulders slumped and he spoke softly. “Now, I want you to return everything you’ve taken over the last week since you’ve been staying with us.” He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “If it’s not already in a landfill.”

  “But—”

  “For over six years, you’ve been taking our stuff every time you come home to visit. It’s expensive. We have to replace it.”

  Gillian drew in air through her teeth. “First, I’m now out of college and a grown woman, so I don’t think you can order me around.” His dramatic grunt only raised her ire until she yelled out, “I’m only trying to help!” That had been her second point, but the words were lost to the emotion.

  After a brief stare-down she wouldn’t win, she turned and left. She was at the bottom step to the stairs when his words stopped her. “You’ve changed, Gill. Lighten up.”

  Screw this. She pivoted on her toe and took the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 2

  For fuck’s sake. This place was ridiculous. Fucking piece of shit hellhole.

  Padraig rattled the pill container in his left pocket, reassuring himself it was still there. He stood in the locker room off to the side, gear bag in hand, as the other lads walked in and out of the shower. Confident and secure in their nudity, they laughed and joked with each other. Some shouted across the room. Lockers clanged open and shut. The acrid smell of a man’s deodorant or aftershave smothered the body odor but choked the air in its extremity.

  No one seemed to notice him standing there even though the facility wasn’t very large, as if he blended in with the framed prints of the Traverse City Blues RFC that flanked the walls, annual portraits in a line, starting from years ago to the most recent team.

  The locker room was like others he had used. When he was in school. Padraig swallowed the F-word that again wanted to breach his lips.

  A far reach from professional facilities. Wood benches ran the locker rows with a shower room off to one side. But in the familiarity, it was all wrong. It wasn’t Ireland and the Munster squad. It was a bunch of Yankees and a half-arse chance of furthering his rugby career. Feck it. This was stupid. Why had he agreed to this? How could this club be his savior?

  A young, cocky face appeared in front of him. Wiry and shorter, the lad was probably part of the backs. “Hey dude, are you lookin’ for someone?”

  Padraig barely glanced at him, then nodded. “Where’s Coach?”

  “Ah, you must be that new Irish guy that Scotch told us about. Said
you’d be startin’ next week. A bit early, ain’t ya?”

  Padraig ignored his question and asked one himself. Avoidance tactics, he was good at. “Who’s Scotch?”

  “Scotch is our nickname for Coach McKenzie. He’s from Scotland.”

  “You don’t call a Scotsman ‘Scotch,’ you daft cunt.”

  “We know that now.” The boy’s lip curled at Padraig before he sauntered off to a locker where he gave him one last dirty look, then slammed it shut and walked out of view.

  Stupid bloody Americans. Didn’t know their arse from their elbow. He hadn’t been in the States for a day, and he was ready to go back home to Ireland on the next flight out. This was the wrong decision, and he could kick himself for letting his agent convince him otherwise.

  He was about to bugger off and find his own way to his arranged accommodation when he saw a big man with a shaggy gray beard round the corner and head his way.

  “Padraig O’Neale?”

  The Scotsman’s large paw was outstretched before he reached him. Padraig dropped his bag and gripped the man’s hand. It was larger than his own. He had seen pictures of Coach, but none of them did any justice. A bear of a man still at his age, which Padraig guessed to be in his fifties, he must have been a force in the forward pack of his team.

  “Mitch told me you were here. Didn’t expect you today, but you’re more than welcome. Thought your agent said you wouldn’t be in until Monday.”

  “Change of plans.”

  Coach lifted his chin in a contemplating manner, but then nodded. “Come with me to the office, and we’ll sort you out.”

  He led Padraig to the back of the room. As he passed, some of the lads turned to stare, a few nodded. Padraig didn’t care. With any luck, he wouldn’t be at the Blues long enough to make friends. He was here to do his time, keep his body in shape and his head in the game until his agent could work his magic and get him to Argentina.