In Touch (Play On #1)

by Cd Brennan

  “Take a seat,” Coach said, directing Padraig to a pair of chairs set in front of a large desk. Coach lowered his large frame into the swivel chair on the other side and swung around to face Padraig, who had flopped into the one on the right, dropping his duffel bag into the other. The pill bottle pinched when he sat, so he had to squirm to adjust it out of the way.

  Coach folded his hands in front of him. “How was your flight?”

  “Just in now, came straight from the airport.” Padraig worked his way around a straight answer to keep his distance. Next thing, Coach would be asking about his personal life, and that Padraig wouldn’t have. None of it.

  “Your agent sent through all your paperwork, so you’re good to start on Monday. Lucky you have a US passport or it would have been a heap more trouble to get you to start for this season.”

  Padraig grunted. “Yeah, lucky me.”

  Other than a subtle pinch of his eyebrows, Coach’s professionalism remained staunch, even at Padraig’s flippant answer. His eyes remained on Padraig as he ran his hand down his beard, pulling from his chin to the ends. Padraig couldn’t hold the eye contact and looked over Coach’s head out the window. Tall at six-foot-four, he could do that. “One of the best second rows to play for Ireland,” The Irish Times newspaper had quoted. In the same article, they had also crucified him for offending the sport of rugby.

  “Practices are on Tuesday and Thursdays. Conditioning training on Mondays, and we expect you to train at the gym on the off days at the minimum. The other foreign players are going once a day.” Coach opened a drawer and pulled out a large, sealed manila folder. He undid the clasp and turned it upside down. A set of keys fell onto his desk. He picked them up and handed them to Padraig. “You’re sharing with a couple of other lads for the moment. If you stay on past this season, it’ll be up to you to find a place to live.”

  Not likely, but Padraig only nodded, his gaze out the window, half listening to the drone of Coach’s voice.

  “…most of the lads are happy to move on from sharing, anyway. As for transportation—you can get a lift with the guys you’ll be staying with. Del has a car and Rory does, too. I’m sure you’ll…”

  The view from the window was a small stretch of the rugby grounds, some of the stands visible across the pitch. Tiny in comparison to the new Aviva Stadium in Dublin where fifty thousand fans had cheered him during the international rugby matches. Didn’t even hold up to his Munster club stadium that was four times the size of the Blues’ sports complex. If he hadn’t been so mad, his heart would ache from the disaster his life had turned into.

  “You still on the oxycodone?”

  At mention of the drug, Padraig snapped his attention back to Coach who fiddled with a pile of paperwork on the cheap desk, the decorative vinyl trim peeling away from the edge. “Only when I need it,” he lied.

  “How often is that?”

  Padraig shrugged. “Not very. Maybe after a big game, or if I get some big hits.”

  Coach unwrapped a piece of gum, then offered one to Padraig who shook his head. “Never chewed gum until I moved to the States, and now I can’t seem to quit.” He raised his gaze to lock with Padraig’s again.

  Was he hinting at something? “Yeah, anytime you watch any of the American sports, they’re all chewing and spitting. I don’t get it.”

  “Especially baseball.” Coach chuckled. “It helps them to stay focused. All part of working both sides of the brain, they say.” He changed tack abruptly, back to the subject Padraig had wanted to avoid. “You’re lucky they don’t test at Division 1 in America, but that might change soon.”

  That’s why I’m here.

  “Your agent said your narcotic usage was more a misunderstanding with your prescribing physician, but IRB sanctioned hard against you to show zero tolerance going forward. Something to do with”—Coach used his finger to find the note on his paper—“a Keep Rugby Clean campaign.”

  “Something like that.” Most of it was true, but his agent had instructed him to keep the details to a minimum, to reveal as little information about the situation as possible.

  “You know an Eagles player got pulled for oxycodone during the 2011 World Cup.”

  “Heard about that.”

  Coach waited, a blank stare at Padraig, as if looking for further explanation, for Padraig to connect the dots.

  Padraig picked up a small framed photo sitting at an angle on the desk. “Is this your family?”

  “Aye, my wife and two daughters.” Still an unreadable, drawn face.

  “Nice picture.” Good-looking girls, but he was smart enough not to vocalize that opinion. And women were the last thing on his mind at the moment.

  Coach reached across the desk and plucked the picture from Padraig’s hand. “We’ve got some other options for pain regulation at this club you can take a look at. Got some newfangled therapist starting next week, in fact.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Padraig said.

  Shoving the chair back, Coach rose and started for the door. “Well, let me know how it goes. Keep open communication with me at all times. You got it?”

  Padraig understood the signal and gathered his bag and jacket. “Will do.”

  “Now, let’s see if we can catch Del before he leaves. Then the club won’t need to pay for a taxi to your place.”

  Coach let Padraig pass before he closed the office door behind him. The locker room had quieted, only muffled voices coming from the far side of the room. Coach walked ahead of him and shouted down the last row of lockers, “You seen Del anywhere?”

  One of the men answered, “Think he already headed to the bar, Coach. It’s Thursday, after all.”

  “That it is.” Coach hitched up his pants and turned back to Padraig. “A New Zealander, who has graced us with his presence, is captain of the Blues this year. What you can do is make your way back to the office and ask the receptionist to call you a cab.

  “Take it easy over the weekend and get over your jet lag so you’re ready bright and early Monday.” He turned to leave, but then swiveled back on his foot. “Don’t let Del talk you into the pub yet. Alcohol is the worst thing you can do for jet lag.”

  Padraig was already in motion to get out of there, his hand on the door handle, his shoulder to the glass, when Coach spoke again. “Oh, and O’Neale? Might be a good idea to make friends on the squad, not enemies. I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but it’s all a part of the performance of the team.”

  “No worries, Coach, just a bit grumpy from traveling.”

  The older man ran his hand over his beard again, then gave a slight nod. “I’m sure it is.”

  Coach had barely made it a few feet before another player had stopped him to talk. It was a good time to make his exit. Padraig retraced his steps back through the trophy room to the reception area that sat adjacent to the entrance. That was a great feckin’ start. He must have pissed off the young fella, Mitch, and he had told Coach.

  A blonde was on the phone when he approached, so he set his bag down quietly and waited. She caught his eye and stuck up a finger to gesture she’d be a minute. A fine, young wan but Padraig didn’t even bother to acknowledge her.

  More team photos and awards mounted the walls, club banners and an advertisement for the Rugby World Cup. He clenched his jaw at the sight. He should have been playing that tournament. Playing for the Irish team.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?”

  Padraig turned away from the Cup poster. “I just need a taxi, if you could call one for me.”

  “Of course, under what name?”

  “O’Neale.”

  The girl was younger than Padraig and a good bit of skirt, like sex on a stick. Big, violet eyes and platinum blond hair in ringlets, not natural but still a hard-on for most lads. But it seemed nothing could turn him on these days. Even when she stepped up to him in her knee-high fuck-me boots, her perky chest straining at a button down shirt, his dick didn’t stir an inch. Nothing.

&nb
sp; “Oh yes, heard you were coming. Love your accent. Couldn’t wait to see you just so I could hear you talk.”

  What a flirt.

  “How do you pronounce your first name? Pad…rake?”

  She crucified his name as he thought she would. “Depends on where you are from in Ireland. North of Galway, it’s paw-rig, but in the south, it’s pawd-rik.” He sounded it out for her. “Like the golfer, Padraig Harrington?”

  “Oh, gosh, I’m not much of a golf fan. What part of Ireland are you from again?”

  The Americans always loved the accent, and his home region had one of the strongest. “Cork.”

  “Never been to Ireland but have always wanted to go. Heard it’s beautiful and the people so friendly.”

  “Mostly.”

  She smiled at him and either ignored his grunts or didn’t notice his bad manners. “Why don’t you take a seat while I call?” She picked up the phone and dialed, her long, painted nails clicking on the keys. Padraig turned away but ignored her request for him to sit. She asked for a taxi from the rugby club, then louder to him, “Pad-rake, what is the address you are going to?”

  She had covered the bottom of the phone in a polite manner, as she had to raise her voice to Padraig who had moved across the room.

  He didn’t know the address and should have dug it out of his backpack. “Sorry, have it right here…” He wrenched out a bunch of folders. He had organized everything before he came, but now flustered, couldn’t remember which folder the address was in, nor could he find it as he scanned quickly through the papers.

  “I thought it was—”

  “Aren’t you living with Del?”

  He nodded as he struggled to jam the papers back into his pack.

  “Don’t worry. I know his address by heart.” She gave him a wink. “That boy partakes in a few drinks after the matches and is always catching a taxi home.”

  She recited an address into the phone, thanked them, and hung up.

  She walked over to him. “Is that all the luggage you got?”

  “Yup, that’s it.”

  “For the entire season?”

  “Don’t need much.”

  She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, rows of bracelets rattling when she raised her hands with the gesture. “Okay then, I suppose men don’t pack as much as women do. If I was living abroad for almost a year, I’d have half my wardrobe in five suitcases.” She eyed him from top to toe. “Probably don’t need my help getting your bags to the curb…”

  “I’ll be grand.” Padraig motioned out to the street. “Will he be picking me up in the front, like?”

  She pointed. “Yep, right out there.”

  Padraig had grabbed up his bags and had turned to leave when a soft hand clasped his arm. “We’ve sure been looking forward to all you new guys playing for us this year. First time we’ve had foreign players on our pitch.” Tugging at him, she was able to draw his gaze to hers. “We have high hopes. I’m sure you’ll do this club proud.”

  His jaw tightened, and he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t rightly tell her he wasn’t planning on sticking around. Or this small club was a joke compared to the major provincial club he’d played for in Ireland. Nothing better than the roar of “Fields of Athenry” or the chant of “Mun-ster, Mun-ster, Mun-ster” as the crowd rallied the team when they were down, or when they were pushing ahead with a great run toward the goal, yards dropping behind them. Blood lust and a drive to get over the line.

  The adrenaline rush. The noise—it made him stronger, and he didn’t feel the pain. How was he going to play here?

  He gave her a pinched smile. “I hope so. Heard the other boys are already here. Sorry I missed last week’s training.” Because his agent had still tried to the last minute to get a contract with a European club, but with no luck. Word had spread fast, the news reaching even the smallest clubs on the continent.

  “I’m sure you’ll fit right in and have no troubles.”

  All Padraig wanted to do was get away from her prying eyes. “Sure, I’ll be going then.”

  “I’ll get the door for you.”

  Padraig nodded. “Cheers.”

  He passed, and when he turned back, the receptionist fluttered her fingers at him. “See you Monday.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, a shape loomed up the sidewalk, drawing nearer. “Unfortunately,” Padraig whispered under his breath.

  He swung around, his large duffel bag shoving the person off the pavement and into the grass. She sidestepped quickly. “Whoa, there.”

  “Pardon me.”

  Jean shorts on long legs. That’s what he saw first. Then a baggy black T-shirt and a long necklace with some hand pendant at the end. He took a second look. She had big, curly hair and old-style tortoise-rimmed glasses on her face. Fuzzy ringlets escaped around her freckled face. Her legs were mighty fine, but unglamorously ended in high-top black Converse.

  She smiled. “No problem.”

  And with that smile, his stomach clenched, tightening into a lead ball at the center of his abdomen. Her grin was pure magic. Not a buzz from a woman in almost a year, and she was the one to get him going. What the fuck? It must be the jet lag.

  She was still standing in the grass so he shifted his bag to the other hand. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  She moved back onto the pavement. “Like I said, it’s no worries.”

  They both stood there, looking at each other. She finally broke the awkward silence with “Well, see you around.”

  He drew his gaze along the length of her again.

  She noticed his blatant appraisal, rolled her eyes, and walked away.

  Nice ass, but not his type. But thank feck his dick still worked.

  Chapter 3

  The smell hit her first. A combination of strong aftershave, Lynx or some crap like that, and overused Bengay. Why anyone still used the stuff, Gillian couldn’t understand. It didn’t really help, and there was nothing better than good ol’ natural heat to loosen muscles. She made a mental note to remember her rice bags next time.

  Enlightenment for the boys was the first step. Then she’d introduce her other therapies. That was going to be her strategy to get the job. Not that she needed to get the job. She was volunteering. Coach said the meeting was only a formality. Dress casual. Nae bother, he had said. But perhaps casual didn’t mean the T-shirt and shorts she wore. Shoot, she should have made more of an effort.

  Too late now. Time only to forge ahead.

  She was confident all of two minutes before one of the boys on the team passed in front of her in his briefs. She gave him a pinched smile and turned the other direction. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, immersing herself in testosterone and arrogance.

  A few lingering players passed between the lockers, most of them dressed, thank God. All she had to do was walk down the main aisle between the locker rows to get to his office, the Barbie receptionist, Jenn with two Ns, had told her. That girl was never going to leave. She’d been around sniffing at the players when Andrew had played for the Blues. She probably forgot to mention the half-naked men wandering around just to get her giggles.

  Well, it wasn’t going to bother her. Chin up and a straight shot down the aisle. Yep, that’s where she had to go. As many times as she had watched the Blues when she was younger, she’d never made it into the locker room. That was for Andrew, early on declared a sister-free zone. And there were few places, he had reminded her, where she didn’t try to follow.

  Gillian launched herself forward, hoping she appeared confident in where she was going. She zeroed in on a poster advertising Advanced Foot & Ankle Center on the far wall. Male shapes loomed out of the corners of her eyes, but she kept going. At the end and to the right would be Coach McKenzie’s office.

  Just as she was about to reach the wall, a figure jumped out in front of her. Her momentum brought her smash into his chest.

  “Sorry, excuse me,” she said, dancing around the body.

  “It was my
pleasure.” His purr was a cross between satisfied kitty and porn star. What a dick. Buzzed hair, over six foot, puffed out chest. Acne all over his face. Steroids probably. Stubble on his pectorals showed that he shaved. Vain, obviously. Exactly the kind of man she had avoided in the past, but who was going to be a big part of her future. At least, for now.

  She smiled, trying for sincerity, but the way her cheeks ached, knew the grin must have come across more like the Joker from Batman. “Looking for Coach. Is he in his office?”

  He ignored her and stuck out his hand. “Dick.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name’s Dick, and yours is?”

  Of course it was. Absolutely perfect. When she was about to answer, a friendly face came out of the door adjacent to the last row of lockers. Shane yelled out, “Gillian, hey there!”

  She abruptly walked away from Dick, who yelled at her back, “Nice to meet you, too.” Grumbling followed, most likely containing the words bitch or cow. She’d heard it before. Didn’t care.

  Ignoring the Dick-man, she met Shane in a big hug. “You’re still here.”

  The short, thick hooker disengaged from her arms and stepped back. “And you’re all grown up.”

  She shrugged. “Well, it has been over five years.”

  Shane shifted his gym bag from one shoulder to the next. “That long? The last time I saw you was—” He broke-off mid-sentence, like everyone did when they talked about Andrew. He cleared his throat and tried again. “A while ago, you’re right.”

  She wanted to save him from his discomfort. “Any of the other old boys around?”

  “Nah, most of them have moved on. I was the oldest one here until the Blues brought in some foreign players this year.”

  That was interesting. “Really?”

  “Yep, a New Zealander. He’s the oldest and our new captain. And an Irish fella started today. They must be on the downward slope”—he whistled and slid his hand down an imaginary hill—“if they are playing for the Blues. Not sure, but not about to ask them.”