In Touch (Play On Book 1)

by Cd Brennan

  “It’s not complicated. You just have to embrace it.”

  “Embrace what?”

  “Life.”

  Gillian gathered the socket wrenches from the tool box and haphazardly laid them in the engine block, as if she knew where they were meant to be used. Heavy clanks of metal on metal kept Junette from going on about Gillian’s life, or lack thereof. She’d heard it before.

  “Maybe you’ll meet a nice fella this year. Are there any hotties playing for the Blues?”

  Gillian chose to avoid answering Junette outright. She wasn’t into jocks and their small minds. She was there to help, and that’s all. Although, the Irish fella with his dark hair and bright eyes… He’d probably turn out like the rest of the meatheads. Rude. Full of himself. More muscle than brain cells. Hell, he was already popping the pills. That was like a gigantic red X over the top of him. With a buzzer.

  But sexy as hell if you were into that type of guy. Coach wanted her to help him, and she would because he’d asked. And that was the only reason.

  “I’m still holding out for Lloyd Dobler.”

  Junette growled. “Gill, he’s a fictional character. He doesn’t exist.”

  “In my heart, he does.” With a dramatic sigh, she rested her hip against the car door. “He’s absolutely perfect. Sensitive, caring, responsive, intuitive, intelligent—”

  “Geek.”

  “Yes, but that’s a good thing. He doesn’t feel the need to prove himself like other men. That’s the point. He’s different. Do you not remember that scene in the movie when he is kickboxing?”

  “I try not to.”

  “Well, he’s totally cut. Great body. But you never know because he hides it under that big trench coat.”

  Junette shook her head slowly from side to side. “Oh, Gill, you are lost to me.”

  “Better to be a dreamer than dead in the water. You married the guy you dated in high school. And you’ve got a kid. You’re not even twenty-five.”

  Even though Gillian regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, Junette didn’t seem bothered at all. “That’s why I’m here on a Monday evening drinking light beer and watching you struggle over your fucking car. It’s actually fun and interesting compared to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and poopy diapers.”

  Junette had been Gillian’s best friend for as long as she could remember. For as opposite as they were and their very different paths in life, there was no one she felt more comfortable around. While Junette shifted in her chair and crossed her legs, Gillian took a moment to soak in the wonderful woman next to her. “You still look fabulous, Junipers. You know that, don’t you?

  “Aw, you’re full of lovelies this evening. Still look fabulous, even though…” She motioned for Gillian to continue.

  Gillian shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “That’s bullshit. You were going to say, even though I’ve had a baby.”

  “Maybe, but it’s still a compliment. Why do you hide your fab figure behind those blousy shirts?”

  “Um, because I’ve still got a baby belly, and although some people think it’s okay to flash their muffins, I do not. And you’re the same. Look at you and those baggy T-shirts and ugly shoes. And why do you wear glasses now? What happened to your contacts? What the hell? I’ve seen you naked. You have an awesome body.”

  “I like my style. It’s shabby chic with an emphasis on shabby.” Gillian laughed at her own joke, but Junette didn’t follow suit. “Nothing like the local Goodwill store to help with all this greatness.” She motioned down her body, and then Junette did laugh.

  “There’s more to life than how you look. I’ve got more important things to do than worry about clothes and shopping. It’s not like I was ever really into it before, so what’s the go now?”

  “All I know is if I could turn back time—”

  Gillian started humming a few bars of the tune by Cher.

  “No, please don’t start singing. What I’m trying to say is that I’d love to be all sexy and young and single again some days. Not that I don’t love my boys, but these are your days, Gillian. Have fun. Live a little. Shake a tail feather. All that stuff.”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  “I do.”

  Her dad’s work van pulled up to the curb, which saved Gillian from having to bolster her defenses. He poked his head out of the window. “Almost done, Gill? I’d like to get into my driveway at some point tonight.”

  “Yep, sorry, Dad. Will be done soon. If you leave your keys in your truck, I’ll park it after I move the beast out of the way.”

  “Hi, Mr. Sommersby,” Junette piped in.

  “Heya, Junipers,” Gillian’s dad said as he exited the van. He pulled an old battered lunch box and Thermos along with him. “How’s that little boy of yours?”

  “Awesome. He’s already started having tantrums.”

  “At fifteen months old?”

  Junette exaggerated a smile for Gillian’s dad. “Just lucky I guess.”

  He turned back toward Gillian. They’d been walking on eggshells around each other since the other night. “You staying here or your new place tonight?”

  “I might as well take the leap.”

  “Okay, hon, pop in before you take off.”

  “Will do.”

  “Nice to see you again, Junipers.”

  “You, too. Tell Mrs. Sommersby I said hi.”

  “I will. Goodnight, ladies.”

  Neither said anything until Gillian’s dad disappeared into the front door. Then Junette asked, “How are they taking it?”

  “Being on their own?”

  “Yeah, you having your own place now.”

  “Fine, I think. I couldn’t stay here much longer whether they wanted me to or not. Too many memories.”

  “I’ll pop over next week and see how you’ve decked it out. Hopefully you’ve given up on posters and bean bags for interior decoration. We are mature women now, you know.”

  Right, she’d do something about that this weekend. Gillian laughed, then danced her eyebrows comically at Junette. “You’ll have to wait and see. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

  “Oh God, please say you did.”

  “What do you think of lava lamps for ambience?”

  “Just say no, Gill. Just say no.”

  Chapter 6

  “So what do you think of our new therapy sessions?” Del asked as he turned into traffic.

  Padraig was in the front seat this time, thank feck, since Rory had stayed behind again to work on his kicking. He admired the young player his commitment and passion, but wasn’t about to go overboard for a club he might only be with for a couple months. He knew he’d get his groove back. Right team and right tournament, he was sure to be back full strength.

  “How is that supposed to help our game?” Padraig asked sardonically.

  “Don’t diss it altogether, bro. Music is a huge part of my culture. You know, I’m half Maori, and music and ceremony is important to my people.”

  Del’s Maori side showed. He stood just over six-foot, built like a house, and moved fast as a leopard on the pitch. He had a massive black tribal tattoo that sleeved his right arm from shoulder to below his elbow, and a dragon tail wrapped the bicep of the other, disappearing under the sleeve of his shirt.

  The All Blacks Padraig had played against had been covered with ink. Some of the Irish squad had a few less visible designs, most from their cultural heritage, like Padraig’s Celtic band circling his left forearm. He had always wanted another one, something bigger and bolder, but could never decide what he wanted on his body for the rest of his life that held enough significance. And the pain to get it done. Sure, didn’t he have enough of that in his life already? Perhaps one day.

  “Okay, so tell me, do you feel any better after listening to that at training?”

  “Nah mate, but maybe it takes time to get into our system or something.”

  Padraig looked out the window at the passing streets. “I doubt it.”
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  “Hey, you want to stop for a quick pint before we head home?”

  Padraig scoffed. “Hell, yeah.”

  “Mate, you need one after that tough session.”

  Tough workout? Not so much. Harder than he’d expected, though. And more organized, more professional that he had imagined. Except for the bloody music piped out the speakers. Coach had let it play throughout the training session again.

  Del pulled his old junker into the Sail Inn off the main road. The large sign at the front read “Karaoke Mon Thurs nights.”

  “Can I give you a little bit of advice?” Del asked over the hood as they exited the car.

  “As my captain?”

  “As another foreigner playing for this club.”

  They walked into the windowless building, scattered with only a few patrons since it was a Tuesday evening. There was an L-shaped bar directly to their left as they entered. Padraig approved. The place reminded him of some of the pubs back in Cork except for the large moose head behind the bar and mounted fish along the walls. The smell of stale beer and smoke permeated the air, but the place looked clean enough.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Padraig as they approached the bar.

  Del ignored him, ordering the beer an obvious priority. “What’ll ya have, bro?”

  “Guinness if they have it.”

  Del asked the bartender, a bit ’o skirt with a ponytail and a tight T-shirt over skinny jeans, who looked bemused at the request before she plastered on a smile again. Her cheerful façade was all fake as she whined out, “No, sorry.”

  “Not in luck today, Irish. How about a Blue Ribbon for the Blues?”

  Any numbing agent would do at this point.

  As she poured, Del continued where he’d left off. “It’s probably a good idea if you try to be mates with the other guys. Easier on you”—he set one pint in front of Padraig—“in the long run.”

  “I’m not worried about the long run.”

  Del glanced sideways at him briefly, but then nodded to the girl when she set the other pint in front of him. “How much, hon?”

  “It’s happy hour still, so five bucks altogether.”

  Del pulled out a tenner and set it on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  She smiled, leaning onto the bar so her breasts squeezed together, showing a long vertical crease in the V of her cleavage. “You guys aren’t from here, are you?”

  How original. And not a movement in his nether region. But Del was saddling up for a bit of a flirt, crossing his arms on the countertop, his foot up on the barstool rung. “Nope, how can you tell?”

  “Big guys like you.” She winked. “Where you from?”

  Padraig had enough and grabbed Del’s arm, tugging him away from the bar. “Not here,” he answered for them over his shoulder. The beer sloshed from his pint glass as he turned them abruptly to a high-top table on the far wall. When he looked back to make sure Del had followed, he noticed the same had happened to him. Del flicked the beer off his hand, then wiped it on his jeans. “Mate, that wasn’t cool. Plus, she was hot.”

  “And probably underage.”

  “Nope, already checked up on that. They have to be eighteen to serve alcohol in this state. So they’re all legal.”

  When Padraig sat at the table, Del remained standing. He crooked his head to the side, motioning in the other direction. “Let’s go outside.”

  Scraping his chair back, Padraig rose and followed Del out the double glass doors where a wooden sign over the entrance read Portside Patio.

  Del gave a wide-ass cheeky grin to an older waitress clearing empties from a table. Fuck, what was he like?

  As he sat, he finished half his beer in one long drink. “It’d be better if you were on good terms with the other lads, mate.”

  “It’s not my job here to get along with the other lads.”

  “Well, see, that’s the thing. You, me, and Rory are the only paid players on the squad. And I don’t think Rory gets paid much, but he’s here for the experience.”

  That was news. There wasn’t a player for any of the Irish provincial clubs that didn’t get something. “So they are all volunteers?”

  “Yep, all of them hold regular jobs, mate.” Austin’s comment in the locker room made sense to Padraig now. He couldn’t imagine not being able to play because of work or family commitments. Playing rugby was his job. He had no other and hadn’t for years. Not that it wasn’t hard work. It was, and it came with a whole heap of shite he reckoned other jobs didn’t have. But he loved what he did, so he was luckier than most.

  Del continued, “Think of it this way. Not one American rugby player in US Union is paid. Not one. So all those lads that compete in the World Cup are up against professional year-round players. For the most part. Some of the Americans play for overseas clubs, but most don’t. That has to say something for their dedication.”

  He had a point.

  “So all we have to do,” Del said, waving a hand between himself and Padraig, “is worry about training and playing rugby. All the rest of the boys have full-time jobs they have to maneuver around. Some have family and kids. But they make the sacrifice because they love the game.”

  “So I should feel bad for them? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not at all, mate. That’s the last thing they’d want. But they can help you do your job better. All I’m saying is think on it.”

  “I’m not sure I need their help.”

  “Oh, you will, cuz. That’s what a team is.” Del chugged the rest of his beer and thunked the glass on the table. “Goin’ to the loo.” He scooted out of his chair. “Be right back.”

  Finally a minute to himself. He wrestled the pills from his pocket onto his lap and shook one into his palm. He glanced around to see if anyone noticed, but the few punters on the patio were busy smoking or talking away to each other.

  Discretion. Always important, but he felt like a junkie in Cork City centre. Feckin’ hated that he felt this way.

  As he washed down the pill with a drink of beer, he noticed at the doors a young woman with a kerchief tied around her head and a stack of glasses up her arm staring straight at him. He wanted to tell her to feck off, but he had manners. Or at least he used to. Everything these days made him angry. But who could blame him?

  His mum would be mortified if she knew how Padraig had treated his old teammates, coach even, and at times his agent. That’s not how you were raised, Padraig O’Neale, she’d say, waving her wooden spoon at him. That spoon was both threat and punishment, having been whacked on the back of his calves more than a few times in his youth.

  But for the most part Padraig had been on the straight and narrow. A bit of bushin’ when he was younger, drinking on the streets with the boys, but until recently everyone considered him lighthearted and ready for a laugh. That was the Padraig of the past. Now? That man was too far gone to be able to conjure up again.

  He rolled his shoulders, then cracked his neck to each side. Where the hell was Del? The girl was still staring at their table. She didn’t move an inch until Del approached the doors, and then shifted away to allow him through. She watched him saunter toward Padraig in his easy lope. Strangely, she was the first woman Del didn’t notice.

  Del set two new pints on the table, pushing one toward the other pint of Padraig’s, only half empty.

  “Thanks, I could have gotten this round.”

  “No worries, mate, it’s all good.”

  “So, why are you with the Blues?” Padraig asked.

  “Why not?”

  Padraig smirked. “I can think of a hundred reasons.” Avoiding Del’s stare, he finished the last of his first drink, the foam settling and dripping down the side.

  “It’s not that bad if you give it a go.”

  Padraig swirled the dregs around the bottom of the glass. “I watched you on the pitch. You’re more than good. Seems to me you could be playing a bigger club in New Zealand, even the All Blacks team.”r />
  “Nah, mate, I tried out for the Maori All Blacks, you know the team only the indigenous fellas can play for, and got in, but I woulda been sittin’ the bench most of the time.”

  “So big fish in a small pond kind of thing, eh?” Padraig asked.

  Del turned back to Padraig. “Something like that. And I wanted to travel, get away from home for a bit.”

  “Why not Europe or South America? That’s where I wanted to go. Or Biarritz or Lyon. Even Parma in Italy for you.”

  “So why aren’t ya then?”

  Lifting his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, he answered, “Didn’t get in.”

  As if he understood there wouldn’t be any further discussion, Del picked up where he left off. “America’s a good place to be right now in rugby. Most guys don’t get that, so I’m ahead of the rest of you. They are doing some innovative stuff here, mate. They weren’t rugby powerhouses in the past, but they’re getting there and will be a force to be reckoned with one day. And I want to be a part of that. So if that is a big fish in a little pond, I’d rather that than a small kakapo in a big forest. At least I get to be a part of making plays, leading the boys, offering ideas and solutions. Over there, mate, I’d be some stuffed dummy the boys used for scrum practice.”

  Padraig knew what he was talking about. Sure, everyone had to work on the way to the top. Padraig had tried out for the Irish National team three times before he got a spot, so there was no guarantee. Ever. And when you got older, you lost your jersey to the younger kids and your name no longer appeared on the team sheet—the starting players for the next match.

  “What’s your real name? I mean, how did you get the nickname Del?”

  “Now, I’m gonna tell you, Irish, because I think we are on the same level. No one else knows, so if I hear you told anyone my real name, your ass will be mine on that pitch. You got it?”

  He seemed serious enough, so Padraig acquiesced. “No problem. My lips are sealed.”

  “My first name is Rydell after my mum’s dad. The rest of my name is tribal, but mum is a white girl so she wanted Rydell. I came with my own nickname, and the boys were good with that. I mean, who’s going to mess with me? I got their respect. It’s important you let them call you by your nickname, Irish. It’s all a part of the”—he waved his hand in the air like an eggbeater—“feng shui of a team.”