In Touch (Play On Book 1)

by Cd Brennan

  Junette looked over her shoulder when Gillian stepped through. “Charlie. We don’t discriminate in this house. He loves them.” She poured a cup of coffee from the percolator and set it on the far corner of the counter for her. “Help yourself to milk and sugar.”

  Charlie was in his highchair, half of his breakfast of toast and jam around his mouth. The other half he was smearing around his tray, making red circle designs around his little squares of toast.

  Charlie squealed in delight when Gillian placed the wrapped present on his tray. There was only a small rubber star that glowed when he pressed it, but he’d be thrilled with the unwrapping more than anything. “This is for you, cutie-pie.”

  Junette raised her eyebrows at Gillian, asking with the same simple gesture what Gillian asked herself every day. What’s going on? She didn’t press but continued to load bottles into a sterilizer tray for the microwave. Food and dishes were stacked on the counter and in the sink. Junipers looked more haggard than usual, her natural glossy blond hair tied in a ratty bun, her nightgown wrinkled, her one blue slipper missing the heel. When Gillian pointed at the ragged footwear with her mug, Junette stated, “The dog.”

  Laundry sat in a basket in front of the dryer, some clothes still hanging out the front like a multi-colored tongue, as if someone stopped in the middle of extracting the clean clothes and just left them.

  And here she thought her life was hard. So caught up in her own self-misery, she hadn’t even volunteered to help Matt and Junette. They could probably use a night out for the both of them. She was the best friend from Hell.

  “Can I babysit for you guys tomorrow night?” The microwave dinged. “You know, so you and Matt can go grab something to eat together, or see a movie, or something.”

  Junette had turned so she stood in the middle of the kitchen, her hands on her hips. “Are you serious?” But then Junette raised her arms in the air. “Yes! Do you hear that, Matt?” she yelled loudly to the other room. “We’re going on a date tomorrow night. Yee-hah and fuck yeah and all that shit.”

  No response from Matt but Junette walked over and gave Gillian a hug. “Thank you.”

  “I should have offered before.”

  “That’s okay, you’re offering now.”

  “Hey, I want you to see something.” Gillian grabbed Juniper’s hand and led her through the living room to the door.

  As they passed behind the couch, Junette directed at Matt, “Watch Charlie.” Matt only grunted and turned up the volume.

  They hadn’t even closed the door when Junette gushed, “You’ve got her running!”

  “Yep.”

  Junette continued down the steps. “Oh Gill, she looks fantastic.”

  “You want to go for a ride?”

  Junette gave her a look like, are you kidding me? “Hell, yes.”

  “Do you want to get showered or changed or anything? I’ll wait out here. I don’t think Matt is in a very good mood.”

  Junette already had her hand on the door. “He’s never in a good mood lately. And I’m going like this. No one’s going to see me. He can watch Charlie for a few minutes. He’s perfectly capable.”

  Gillian hopped in the driver’s side. “I’ve already taken her for a spin this morning to make sure she won’t die on us.” She set the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. “What do you think about us stopping on the way back to pick up some champagne and orange juice?”

  Junette smiled at her, and years fell away from her tired face. “To celebrate? Of course! You sure on the bubbly?”

  “I’ll just have a little. I’m driving and it’s the thought that counts.” Gillian grabbed Juniper’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Plus, I have some news to catch you up on.”

  “Oh, yeah? Give me every little detail.”

  “I will, but it has to wait for the mimosas.” Gillian stalled to increase the suspense. “I met a guy. No, not a guy. I’ve fallen for a jock. Everything about him. His anger. His smile. His kisses.”

  Chapter 20

  There were pages of physicians listed in the Traverse City phone book. And they all seemed to be divided into the type of medicine they practiced. All he needed was a GP, a General Practitioner who wouldn’t ask too many questions and would give him a prescription for the OxyContin, maybe a larger dosage and preferably with multiple refills.

  While he perused the possibilities from family medicine to gynecology services, Del lumbered into the kitchen where he grunted a morning greeting and headed straight to the coffee machine.

  Del scraped out a chair, set his mug on the table, and sat with an umph. Padraig shook his head as Del scooped two large teaspoons of white sugar into his coffee and stirred.

  While Del leafed through the haphazardly stacked, day-old Sunday paper, he said, “Didn’t see much of you yesterday. What were you up to?”

  “Didn’t feel the greatest after Saturday, like, so spent the day in bed.” After getting the cab back from the gas station, Padraig had slipped into the house quietly and remained shriveled and unsure in his room the rest of the day. Even though his hangover had finally lulled and hunger pains had taken over, he hadn’t wanted to deal with Rory or the captain. The questions, the jabs about Gillian.

  He went back to studying the phone book.

  “In yours or Gillian’s?” Del perused the sports section, a smirk on his face.

  Padraig placed a finger at his place. “I was home by midday.”

  “Oh, she kicked you out, eh?”

  “She had things to do.”

  Finally, Del lifted his face to Padraig’s. “I’m glad to see you guys together, mate.”

  “I don’t know if you’d call us together…” Especially after yesterday morning. Whether she even talked to him again was uncertain.

  “She’s a good one, Gillian,” Del continued as he picked up his mug and dropped it into the sink. “All the team is half in love with her, so you be cool to her, eh?”

  Anger pulled at Padraig’s gut, but he held it in and turned his attention to the phone book once again, but without focus. The words only abstract scratches and lines in front of him. He had never meant to hurt her. Del might be his captain, but who was he to give advice on his personal life? Feck, he had never wanted to get involved in any way. But time stretched on without any contract. At the best, vague answers from his agent by email. Still in negotiations. Hang in there. And here he was feckin’ knee deep in club shite. He had gone from keeping a distance to engaging with the Yankees, their opinions and character becoming important to him.

  “What ya looking for, mate?” At first Padraig thought he was talking about Gillian again. Or about the team, or about life in general. Del now leaned in the door frame, his weight resting on his right arm, the muscles bulging. Under Del’s laid-back exterior bubbled a passionate man. One who Padraig had no intention of pissing off. That had become clear after the first week in the States. As supportive and friendly as the Kiwi was, there was something simmering beneath the surface. Not anger like Padraig, but grief. That’s what it was. Sadness cloaked by his jokes and good nature. Until that moment, he hadn’t been able to pin it. The Kiwi was obviously here dealing with his own demons.

  In a better way than Padraig. Obviously.

  “I need to see a doctor. You don’t happen to have one here that you’d recommend?” Padraig tried to keep his voice as casual and nonchalant as possible.

  Del squinted at him, then turned away to knock at the door jamb a couple times as if in thought. “Nope, haven’t had a reason to go. Gillian takes care of us pretty good, mate. What do you need to see one for?” He pinned him with his eyes.

  As Padraig considered, Rory came around the corner from the stairs, ducked under Del’s arm, and entered the kitchen, energetic and happy as always. As grating as it could be at times, especially when Padraig wanted to revel in his own angst, he had come to respect the young man with his hopes and determination. He had been just the same ten years ago. Now, his age hovered above
him, a constant reminder of the limited time he had to get to the World Cup, his ultimate goal, the dream that never died. That was the thing about sports, the career life was short compared to other paths. He’d known many players who had been confused and uncertain about their future after they finished playing with their Irish club. Everything they had known for so long came to an abrupt end. And many with families to support. There weren’t many options for ex-rugby players other than coaching. Like so many, he hadn’t bothered going to university, a decision he regretted to this day. Even to get some business qualification under his belt. Anything. All the more reason he had to get out of here and get some money in from an Argentinean club. Beyond his pride and desire, he needed to look at his future.

  “What you lads goin’ on about?” Rory asked.

  “Padraig here needs to see a doctor.”

  “Oh yeah, what for?”

  “My back,” Padraig replied, not meeting Rory’s gaze.

  “Gillian can help you with that.” Padraig heard the implication, the jesting behind Rory’s voice.

  “It’s part of my contract with my agent to be checked by a physician,” he lied, and one glance at Del, knew the captain didn’t believe him.

  Rory had started making one of his vegetable and yogurt smoothies, adding in spinach this morning and a raw egg. “I went to the Med Center on 31 to get antibiotics when I had a chest infection. Must have gotten a bug on the plane over. Hadn’t been in the country for a few days before I was in bed for a week.” Now, he spooned in peanut butter. Padraig’s stomach rebelled at the sight. But the Med Center sounded promising.

  “You remember the name so I can look up the number?”

  “Aye, I remember it because it was so daft.” Over the burring of the blender, he raised his voice. “The Walk-In Clinic. Can you imagine? How clever, whoever thought of that one.”

  “Did you need an appointment?”

  Rory raised an eyebrow at him as if he was the daft one. “No. I think that’s why they call it The Walk-In Clinic.”

  Padraig didn’t appreciate the sarcasm but laughed to keep Rory talking. “Is it walking distance from here?”

  Rory shook his head. “Nope, that’s the problem. It’s a bit out of town, maybe half an hour in traffic.”

  Well, feck. How the hell was he going to get there? Taxi again, but that would be expensive and take the whole day. Better than the cost of the emergency room, though.

  Del interrupted his thoughts. “I can take ya, mate, if you really need to go.” He joked, “I’ll just put it on your drink tab.”

  As good as it was for him to offer, Padraig didn’t want him to, as the drive there and back left plenty of time for questions that he didn’t want to answer. Del must have sensed his hesitation. “Or you can take my beast if ya want.” He directed his next question at Rory. “I can get a ride with you to the gym, eh?”

  “Nae bother, Del, I’m gonna leave in about an hour.”

  Del questioned Padraig. “Have you driven on the right side of the road yet?”

  Padraig hadn’t. Another aspect that added to his lack of freedom. No wheels and no mobility, which did more than irk him. “No, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Del and Rory exchanged glances before Del fished into his pockets and pulled out his keys, then dropped them to the table. “Now, don’t go crashin’ her. She’s a beauty.” They all laughed. No one would be impressed by the brown junker with rust and a dented back bumper. Padraig assumed Del would be more financially secure having played club rugby in New Zealand, but it wasn’t his business and he’d never asked. Even Rory had a newer Ford Focus hatchback.

  He fingered the keys and nodded at him. “Thanks, Del, I’ll treat her like the fine lady she is.”

  That rewarded him with a smile from the Kiwi, who must have been content with his answer and turned to leave. Del paused and over his shoulder added, “Bro, if you need help with anything, you know you can come to me, eh? Not as your captain, but as your mate.”

  The sincerity in his voice yanked at Padraig, almost as if Del had a rope tethered between the two of them and had applied a slight pressure like a leash. His deception to this man was all the more apparent to Padraig, and he wondered if Del knew the same. Shame settled on his shoulders with a dusting, but he shook it off.

  Having jotted down the address for the clinic, Padraig said to Rory who was washing his dishes at the sink, “I’ll see you guys later at the gym.”

  “Aye, we’ll be there. At the free weights, me helping the ol’ man try to lift a hundred kilos again.”

  Padraig smiled back at him and grabbed his bag from the floor. Rory was six years younger than Del, but what the captain lacked in youth, he made up in a serious head on his shoulders. He was wise in the ways of rugby and team play.

  Padraig dreaded the drive as he slid behind the wheel. When he started the ignition, a loud blast of classic rock filled the car, which only jarred his nerves more. He punched the radio off. Having ridden shotgun, that much he knew. Awkward having all the controls on the opposite side. Luckily, it was an automatic, unlike most of the manual cars in Ireland. He adjusted the seat and played with the indicator, which turned on the windshield wipers, furiously whipping back and forth. So…indicator on the other side.

  Padraig backed into the street and drove forward, veering into the right side of the road when a car approached him from the opposite direction. An older gentleman in a long sedan stared at him as he passed. If he hadn’t been so nervous, he would have offered the auld fella the two-finger Irish flip-off that had relieved Padraig’s aggression in the past without offending anyone. The Yanks hadn’t a clue what the motion meant, but it was the same as lifting a middle finger at them. A simple fuck-you, disguised but effective.

  Their road ended at a T-junction where no cars passed. After taking a right onto the road, Padraig’s confidence grew, only to drop to the pit of his stomach at the next intersection. When he came to the crossroads, traffic whizzed by in both directions. To take a left, he had to cross the approaching traffic. Impatiently, he zipped his head back and forth to look for an opening. With none happening, and it was apparent there wouldn’t be, Padraig gritted his teeth, prayed to Saint Anthony, and accelerated into the stream of vehicles. One car braked with a fierce squeal of tires. Another honked loudly, but Padraig at least made it to the turn lane.

  He turned on his right indicator to merge, but got his windshield wipers again, lashing back and forth as before. “Fuck!” Wipers still beating a path across the window, Padraig accelerated and cut off a car as he merged with traffic.

  He cursed the US roads, thumping his hand on the steering wheel. Why didn’t they have roundabouts? So much more efficient than a light every bloody mile.

  By the time he turned into the drive of the clinic, he was completely frazzled. Taking a couple of deep breaths when he parked the car, he tried to calm the agitation. All this bullshit out of his comfort zone wasn’t worth it! Vowing to call his agent as soon as he was done at the doctor’s, Padraig slammed the door and headed in.

  Clean and bright. New, unlike his local GP he had seen since he was a child. An old red brick terrace house turned doctor’s surgery with a worn brown carpet, an ancient chair, and couch, both with deep seat indentations and losing their stuffing. He had been scolded when he was younger for picking at the fluff.

  Straight ahead was a receptionist window with a pin board next to it with brochures advertising flu shots and a new drug for diabetes. A glance at an addiction flyer with a hotline made him pause, but then a middle-aged woman at the desk spoke up. “Hi. Can I help you?”

  Padraig had to lower his head to see her since he stood taller than the top of the cutout sliding glass. “I need to see a doctor.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  He pulled his wallet from a back pocket. “I thought you didn’t need one. Walk-in clinic, like.”

  She smiled. “You don’t, but you’re seen faster if you do.” />
  The loud waiting room attested for that. When Padraig had entered, he had briefly noticed about a dozen men, women, and children waiting.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “To Michigan?”

  “To this medical center.”

  “Oh right, no, I’m just visiting from Ireland.” He made sure to stretch out the r, almost like a pirate, to give her the full punch of the accent.

  Her smile grew wider. “I thought that’s what I heard. But I didn’t want to say and get it wrong. I love Ireland.”

  And yet again. “Have you been?”

  “Not yet, but my husband and I are saving our pennies to go next year. We both have relatives we want to visit.” What American didn’t?

  “Be sure to see Cork. That’s where I’m from.”

  “We’ll make sure we do.” A flirt teased her eyes that came out more like a squint as if she had forgotten how after all the years, her mouth a tight pinch of a smile. “Especially if they make the Irish men all big and handsome like you in Cork.”

  If it got him in to see the doctor faster, he’d go with it. “Yer lovely to say. Thanks for that. About seeing someone…”

  “Oh right, sorry, I was all distracted by your accent and charm.” She handed him a clipboard with a sheet of paper and pen. “Fill this out and return it to me.” Leaning in closer she whispered, “I’ll see if I can put you ahead of a few.” Then winked at him.

  To be sure. Maybe he had it all wrong. Obviously the Yanks loved the Irish, and he could work it for all its worth. What was that saying… There are only two kinds of people in the world, the Irish and those who wish they were. Flattery could get a person everywhere.

  After he had completed the form and returned it, adding another smile for the woman, he sat and waited, his forearms resting on his thighs. A telly in the corner was set to a morning show, the hosts sitting in a semicircle in front of the camera. He’d watched this particular one once and that was enough. Talk about narcissistic. All they wanted to do was talk about how the current events affected them, how funny they were, what was happening in their lives. That wasn’t news. Without RTÉ, he had resorted to watching the BBC or CNN.