by Cd Brennan
Breathless, his hair still dripping, he yanked open the door.
Gillian stood there in a strapless red and white polka dot dress tied at the waist with a red sash, a bottle of wine in her hand, the green Mustang on the street behind her. What a sight. And there was something quite different about her, but in his rush and nerves, he didn’t make the connection until he had shut the door behind her.
“Wow, your hair is straight.”
Gillian raised her hand to her hair and grabbed a strand to twist, but then stopped short and dropped her hand to her side. “Yeah, for the special occasion. It takes me forever to do, so usually I can’t be bothered.”
“It looks great.” He grabbed her hand. “You look great.”
She clutched the pendant around her neck, the one he recognized had hung from the car. “Thanks.”
“Well, come on then. I hope you’re hungry, like.” He pulled her into the kitchen and seated her at the table before he took the chance to look at her again. She was gorgeous. Del was right. He was nervous as hell. He placed the Irish soda bread in the middle of the table, a bowl of soup first in front of her, and then in his spot across from her. “If it’s too much, I’m sure Rory and Del will be happy for the leftovers.” He placed his napkin on his lap. As he was about to dig into his soup, Gillian interrupted.
“Padraig, look at me.”
He let his spoon sink into the soup and raised his head. At that moment, he realized water was still dripping from his wet hair down the back of his shirt, so he used his napkin to wipe his neck.
“This is amazing.” Gillian gestured at the table. “Everything you’ve done. It must have taken you forever.”
Padraig shrugged, his face heating with her praise. “It was no bother.”
“It was.” She grabbed his hand from across the table and squeezed. “Thank you.”
He summoned a deep breath and a smile. “You’re welcome.”
“Before we start eating, will I pour us a glass of wine?”
“Oh, shit, sure. I mean, yes, let me do it.” He was botching this up big time. Smooth and sophisticated international rugby star had obviously left on a plane back to Ireland already. Thank God, he had thought to uncork it earlier to breathe so he didn’t have to struggle with that now. He poured only a quarter of a glass for Gillian and a half glass for himself. He didn’t want to presume for her, but it was the thought that counted. Sure, he’d barely given her more wine than a Catholic communion service, less if you were a sinner and went around for a second blessing.
She raised her glass. “To better days.”
Padraig repeated her toast. “To better days. Slainte.”
After taking a small sip, she tasted her soup in front of her.
“I know it looks like vomit, but it’s my mum’s favorite.”
Gillian laughed out her nose and then covered her mouth with her napkin. “It’s delicious. What’s it called?”
“Colcannon soup. Cabbage, potatoes, and leeks. I made sure the whole meal was vegetarian.” He pointed to the loaf in front of him. “And this is Irish soda bread. It came out a bit harder than I had hoped. I forgot to slice it, but we can just tear pieces off. It’s great for dipping.” When Padraig tried to pull the loaf apart, it wouldn’t budge. Even digging in his nails, the bread wouldn’t separate. He tapped it on the table. Solid as a rock.
Gillian laughed. “Just the soup is fine.”
Padraig groaned and threw back his head. A feckin’ awful start.
“Leave it there on the table, and it will be our centerpiece.” She gave him a cheeky grin, which made him laugh.
“The next course will be much better. I promise. I already checked.”
Gillian reached her hand over the table again, so he grabbed on and held. “This is all…so nice. You didn’t have to do any of this.”
Padraig had to admit the ambience was good. With the blinds closed over the back sliding doors and the candles lit, the room reeked romance. He’d forgotten to turn on some music, but there would be plenty of that later. “I did. I wanted to repay you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Repayment wasn’t necessary or expected.”
“I know. Still the same…I wanted to.”
“Well…thank you again.”
“My pleasure. Now, let’s eat.”
When they were done with the soup, Padraig cleared the bowls and dished up the main. The presentation wasn’t great with the pie splatted onto the plates, but at least it was cooked properly.
As they dug in, Padraig began, “So do you want to talk about Andrew?”
A spoonful of lentil Shepherd’s pie in her mouth and she groaned, letting the utensil drop to the plate.
“Not really.”
Padraig swallowed, the food too hot burning his throat, but he forged ahead. “This is all part of my helping you now. I’m here to listen if you want to talk.”
Gillian pushed the food around on her plate. “There’s not much to say. Andrew overdosed. He’s dead, and I’m still here.”
“You sound angry.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
She finished chewing before she replied. “Because it’s easier to be.”
“At just Andrew, or…?”
“I know where you’re leading, Irish, and I guess you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yeah, I blame his dick friends, too.”
“Yeah?”
“If Andrew had only used the brain God had given him, he wouldn’t be dead now. But nooo…he had to latch onto that bunch and follow them into Hell.” She had started out eating like he’d shown her before, the European way, but at some point in her anger she had dropped the knife and was shoveling in the food with only her fork.
“That’s a bit harsh.”
She sighed. “I know it is. I’m just angry.”
“I can see that. Were they some of his mates from school?”
“Yep. I guess he’d started way back in high school, but we hadn’t a clue. It just got progressively worse over the years. His friends weren’t even rugby players, just gym rats.”
“I go to the gym.” Padraig needed to tread carefully. He wanted her to open up but not ruin the evening. The best part was yet to come. “Almost every day.”
She went to curl one of her ringlets of hair around her finger like she normally did when she was thinking, but must have realized again that her straight hair didn’t allow for the soother. She bit her lip instead. “I know. I’m being dumb.”
“Nah, but perhaps placing blame a bit.”
“It’s funny. In high school, Andrew and I grew apart. Him doing his thing and me doing the opposite, but then when I was helping out the football team at college with their physical therapy, I remember these two guys talking in the locker room about how they’d ‘tea-bagged’ one of the freshman players. I didn’t think much of it until they told some third guy it was placing their balls on the guy’s head when he was passed out drunk. And then they took pictures. Absolute class.”
Padraig stifled a laugh with his napkin. The oven buzzer went off. Saved by the bell. “Hold that thought.” He pulled out the crumble and stabbed a piece of rhubarb like his mum had told him. Done. Hopefully to perfection. “Sorry, go ahead.”
Gillian had finished her pie and laid her fork and knife across her plate. “How mortifying for that young freshman, and that brainless act reconfirmed my belief that they were all idiots. Cruel, mindless idiots. And I vowed from that day on to only help children and the elderly. But then the opportunity came along with the Blues…”
When Padraig collected their dinner plates from the table, Gillian reached across and poured herself some more wine. In one gulp, she finished the glass. Well, she was letting it out at least.
He set the rhubarb crumble in front of her. “I hope you like this. The topping is oats.” He winked at her. “For health and all.”
She must have realized she’d become heated and had withdrawn again.
Her voice came out in a whisper. “It looks delicious.”
Padraig sat down again and cut into his dessert. “If Andrew was anything like you, I doubt he was stupid. Intelligence and addiction aren’t related. Sure, there’s a long list of genius addicts, and I’m not just talking about the rock stars like Cobain.” He kept his eyes on his food and plowed ahead. “Did you know Freud was a coke addict? And Tchaikovsky was on the drink constantly.” His defense wasn’t just for Andrew, but himself, too. He couldn’t stop. “It’s not easy getting that monkey off your back.”
At this point, his mouth was dry and his throat tight, the last of the crumble barely making it down his gullet. When he went for a drink of wine, it was then he noticed Gillian’s tears. They were barely discernible under her glasses, but the candlelight reflected off the tear tracks, shiny like fish scales. He should have stopped.
She stood abruptly, and his heart stopped with the horror. She was going to leave. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
But instead, she walked around the table and climbed into his lap. Hugging him, she said, “I know that now. I’m sorry, too.”
He held her in silence, rubbing her back as she had often done for him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go this direction. I just wanted you to know I’m here to listen if you need to talk. And then things got a bit personal…”
Still clinging to him, she laughed. “I noticed.”
He drew her away and placed a gentle kiss to her mouth. “Hey, I have a surprise for you.”
“This whole night has been a big surprise.”
He slowly unwrapped her from his body and stood, sliding Gillian off his lap to the floor. “But this one is the best yet. If you’ll help me arrange some of this furniture…”
Padraig had already placed one of the kitchen chairs by the sink when he glanced up to find her still standing there, a bit bemused. “C’mon, get the other side of the table there.”
She did as told and then stood off to the side while Padraig moved the one chair back in front of the table and the other three in a semicircle facing that one, only a couple meters away. He took her hand and led her to the single chair. “Have a seat. I hope you enjoy.” He was so nervous he couldn’t look back at her as he grabbed his tin whistle from the cupboard and went to the sliding door where he knocked three times.
Ah, the lads were there, just like they had said they would be. Del and Rory followed Padraig to the three chairs where they sat down with their musical instruments in hand. Padraig with his whistle that he had actually bought, Del with his Pringle can he had turn into a shaker by adding rice, and Rory with his flattened Weetabix cereal box and wooden spoon that he was going to use as a bodhran, a type of Irish drum also used by the Scots.
With a nod from Padraig and a whistle intro, Del started in on the first verse of “Green Fields of France,” one of the few songs all the Blues players knew for the Dropkick Murphy version, and luckily, one of the few songs Padraig remembered from his youth. Printed musical notes from online, a couple YouTube videos, and a few hours practice, and the song had come back to him.
Rory’s bodhran set a nice slow pace, and at the chorus, he joined his voice with Del’s who added his shaker, a nice addition to the refrain. Padraig’s whistle kept the melody. And so far the boys were taking it seriously, even with their makeshift instruments.
He didn’t dare look at her for nerves, and he didn’t want to miss a note. The best part was coming, and feck, he hoped the lads weren’t drunk. Or maybe hoped they were. Nothing like a pint to get the creative juices flowing.
As practiced, at the beginning of the second stanza, Padraig heard the sliding door open and Jimmy’s voice join the others. And then Shano, Damian, Dave, Mitch, Kevin, Austin, Josh and Champ. Even Dick had agreed, although he was probably doing it for the free beer. Padraig had put a tab behind the bar at the Yacht Club for any of the boys who’d agreed to their little musical. But most of them didn’t need too much convincing and had wanted to anyway since Gillian had helped all of them as much as she had Padraig.
As their numbers grew, the song became rowdier, but Padraig went with it, picking up the tempo on his whistle. The boys filed in behind Padraig, Del, and Rory. Their singing was so loud, it had drowned out the instruments. Some boys were getting into it, swinging their arms and busting out the words.
He let the boys finish the last chorus a capella, left his whistle on his chair, and made his way over to Gillian. She had taken her glasses off and was wiping her tears with a dirty dinner napkin. He pulled her into his arms for a big hug. Her feet came off the ground, and he swung her back and forth.
When the last note finally died away, Padraig asked, “Well, what do you think? Not bad for a bunch of rugby players, eh?”
She kissed him sound on the mouth. “That was fucking fantastic.”
Chapter 27
The Blues were down by ten, seventy-seven minutes and forty-six seconds on the clock.
Padraig had played in loads of games where his team came back with less time than what they had. But these boys weren’t used to pushing through to the end, and any one play could change the favor in a minute. As much as Del tried to keep their spirits up, it was almost as if they’d already given up. It was pissing rain and cold, having gone from sunny and warm at the beginning of the week to frigid by the end, a northwest wind coming down off the lake.
In terms of dedication, the Blues were as strong a team as Padraig had ever played with, but today, for some reason, the forwards and backs didn’t click. Passing was sloppy and runs were short and choppy, no fluidity in their movement across the pitch. If they gained any ground, it was through small plays, gutting it out. They were off their groove, and everyone knew it.
Except for Rory. The kid shined in bad weather. He was Scottish, so that explained much of it, but it was more than that. It was as if he reveled in the hope, as if his entire life that’s where he’d been, always looking up.
Del kept yelling at everyone to re-tuck their shirts, pull up their socks. Something was up. Gillian stayed close to Coach’s side. On Coach’s other stood a mature gentleman. There was something about the way he kept asking Coach questions, kept pointing at the pitch that didn’t sit right with Padraig. But somehow he was familiar. He stood with legs spread, arms crossed over his chest like an arrogant bastard. Maybe Coach had brought in a consultant. It was not uncommon over in Europe to bring in a fresh perspective, but they had the money behind them there.
Gusts of wind blew hard across the pitch, hindering their kicking game. So they had to stick to running the ball, which didn’t give them the distance over the pitch they needed for two tries. They were inching along, gaining a measly meter here and there.
Padraig had been in this position so many times, it barely rocked him anymore. When he was younger, he played poorly in close matches until he learned to tame his anxiety…until he understood there was always another game to play.
The Tri-City Barbarians were currently ranked top of their division. The Irish liked to be the underdogs. They played better when they went into a game where they weren’t expected to win. It was as if they played up to the talent they competed against.
At a mad scramble in the mud, Padraig overturned possession for the Blues after stripping the ball one-on-one from the runner before he could release to his team. Instead of passing the ball to the inside centre who had run up beside him, Padraig plowed ahead, gaining a few meters. It took five of their men to bring him down. But too fast, and where was his backup then? No one there to release the ball to.
Under the pile of bodies, he waited for each of them to peel off, his face smashed into the wet earth, the ball still held tightly into the nook of his arm. He grunted when one player’s knee banged his head on the way up.
Above the buzz in his ears, Kevin yelled, “You should have passed, Irish.”
Yeah, he should have. Since he hadn’t released the ball, now it went back to Tri-City’s scrum.
&nbs
p; When the last Tri-City player was off, Padraig pushed up with his arms only to smash back down to the ground in pain. “Fuck!” His back was on fire. He could barely move his legs. They had already started setting the scrum, when someone finally noticed he wasn’t getting up. The referee whistled and called the injury timeout.
He had mobility in his arms, but every time he tried to rise, the same searing pain froze his back and hips, a bolt of lightning down his left leg.
Del approached first and squatted next to him. “How ya doin?”
Padraig wiped some dirt away from the corner of his mouth. “Not great.”
When Gillian approached and knelt next to him, Del moved away.
“Your back?” She talked quietly under her breath in the soothing way of hers. Her professional voice, he called it, but right now it was the best sound in the world.
He nodded.
With gentle motion, she rolled him onto his back. Padraig growled in pain. As she’d done before, she performed the AI-joint maneuver, bracing his right leg on her shoulder. He pressed down his left knee into her cupped hands.
“Any better?”
“At least it’s no longer in my leg. Now more the middle of my back.”
“Okay, arch your back up and squeeze it like you mean it.”
There he was tightening his butt cheeks in the middle of the field, every single set of eyes on him. Coach, the Blues, the Tri-City players, the fans and friends on the sideline. For feck sake.
“It’s not working, Gill. You might have to help me off the pitch.”
“Have faith.”
Faith? He’d enough of that growing up in Catholic Ireland. Now, his only religion was rugby. Or it used to be.
“I want you to get in the cobra position.”
Fucking yoga now? He fancied the knickers off her, but wondered about her sanity at times. When he didn’t budge, she directed his movements, rolling him onto his belly, then pulling his shoulders back so his chest lifted off the ground.
