by Cd Brennan
“Hey, boys.”
Padraig and Del jerked up in the seats to the sound of Gillian’s voice behind them. Her hair was pulled back today showing off a slender neck, strong lines that slid into pronounced collarbones. She had her satchel draped over her shoulder. Padraig’s stomach dipped again. This time, he acknowledged the sensation, rubbing his hand back and forth over his belly.
Del turned on the charm. “Kia ora, Gillian, you come to meet us boys for a drink?”
She dropped her bag down beside the table, still holding the strap loosely in her hand. “You’re unlucky tonight. I’m here to meet a friend of mine.”
“Too bad, we’d love the company of a fine woman like yourself.”
She smirked. “Aw shucks, Del, you sure do know how to make a lady feel special.”
They shared a laugh while Padraig remained silent, spinning his glass around on the table.
“Hi, Padraig.” Gillian nodded to him. Full lips, he noticed. And she’d pronounced his name correctly. “How are you settling in?”
Padraig pinched a smile in return, making a concerted effort to look her in the eye. She hadn’t been too pleased with his perusal last week. Gillian had changed to a gray skirt with the periodic table printed on the front, and even though she wore another T-shirt that had “Nerd” written across the chest, he could still tell there were some nice breasts underneath. “Grand,” he answered. “Couldn’t be better. Nice shirt.”
She squinted her eyes at him, slow to respond. “Thanks.”
“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it.” She hitched her satchel back onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you on Thursday. I have a surprise for group session.”
“Can’t wait,” Padraig said dryly. He took a large sip of his beer, showing off his nonchalance to Miss Sommersby. “Perhaps some more music therapy we can look forward to?”
“Perhaps.” Gillian leaned down between them, an arm on the back of each chair, her chest directly at Padraig’s eye level. She smelled of lavender. “Think doggie style.”
She briefly smiled at Del, then turned to Padraig. He could have sworn she pinned her gaze on him a nanosecond longer than she had Del. Was it a challenge? What did she see?
“That’ll be a beaut, Miss G! Padraig and I are already lookin’ forward to it. Aren’t we, Irish?” Del asked, slapping him on the back.
Padraig didn’t respond, but instead caught Gillian’s gaze to make sure she knew he was up for the contest. Whatever that might be.
“Okay, see you then.” She pinched a smile at them and left, making her way, with a nice swish of the hips, to a table at the far side of the beer garden. She sat across from an older man with long gray hair, wearing crazy-striped hippy pants and rows of leather and silver bracelets up his arms.
“Mate, there is something very sexy brewing under that there Miss Gillian,” Del said when she was out of earshot.
“You think every woman is sexy, mate. Why would we want to get involved with American girls when we’re going home?”
“At some point, yes,” Del agreed, “but not right now.” He rose from his chair and Padraig followed suit. “Right now, anything can happen.”
Chapter 7
The first thing Gillian saw when she walked in the door was Padraig. With Jenn, the receptionist, picking lint off his shirt. She had him up against the desk, her legs alternating with his. She stopped her grooming of the Irishman and worked her phone in front of her, punching buttons. Today, she wore a short summer skirt, tank top, and fashionable heels that looked like ankle boots, but were sandals. A bit much for the club, in Gillian’s humble opinion.
Padraig was sitting, his hands to each side, grasping the edges of the desk. And unlike most men pinned in that position, he wasn’t staring at her chest, but rather out into space, his gaze unfocused and sad.
Whenever she saw Jenn, Gillian always felt an immediate pang of envy, but it was quickly squashed by her logic. She didn’t want to be that type of girl, never had, never would. Sure, Jenn looked fantastic, gorgeous even, but gah—there was something so chintzy about her. Overdone, over-the-top fakeness that most men just didn’t seem to get. Did they actually believe her act was for real? That she wanted only him? That all the batting of her eyelashes and syrup-sweet smiles were genuine? God, she could gag.
Supposing with men’s egos, they would. Her brother was the same, always gawking over scantily clad women that whispered “no class” to Gillian, but obviously were yelling something else in his ears.
Conscious of her own sloppy cut-off shorts and baggy hoodie, she cleared her throat to interrupt the intimacy before she made a total fool of herself. The last thing she wanted was for one of them to look up and see her staring.
Jenn turned and sat next to Padraig. Practically on his lap. “Oh hi, Gillian. Didn’t see you there.”
Of course not.
Jenn ran her fingers back through her hair so that her chest rose. “Didn’t think you were coming in today.”
“Special favor for Coach,” Gillian said, emphasizing the last word, as if she could conjure him to appear and save her from this awkward situation. Invading the space of the vomitous love birds. She’d give Jenn that. She moved quick. And now that Gillian thought of it, what the heck was Jenn doing here on a Wednesday? Obviously trawling for meat. The foreign boys were here for some extra practice and Barbie must have gotten wind of it somehow. What a leech. She needed to get a life outside of men.
When Gillian met Padraig’s gaze, he returned it steady, no flinch or show of emotion. But he’d been like that since he’d arrived. Flat. Zombie-like. Half-dead.
“I just need to borrow Padraig a minute.”
Jenn crossed her arms over her chest. “What for?”
Was it any of her business? It was as if she’d already staked her claim on Padraig and was his keeper in all things receptiony. “Because I told Coach I’d work on his back.” And why the heck were they talking about him like he wasn’t there? She walked up to Padraig. “Do you have a minute?”
He eyed the door. “I’m sure the lads are about ready to go, and they’re my ride home.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t have to, Gill—”
Okay, that was about enough. “Jenn, I’m sure he appreciates your loving care, but this is about the club, so if you wouldn’t mind butting out a minute. Hell, we could have been done by now if we’d just gotten on with it.” She waved her hand out toward the physio room. “Mr. O’Neale, if you would please? I’ve already worked all day but made a special trip out here to help.” She had, and she was tired. She’d volunteered her Tuesday and Thursday evenings for the club, and now she was here on a Wednesday. Seeing him with Barbie didn’t bother her. Not one bit. Her grumpiness wasn’t about that—at all. But she had used a special olive oil treatment in her hair this morning. Not for him, of course.
He shrugged before he rose from the desk. He grabbed his bag and hoisted it to his shoulder. “After you, Miss Sommersby.”
“I can give you a ride home if you need one, Irish,” Jenn purred.
Padraig held up a hand in a wave. “That’s all right. You go ahead. If I miss the boys, I’ll get a cab.”
As soon as Gillian closed the door, she launched into him. “It’s none of my business, but you should be careful with Jenn. She works her way through all the boys.”
He dropped his bag, a half-smirk on his face. “You’re right on the first account. It isn’t any of your business. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not worried about you. I know that Coach doesn’t like it when the boys get together with Jenn.” Even when Andrew had played with the Blues, Jenn had been a tease, having started her flirtations young at the ripe old age of sixteen. She had some sort of connection with the club, an ex-player’s niece or granddaughter or something. More than one player had been off their game after fooling around with her. She played the lads against each other, and it was rotten
.
Padraig had stepped around the physio table and into her space. God, he was big. She stood her ground. No alpha gorilla behavior would intimidate her. “Just giving you fair warning, is all.”
“I’m good, thanks. Now, we done here?”
What? They hadn’t even started. “No. This isn’t about Jenn. Coach really did ask me to help with your back pain.” Gillian unzipped her bag where she’d placed it on the table and grabbed a small jar of ointment. “I’ll use one of my special treatments on—”
“I’m not interested.” Padraig took a step back.
“I can show you some exercises specifically for the lower back, and if you apply this cream twice a day, you’ll notice a change within a week.”
His fist clenched at his side. “I told you I’m not interested in your help. I have a routine that my physio back home gave me. That’s working.”
“You’re not in pain?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nope.”
But she could tell he was lying by the way his eyes had darted to the corner of the room and back before he’d answered. The way they shone, all glassy. The way he walked with stiffness in his step. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not anymore.
“Take your shirt off, please, and lie on the table with your head at the far side. I’m sure you are familiar with massage. Head goes down in the center.”
She pulled her hoodie over her head and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. She bent at the waist and shook her hair down, bunched it up, and pulled it through the ponytail holder that resided permanently on her wrist. When she stood up, Padraig was staring at her as if she’d grown two heads. Maybe she had a ketchup stain on her tank top. She held the shirt out but saw nothing. Huh.
At his almost imperceptible nod, her courage grew. Just like any client. “Lie here on your stomach.”
He did as instructed and settled his head onto his overlapped hands, elbows jutting out like chicken wings. In gentle, fluid movements, she un-tucked each hand and arm and let them trail down the sides of his body. She lifted his hips to lower his track pants so they rode low on his bum. Sweet mercy. His ass was divine. Rounder and juicier than a summer cantaloupe.
But she was a professional, and he, a client. And a jock. A deep breath in and out. Gillian uncapped the jar and rubbed her palms with the ointment.
“What the hell is that smell?”
“None of your worry. It works really well. Hasn’t anyone told you the smellier the concoction, the better the results?”
“Just like Rory. You are all mad,” came muffled through the table.
“Crazy knows crazy. Now shush.”
She started at his lower lumbar and moved her hands in sweeping motions up his back, around his side, under his armpits, and finally over his shoulders. She began again at his lower back and kneaded and rolled along his spine, then outward, circling her palms over knotted muscles. Hitching his pants lower, she delved under his boxer band, massaging the top of his bum, smoothing the muscle out and away from his spine.
As normally happened once she was in rhythm, the time ticked by. After a few repetitions along his torso, she stopped to check on him.
He appeared to be asleep. The endorphins released by the massage weighted him to the table, as happened with most of her clients when they fell into a peaceful lethargy. So quiet, she couldn’t hear him breathe. Wide back, broad shoulders, dark, tousled hair. A man any woman would want. Except for Gillian. He was no Lloyd Dobler.
So not to startle him, Gillian withdrew her hands from his back with a soft swish of her fingers. With a deep breath, she took a step back and waited. But he didn’t move.
She should really be getting him up and out the door so he could catch his lift from Del, but she couldn’t get herself to do it. Instead of waking him, she decided to let him rest. So she took a seat on one of the chairs along the wall. Leaning her elbow on her knee and resting her jaw in her hand, she watched him sleep. A dark, manly brow that had finally relaxed. Black, thick lashes. Strong nose and a top lip that came to a defined point.
He was gorgeous, really.
She was so mesmerized that when his eyes blinked open, she screamed. Just like in a horror movie when the corpse comes to life. She had scrambled halfway up her chair when he let out a laugh.
Her hand over her racing heart, she didn’t see the humor, but then, he’d only opened his eyes, which didn’t normally elicit such a dramatic response. She was still shaky as she gathered her gear together. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move, first to sitting where he waited a few beats, then onto his feet.
As he was pulling his shirt over his head, Del barged through the door. “Everything all right here?”
Both she and Padraig responded in unison. “Fine.”
Del raised a brow. “Uh-huh.”
Rory crowded in the door behind him and said to Padraig, “You ready to go?”
“Yeah, all set.” He stopped at the door and turned back to Gillian. “Thanks.”
And then he was gone, and Gillian was still breathless.
Chapter 8
When Padraig stepped into the locker room on Thursday, there was a buzz of activity around the bulletin board, the boys pushing and shoving to get a look at the one piece of paper tacked under an announcement for the season’s fundraiser.
He ignored the commotion and turned toward his locker. In passing, Rory stopped him with a comment. “She’s having us do yoga today in groups. You’re in the first one.”
What the fuck? Padraig knew the she to whom Rory referred. Who else would have them take precious time out of training for something so incredibly stupid? Magic hands she might have, but he hadn’t signed up for this. Hell, he didn’t really want to be here in the first place, and this was only making it worse. Plus, he had his bloody interview with the woman after training so couldn’t even escape home.
“Brilliant,” Padraig grunted as he passed Rory straight to the toilets. There had been no opportunity to take his pill this afternoon. Del had them out the door as soon as Padraig, who had been running late from the gym, stepped into the kitchen. What he needed to do was keep a glass of water in his bedroom, but he’d forgotten that, too.
He threw his gear bag at the wall of the bathroom and shut a cubicle door firmly behind him, turning the privacy lock. His anger and pain shook his hands so that he struggled with the cap. He had to squeeze both sides while turning, the childproof mechanism catching every time he almost had it opened.
“Fuck!” Padraig stopped and drew a deep breath, then let it out slow. Tried again with the cap, and he got it on the first go. He rattled a pill out of the bottle and swallowed it dry. He flushed the toilet even though he hadn’t taken a piss. After grabbing his water bottle out of his gear bag, he drank deep, then headed for the lockers.
Most of the lads were outside already so the locker room was quiet, only the soft mumble of a few in the area by the white board. He took his time stripping off his tracksuit bottoms and hoodie before donning his rugby shorts and jersey. He pulled his change of clothes from his bag and neatly refolded them on the top shelf, then placed the pill bottle in the front left pocket of his jeans for later.
“You comin’, Padraig?” He heard over the tops of the lockers.
“Sure, be right there.”
When he rounded into sight of the others, his throat seized, and his body tightened in response to the view of Gillian’s backside. Here he’d been stripping down to his underwear only a few rows over. Bending at the waist, she fiddled with a portable CD player. She was dressed in tight leggings to her knees and a tank top that finally revealed her perky breasts. Even with the top sporting an owl. The way the boys stood, hands over crotch, they were having the same reaction as Padraig. No glasses, and she had braided her hair to the side, again showing off her fair neck. Underneath all her crazy, she was most certainly edible.
In front of Gillian was a single yoga mat, and then five other mats in a row facing he
rs. There were four others, including the left wing, Dick, all of them huddled together laughing too loudly at a joke he had told. Some slow willowy music started, and she turned toward the group of lads.
The boys shifted about, trying to jostle their bits imperceptibly. Gillian didn’t seem to notice as she stepped to the front of her mat. “Ok boys, today we are going to start one of the oldest practices in both body and mind management.” She paused. “Yoga. If you didn’t get it by now.”
The hooker with a beard said, “My wife goes to yoga on Wednesday nights. She loves it.” He stepped forward onto a mat and mirrored Gillian’s stance. The other three reluctantly followed, Dick and another young one elbowing each other as they waited. Juvenile. He wasn’t sure about this new-age shite either, but at least they could act like they were out of school.
“Most people do when they get into it,” Gillian said, then motioned to Padraig. “Mr. O’Neale, are you going to join us?”
There was the one mat left on the far right side, and without a word, he casually stepped to the top.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, then repositioned her feet. “Yoga originally was a discipline to attain a permanent state of peace. Now, in Western culture, we use it mostly for the physical rewards—body toning, breathing exercises, control, flexibility, strength, and endurance. I’d like you to notice that all of these benefits are what you also need as professional athletes.”
The lad right next to Padraig, whose name he had yet to learn, mumbled under his breath, “Professional, my ass.”
Gillian ignored it, but Padraig felt the pressure of four sets of eyes on him as they recognized the paid athlete in their midst. He kept his gaze straight ahead, standing solid, his feet slightly apart.
“So yoga will now be introduced into your training once a week in group sessions such as this.” The music strained higher until it peaked at a crying violin, then retreated into a more subdued refrain.
