In Touch (Play On #1)

by Cd Brennan

  Padraig reckoned she should add a new car to that list. “So why bother volunteering for the Blues?”

  She rolled her eyes, then puffed out a sigh. “For so many reasons. But mostly”—she held up her finger, then pressed it down on her opposite hand so that it created a cross—“they let me practice and get experience with alternative physical therapies, and”—she pressed down a second finger—“I can help.”

  “I admire your philanthropy, but is it worth it?”

  She cocked her head in consideration, but dipped her head when she spoke. “So far, I think it is.”

  He didn’t want her to leave. “So, any suggestions on how to clear the air with Dick?”

  She gave him a look like he was daft. “Umm…maybe apologize?”

  “Not for him pinching your ass!”

  Gillian grabbed his pinkie finger and tugged, a subtle gesture that no one would see. “No, definitely not that, but maybe going a bit overboard when he found your pills.”

  “Found them, my arse. He took them.”

  “Okay, well then for practically strangling him to death.”

  “He started it.”

  Gillian choked on a laugh. “Perhaps, but you sound like a kid now.”

  Padraig rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll buy him a drink at some point.”

  “It’s good for team bonding, no?” She nodded in a sarcastic way, her eyebrows raised.

  Padraig laughed. He tapped the locker lightly with his knuckles. “But ya see, I’m not sure I want to be in.” He raised his fingers in double quotes at the last word.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  He shrugged, then picked up his tape roll, tossing it into the top of his locker. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not sure this club is the right fit for me.” There. He’d said it. But it didn’t feel as good as he’d thought it would to be more open about his intentions. The dynamic had changed, and that was because of the woman standing in front of him.

  “I know you have your hesitations, but it could be great for you. I also know it’s not on the level you were playing previously. I could tell that straight away from your resume. But it’s all what you make it. Maybe there’s a reason you are here.”

  There was a call from Coach that echoed in the room. “All right lads, on the pitch.”

  A scramble of footsteps sounded as the boys made it out the door. Gillian, her ass on display today in black leggings, disappeared around the bend. “Have fun.”

  What was she thinking? “So tomorrow night, then?”

  She popped her head back around the corner and motioned shhh to her lips, but smiled so Padraig grinned back.

  He dreaded going onto the pitch. All he wanted was to get her alone again, stay tucked away in her apartment. For days. Weeks. Months even. But then reality hit as Rory paused at the end of the locker row. “You comin’, Irish?”

  As he took his first step outside the door, the music started. Today it was similar but more melodic than last week. Didn’t sound so much waves and sea mammals as it did harp and Enya. Or a good Enya impersonator. Feck, if the lads wouldn’t have totally taken the piss back home about this. It reminded him that he needed to call. Everyone. His mum, his agent, his old coach to let him know how he was getting on. Not that his old coach cared, although he said he did. He had promised Padraig a spot on the Munster team again if he could kick the pain meds completely and get into top physical shape.

  It was furnace-hot and humid; close they would call it in Ireland. Padraig walked onto the pitch, but it was like stepping into a sauna. He raised his eyes to the gray mass of clouds overhead and then to the west, like at home, to see what weather was on its way. Hopefully rain would come and break the humidity. The sticky heat fouled his mood further. And today’s training was about new plays. Brilliant.

  Some of the boys were practicing their kicks at the far end of the pitch, but most had gathered around Del in the center. There was some commotion going on as Del’s head popped up and down in the midst of the circle. What the hell was he doing? The haka? Some were warming up, but they were all engrossed, and when Padraig stepped up to peer over the tops of their heads, sure enough, Del was just finishing the last of the war dance, his tongue stuck out long down his chin, a thumb slicing across his throat. The manic look on his face would have intimidated anyone.

  The boys clapped, some cheered, and then they dispersed, only a few hanging around to chat with him. Padraig approached, a crooked smile on his face. “Looked good, Del. As good as I’ve seen.”

  Del grabbed Padraig’s arm and turned him away from the others, walking him to the center line. “Thanks, mate. It’s the first time I’ve shown them. Some of ’em have seen it on telly, but none of them have witnessed the pure strength and energy live and in person.”

  “You plan on rallying this bunch of wallies with the haka?”

  “Might do, mate.” He blew a big breath out puffed cheeks. “We need something.”

  The whistle blew, and Coach divided the lads into two teams. Coach assigned Del captain for one side, Padraig for the other. With Dick on Padraig’s team. Things had just gotten interesting.

  The lads were keen. Padraig had to give them that. It was difficult for him to remember those days, it was so long ago. But he had believed in everything then—he would go all the way with rugby. And to every player, that meant the World Cup. He had been certain he would be with the Irish squad next year.

  He rolled his shoulders to release the bitterness. That wasn’t going to happen now.

  Their fly-half, Kevin, nicknamed Keys because he was always losing them, dropped the ball and then on the upward bounce kicked as his own team surged ahead. Padraig’s team ran forward toward Del’s team. The game started with a high, hanging ball into the far right corner to give them time to get down the pitch and into position.

  Damian caught the ball and ran forward, tossing the ball to Rory, then on to Josh, right in front of Padraig. Josh tried to fancy-foot around him and slipped, an easy tackle for Padraig. That’s what youth and inexperience got you. They wanted to do it all on their own, showcase themselves, instead of looking for help, passing the ball into a better position.

  When the ball was loose out of the ruck, Padraig pounced before Champ, their number eight, could pass it to Del. Padraig stripped the ball easily before his knee touched and turned it over.

  Del was almost on him, so he passed the ball off to Dick who appeared out of nowhere, running up the sideline. And then Padraig got hit. Hard. By a bunch of Del’s team. But the ball was already gone. As they all scrambled off the ground, Coach’s whistle blew shrill. A try. Padraig heaved as he walked toward his team who all congratulated the left wing. Dick still held the ball, even though it was only a practice try, and beamed at the others as they patted him on the shoulder or bum.

  He held a hand out to Dick, who looked skeptical, but then grabbed it in an awkward handshake. “You came out of nowhere. Nice speed,” Padraig said to him as they walked to the posts. Dick shrugged. “Whatever.” Then he jogged away when the conversion kick went wide.

  Well, Del couldn’t say he hadn’t tried.

  Coach rearranged some players, swapping the inside centre from Del’s team with the number eight on Padraig’s.

  Padraig’s team had scored, so Del’s team restarted with a drop kick, Padraig’s team receiving once again. Padraig noticed most of his lads had clumped together, leaving large spaces for the ball to fall into the other team’s hands. He yelled to the boys to move, but they ignored him. Del’s team surged forward with the kick. The falling ball bounced off Rory’s chest straight into Damian’s hands. When Damian found an easy hole to get through, Padraig yelled louder, “Get back there!” Even if he was only captain for training and nothing else, he’d get his fuckers in line.

  Damian was halfway to the try line when Mitch finally clipped his ankle in a swiping dive. The right wing stumbled, but the break was long enough for some of the others to g
et in front of him. He ended up kicking the ball into touch, gaining another fifteen yards. That meant Padraig’s team lineout. He was the jumper and rocked the lineouts.

  The teams assembled into the parallel rows of men, the opposing teams about a yard apart and facing the sideline where they awaited the hooker’s throw-in. Shane, or Shano to the other lads, the Blues hooker and one of the best players on the team, took a few extra minutes to wipe the ball. Fair enough. There was enough moisture in the air to soak their shirts through before they’d even started running. Now, their T-shirts clung to backs and chests. Padraig would have preferred the rain if he was going to be this wet.

  Shano called out the play. That meant Jimmy and the loosehead prop, Dave, would lift Padraig on the count of two to catch the throw from the hooker. Dave was nicknamed Pickle because of his love for the juice, on occasion chugging it after a game. He swore by the regenerative properties and constantly quoted findings from a study a few years back. Pickles halted post-workout cramps in eighty-five seconds. It also restored electrolytes faster than Gatorade.

  When the lift came, it was awkward and unbalanced, the loosehead prop boosting him higher than Jimmy, and Padraig tilted toward the other team. In slow motion, the ball came toward him and, as his fingers nicked the side of the ball, the tighthead prop shifted and the ball sailed over Padraig’s head to land in grunts and a scuffle behind him.

  The prick! He’d done it on purpose, leaving Padraig looking the fool. But worse, it appeared as if he hadn’t done hundreds of lineouts before. The props dropped him like a hot kettle, and then bodies were everywhere on top of him, around him. When someone dug into his hand with their cleat, he considered biting down on their calf. The pitch was dry, the grass coarse like a Brillo Pad, chafing his arms like pine needles. The ball evaded hands as each player tried to control it in the ruck.

  The hard weather he didn’t mind. He got plenty of that back in Ireland. It was the indecency on the pitch with these thickos who didn’t know what professionalism was.

  As the ruck dispersed at the whistle, Padraig was slow to get up. There was a penalty for a knock-on, so the ball went to the defending team in a scrum. His back ached and his knee throbbed and this was only practice. They had a game on Saturday. Looked like he was going to have to get his meds refilled earlier than planned. His hand supporting his lower back, he limped toward the assembling teams.

  Gillian stood next to Coach on the sideline. She had donned her fedora cap with the patterned band, but damp hair laid limp against her neck and where it had loosened around her face. When he caught her eye, she smiled. Then stuck out her tongue, and Padraig wondered if the lads had noticed. Playful little tease. Feck, he wished he could get a repeat on the floor tonight.

  Not the best time to get a hard-on, especially when the flanker was about to wrap his arm over his back. Both teams set, and with the call from Coach, the men heaved forward with a collective grunt and collided in the middle.

  Padraig’s talent was in the lineout, but he enjoyed the scrum the best. The raw energy and power and strength of eight men on each side, head to head, vying for the smallest movement over the ground. In that moment, Padraig always forgot his pain. It seemed illogical. Common sense said there should be more pain, but because those minutes, sometimes mere seconds, were so intense—digging in, pushing, willing his entire body to respond—his focus was not himself, but the team.

  It was pure animal strength and guts that drove the men, sometimes mere inches, to try and gain control of the ball. It was instinctual, the desire to win, to overcome your adversary, and nothing reflected that better in rugby than the microcosm of the scrum.

  After all that work, it fell and crumbled. A blow of Coach’s whistle saved them resetting. “All right boys, that will be enough for today. You all look like limp fish. Go on in for a shower.”

  A few of the boys laughed, but some had anticipated the end and had already started heading for the locker room.

  Padraig scanned the area where Gillian had stood, but she was gone. Disappointment fizzed through him, but he had no time for a self-pity party since Del was at his side.

  “They’re not going to listen to you until they respect you, bro.”

  Padraig shook his head in frustration. “How’s the form today, Cap?”

  “I can see what’s going on, and since I am the captain, I’m gonna try and fix it.”

  “Let me ask you this. Do you think they are even worth the effort?” Padraig asked.

  “I do,” Del said simply.

  They approached the locker rooms, and Padraig held the door for both of them to enter. Some of the boys were in the shower, but most had gone, probably preferring their own hot water at home than the drizzle that these showerheads put out.

  Padraig and Del stopped at the end of lockers where they would divide to go to their different rows. “Why don’t you go to the team social after the match on Saturday? Have a few beers. Get to know the guys.”

  “I hadn’t heard about it. Don’t think I’m invited.”

  “Everyone is invited, including the Grand Rapids players, and Scotch and some of the boys are bringing their wives and girlfriends. Shano is even bringing his kids.”

  “Like I said, no one said anything to me, not even Coach.”

  “Well, I’m saying something to you now, bro. And right now, even though you’ve got the most experience on the team, you are the weakest link.”

  Chapter 14

  It had turned chilly, the wind picking up off the Great Lake. They were walking along the beach, the one the boys always passed on their way to the complex. When they first set out, Padraig thought Gillian was taking him home after dinner, but then she’d turned toward his house and pulled into the Traverse City State Park. A few trees sheltered picnic tables on a grassy area, a clean sandy beach beyond. Off to the side was a children’s play area, blue and red slide and climbing bars, yellow swings.

  Padraig zipped his fleece to his collar and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He had yet to touch her, but wanted to. Badly. “How is it twenty-five degrees one day here and fifteen degrees the next?”

  “Well, since this is the summer, I assume you are talking Celsius.”

  “Why can’t the States match the rest of the feckin’ world?”

  “Easy, grumpy, or that’s what I’m going to start calling you.”

  Padraig smiled out at the water, unable to make eye contact. “From you, I don’t mind.”

  She rotated them both toward the waterfront, then pulled him down into the sand. “It’s funny. I get a sense that you’d be a different person in Ireland.”

  “I get a sense you’d be a different person in Ireland, too.”

  She said nothing.

  They sat side by side. Even though they’d had a nice dinner, chatting as much as they did the other night, Gillian hadn’t shown any outward signs to him that they were any different after their sexual relations. Most girls latched on, held your hand or arm, marked their territory by grooming you—fixing your hair, picking off fuzzies. Like Jenn had. He wouldn’t have minded if he had felt the same about her, but the receptionist had tried to stake a claim without Padraig’s acquiescence. That was, and would always be, a bunch of shite.

  Both of their knees were bent in a relaxed, reclined position, as if they were sunning themselves. Gillian leaned her head back, and with her eyes closed, Padraig took the opportunity to move behind her. He wrapped a leg to each side, and as he’d hoped, Gillian leaned her head back on his chest so he could rest his chin on her shoulder, his cheek pressed into her own. “I’m going to use you as a wind block.”

  She laughed. “Wow, you are a gentleman.”

  They were quiet a moment as they gazed out at the bay. Two sets of white sails spotted the distance. In his peripheral vision, the waterline stretched out to the right and the left, where it started swooping southwest.

  Traverse Bay was beautiful, Padraig admitted, but too populated for him. Even though he grew up
in the middle of the city, if he was going to the sea, he picked one of the many secluded bays in West Cork. There was nothing quite like the Atlantic crashing on the craggy shores of Ireland.

  “So…I’m curious. How did you decide to become a physical therapist?”

  She didn’t respond so he nudged her in the back of the head with his nose.

  “Hey!”

  “Is the question that hard, like?”

  “No.”

  She faced the lakeshore so he couldn’t get a read off her expression, and had decided to drop it, when she spoke up. “Do you think what a person does for a career defines who they are?”

  “Definitely not. But I’m trying to get to know you as a person. How you came to be here right now with me.”

  “I didn’t start out in physical therapy. My first year of college I was a music major. That was my first love.”

  Padraig chuckled. “I can totally see that.”

  She slapped his right shin. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Padraig dragged in a big breath and let it out, letting his focus stray to the horizon. One of the boats must have tacked in as the white sails had grown larger as it headed their way. “I don’t know…you just seem more music than PT.”

  “By the way I dress? You mean because I don’t wear Under Armour shirts and yoga pants every day?”

  “Maybe… Or maybe it’s the way you don’t seem entirely comfortable working with the boys.”

  She stiffened. “How so?”

  “It’s not one thing I can put my finger on. Just an impression, I guess.”

  She sat up and away from Padraig. A cold wind blew between their bodies. “Wow, thanks for your honesty. So you think I’m a crap therapist?”

  “I didn’t mean that at all.” Wow, he was fucking this up.

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “Ya know, I’m not sure.” He just didn’t want to piss her off anymore. “Maybe it’s just your methods that don’t fit me, but I’ll try.”

  She looked back over her shoulder. “Thank you.”