by Cd Brennan
What he wanted to do was get up. He wanted everyone’s eyes off him, out here, struggling with his pain demons, but he was afraid. Afraid everyone would know. Afraid he’d look a loser.
“Now, come up to standing.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You can.”
Padraig rested there, inhaling the smell of wet grass and earth, trying to build the courage to move.
Gillian smacked him on the bum. “I know what’s missing. The special magic. The music therapy.” She proceeded to hum.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Stop already. I’m up!” And he was moving, into a squat, and then with a final push, on his feet. He walked back and forth to get the muscles moving again. And sure enough, even though his back still was tight, the pain had mostly gone.
Not the most conventional therapist in the world, but God, he loved her. If there hadn’t been a hundred pair of eyes on them, he would have gladly grabbed her up and kissed her right there. When she caught his eye, he smiled and nodded, as much a thank you as he could give her right now. He’d save his appreciation for bed later. Now that his back was better.
Like with the other players, she waited for him to signal he was good, and she walked off the pitch.
A whistle blew and everyone moved to set for the scrum. Not the best position to start in, but he trusted Gillian. Before Padraig bound with Austin, Del approached, cupping his hand on Padraig’s shoulder. “All right, mate?”
Padraig smiled. “All good, Del, let’s finish this.”
With that, Del rallied the boys, shouting encouragements. And in that moment, Padraig felt the momentum shift. The energy in a game was tangible, in the air and in the movements of the players. Not only on the pitch, but fans could feel it, too. He’d been told that even viewers at home often knew the moment when the change happened, the transfer of the rugby spirits to their side. It was contagious, and each member of the Blues buzzed with the new vigor.
The scrum was the opponent’s but the Blues pushed hard, no one harder than Padraig, and they moved over the ball, winning it back. Mitch fed it off to the center, who again released it to Dick and then on to Rory. And he decided to kick. Please, let the ball fly.
It was better than Padraig could imagine, out of the wind, a low ground kick like you’d see in soccer, and out of play at the twenty-two meter line. The lineout was the other team’s, but the boys around him strutted now with a different purpose, and along with Del, Padraig rallied them with calls and swats on the backside. “C’mon, boys, get in there!”
A few of the lads eyed him like he’d gone mad, like Captain Ahab in Moby Dick. He probably looked it, his hair wild in the wind, walking with a slight limp as though he had a peg leg. And like the man on that ship, his passion—no his obsession—had been his undoing.
The clock had counted up to thirty-seven minutes. Plenty of time until they reached the horn at forty, plus a bit of spare for injury time. He shouted again to the team. “C’mon, lads, rally up!” The last couple of months had been moping and half-arsed efforts. But he’d make it up to them now. Like he used to do with his squad back in Munster, he joked, he laughed, and pounded his chest like a gorilla. And with the wind in their sails now, the boys latched on. They could feel the victory, too.
The Tri-City hooker threw short, and the other team tucked the ball into a rolling maul, surging forward, inching away at the green. Exactly what the Blues would have done to burn the seconds on the clock.
Padraig latched onto the ball carrier, pushing with everything he had. Dell communicated their need with the look of an eye, which Padraig understood and shoved harder, yelling for the boys to do the same.
When the whistle came, the Blues celebrated. The call? The Tri-City’s maul had failed to move forward. No motion ahead and they had the scrum just past the twenty meter line.
Padraig tapped each of the forwards, a finger to their shoulder or back as they set in their huddle. Like he did back home. It was a ritual he performed with his pack in Ireland. It was a sign to them. Together now, lads.
Mitch fed the ball into the middle. The groans of the first three rows were finally, again, music to his ears. They moved in one motion, a unit as strong as anyone would find, pushing forward to move over the ball.
When it was clear, Champ passed out to Del, lucky number thirteen, and that’s the last Padraig witnessed. His job was to support the runner, be there and ready for a pass if needed. And he did his job, as good or better than for Munster or the Irish squad. With the rain pelting down, he could have stepped back onto the field at Aviva Stadium. The cloudy skies and wind, the hush of the play, because when he was in the zone, those sixty-five thousand fans didn’t exist. Only the play.
The whistle sounded and the roars went up. Del had scored a try.
After celebrating with the boys, he looked to the sidelines for Gillian. She, too, was jumping up and down, hugging Coach. Then she did a little dance, like an Irish jig, and Padraig ached to walk off the pitch, drag her behind him, and leave it all behind. Because now he knew, there was so much more to life.
Rory sent the kick off long and high. Not bad for thirty-mile per hour winds. Padraig made a mental note to make the boy breakfast. Even with the wind behind them, it was still a damn good kick. The Tri-City full back took it in goal beyond the try line and kicked instead of running it out, but the wind was at the Blues’ back, and the ball hung high, suspended in the air. The Blues rushed forward, once again feeling the potential hanging like the ball, that this game could still be theirs.
It was a collision of bodies, each man’s goal the same—get the fucking ball. But Tri-City won, their left wing grabbing it out of the sky. As if they shared the same gut, Padraig could feel the disappointment in each man around him. But in mere seconds, their pack stormed down on the left wing, and the inexperienced young man ran the ball out of touch.
The lineout was theirs. Time on the clock. Thirty-eight minutes, fifty-two seconds.
Shano wiped the ball, then passed the towel to Gillian. For a second, her gaze met Padraig’s, and he read the same excitement in her eyes. Like she’d told him, she believed in the club. And so should he.
Del stepped up to Shano and gave him the play, but it was lost in the wind to Padraig. Jimmy leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “The cabin.”
What the fuck did that mean?
Shano launched the ball. It gave them only seconds to react, but Padraig was on it. He was the jumper. Like in the river, Jimmy and Dave hoisted him in the air. At first, Padraig struggled against their hold, so foreign from what he knew, what he understood to be right. He was leaning too far to center, but with a pinch at his leg, he straightened, and the ball came true.
As expected, the Tri-City’s line contested the throw, but the boys still held him suspended, and with a push and a war cry, Padraig was launched over the top of the opposing team, ball still in hand. He rolled down the bodies, head over heels and landed on his feet.
Whether it was surprise or uncertainty, men stilled in their spots. Time moved in measured frames around him. But he was on his feet and moving. Not fast for his size, but few in front of him, and he could see the line. Bold and beautiful, the sacred and intangible force drew him toward the goal.
Out of the corner of his eye, forms approached from both sides. He searched for streaks of blue, but all was a haze. The decision, whether he understood it on a conscious level or not, had already been made. Blood lust surged, and beyond anything else, he believed he would get over the line.
Just before the try line, an opposing player latched onto his left arm, dragging him down, and then another at his back. But he still pounded forward and nothing else mattered at that moment but the line. And the ball over the line.
A body hit him hard in the gut, and he lost his wind, doubling over. Stretching, he used all of his frame and launched himself, ball in the lead hand, toward the line. Like Superman.
He landed with an umph and had barely
caught his breath before a hand tugged hard on his jersey, yanking him to his feet.
There had been no sound, and then, in an instant, noise. Shouts and players all around him, tugging and slapping. He’d scored the try.
The Blues swarmed together, their heads down into one gigantic hug. Padraig would have scoffed if he hadn’t been so damn happy. A month ago, he would have disentangled and left for the sidelines, but today he was in the center of it, and the mass of bodies moved like a giant amoeba on the pitch, morphing and changing in shape as some players pulled one way, other lads another.
The Blues conversion attempt went wide, but it didn’t matter. They had still won. The final whistle blew, and they raised their voice in song, the same one from the cabin.
When Del finally broke the pack to line up for the other team, Padraig strained to find Gillian. She was packing her gear up in a large duffel, bent over, facing away from the pitch.
As a few stragglers ran past, slapping him on the back for the try, Padraig picked up his pace until he was jogging toward her. At the last minute, she noticed him and straightened just as he rushed to her and grabbed her off the ground.
“Hey!” she shouted, and even though she put up a struggle, he silenced her with his mouth. When she finally returned his kiss, she softened, and he set her on the ground, still holding her. They were snogging right in the middle of everyone, and he didn’t give a fuck. Only Gillian.
A loud clearing of throat broke them apart, but neither looked away. Padraig held her gaze until she smiled, and he knew then, that it was all good.
Del punched him in the shoulder. “Coach wants to see you. Like right now.”
He finally broke his gaze from Gillian but didn’t dare let her go. “Now?”
“That’s what he said.”
She squeezed his hand. “Go on. I’ll be right here when you’re finished, and we can head over to the cabin.”
He gave her one last kiss, then turned to follow Del. He walked with Padraig to midfield, then pointed toward Coach and the smug bastard behind the goal. “Good luck, mate.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Nope, he said it was private.”
Jaysus. Now what?
The man and Coach were deep in discussion, but when Padraig approached, they both stopped and turned.
Coach didn’t hesitate and directed an introduction to the man next to him. “As you know, this is Padraig O’Neale, second-row.”
Janey Mack. Holy shit. Could it be? He pumped the man’s hand. “Good to meet you.”
Chapter 28
Oh, shit. Had she just parked over someone’s grave marker? Gillian shifted the car and reversed back out the way she had come. She had tried to park parallel to the gravesite, but that wasn’t working as Andrew’s stone was smack jammers in the middle of a ton of other graves. Her parents had decided on this impersonal graveyard for his final resting place instead of her suggestion, which was to have him cremated and his ashes sailed out to the middle of the Bay.
That was more Andrew.
But then, she couldn’t have shown him the Mustang. So there was a reason for everything.
“Did I hit anything?”
Padraig turned in his seat, wrenching his head over his shoulder. “Nah. Just a couple of gravestones. But you did smash some flower bouquets.”
“Grrrr…” She drove forward again, nosing the beast in front first, as close to his headstone as she could get. The rear of the car jutted out into the drive that circled the cemetery. She’d move it if anyone needed to get by.
She had spiffed up in a light floral dress for the occasion, except her Converse, and had worn her hair down instead of the braid because Padraig said it was beautiful. This was the first time she’d been out to the cemetery since the funeral, and she was glad Padraig had offered to come with her.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress again.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Do you want me to come with you or stay here?”
“Give me a minute, will you?”
“Sure.” He bowed his back as he searched for something in his pocket, then drew out a long row of beads with a crucifix at the end. “Would you like to borrow my rosary?”
Gillian smiled at his thoughtfulness. “Nah, that’s all right. You keep it.”
She walked to Andrew’s grave and sat cross-legged beside his headstone. The grass was long, and colored leaves littered the space around her, reminding her of Fruity Pebbles cereal. Probably from the maple tree only a handful of feet away. It was Indian summer in Northern Michigan, when the season went out in a fight, warming the days but cooling the nights, playing with their minds, leading them to believe that winter would never come. The leaves had already started falling from the trees, but a tepid wind still blew from Lake Michigan.
His grave was bare—no gifts or flowers or pictures. Her mum didn’t believe in any of that except leaving him oatmeal raisin cookies on his birthday every year, and that was in the spring. The animals had scampered away with the sweets ages ago.
“Well, I got her going, Andy.” Gillian motioned at the car with a stretch of her arm. “What do you think? Looking pretty good, huh?”
Gillian paused, allowing time for his response, then continued, “Sorry, I haven’t been out to visit you in a while…okay, well never, but…”
Her elbow on her knee, she rested her hand in her chin. “I hate you, you know. What stupid asshole takes too many drugs? Okay...that sounds horrible. I love you as much as I hate you. Is that better?”
A car approached from the direction of the gate and slowed to park about a hundred feet away. Glad she didn’t have to move the Mustang, Gillian turned back to Andrew. “I was thinking of calling her Irish. The Mustang. She is green after all. And before you tell me it doesn’t sound like a girl’s name, it definitely suits her. And since you can’t really argue, that’s what it’s gonna be.”
Doors slammed, and Gillian turned to see an older couple, the woman with a cane, start to walk slowly along a cement path to a section of the cemetery scattered with small American flags.
Pulling at the grass made her feel better so she did it again, grabbing chunks and ripping them out, then letting the wind carry them from her open palm.
“You’re probably going to roll over, but guess who I’m dating?”
The noise of passing cars filled the void of silence.
“Go on. Guess.”
Nothing, and Gillian had started to feel stupid. Everyone had told her it was therapeutic to come visit his grave and talk to him, but she just felt ridiculous.
“Well, I’ll tell you.” She paused for effect. “A big, buff athlete.” Another pause. “You don’t believe me? Well, it’s true. He’s a rugby player, so you’d approve. Not that I give a shit if you do or not, but he plays for the Blues. He’s from Ireland so that’s my saving grace. He’s in the car waiting for me. He came here with me.” She backpedaled. “For me.”
Her legs had cramped, which was unlike her with all her yoga practice, so she unfolded her legs and stood. “Anyway, I’ve got a man in my life now. Not sure if he is going to stay or go, but it’s a start, right?”
An idea popped into her head, and she headed back to the car. Through the window, she asked Padraig, “Will you hand me the Rubik’s cube in the glove box?”
He retrieved it without questioning what she was doing. Instead, he asked, “Are you okay?”
Gillian nodded and took the cube from him. Before she could pull her hand away, Padraig grabbed her wrist and kissed her fingers. “Give a shout if you need me.”
“I’ll only be a minute more.”
She and Padraig had both tried to figure out the damn thing, getting all the colors on the right sides. As determined as she was, they could get no more than two sides, the white and the blue. So she had messed it up again since only two finished sides looked wonky. It was beautiful in its chaotic colors, she thought, beautiful in its non-perfection. And a treasure for him once aga
in.
Gillian laid the Rubik’s cube at the center of the headstone. She dusted her bum of grass leaves. “Glad you like Irish. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? I’m very proud of us.”
As Gillian turned to leave, she noticed the old couple watching her. Too far to read their expressions, she waved quickly and hopped into the car. Over the large hood of the V8, Andrew’s headstone wasn’t visible, only the tree behind it, but she spoke with conviction. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Padraig seemed to realize she wasn’t speaking to him and didn’t say a word. He must have been getting used to all her strangeness—that it didn’t faze him she was talking to the dead while he sat right next to her.
She reversed up onto the drive and then set the car in park. Without glancing back, she gunned the engine for Andrew, then gasped when she remembered the old couple.
Padraig laughed. “Nothing like scaring the old folks to an early grave.”
“Oops, shit.” She cringed and drove away, laughing with him.
Epilogue
Gillian waited to the side while Padraig checked in at the American Airlines counter. Wearing only jeans and the Blues club hoodie, he could have passed for any traveler. The rugby season for this year had just finished a few weeks ago and he was already leaving. And she still didn’t know if he’d be back. She’d hinted, oh, she’d fished for information from him on what his next plan was, but he had given her very little, undecided he had said, didn’t know himself.
Boarding pass in hand, he sauntered over to her. She hid her nerves and sadness behind a brave smile.
Last night, they had cuddled while watching Million Dollar Baby. She had insisted they watch it before he left, but when the movie revealed the meaning behind his words on their first date, she had cried.
He’d barely said a word throughout the movie. She had lain with her legs across his lap, and he had touched her in sweet, minute caresses, starting with her toes, up her thighs, subtle gestures over her hips, but she still had squirmed.
