In Touch (Play On Book 1) Page 3

  “Huh. Coach hadn’t mentioned.”

  “Yep, it’s neither here nor there.” Coach’s voice boomed from the entrance to his office.

  Shane punched Gillian softly in the arm. “Nice to see you again, kid.” He walked backward away from her.

  Kid? She was twenty-four with a university degree and a license to practice under her belt. Six years of study. Plus, all the extra classes for acupuncture, herbal remedies, and yoga instruction. Not that much younger than Shane.

  “Come on into the office, Gillian.” Coach waved her in as he moved toward the door.

  After he shut it behind her, she took a seat in the first chair.

  Coach plopped down across from her. “How’ve you been?”

  “Ah yah, fine.” She swallowed, then wet her lips.

  “Was surprised to hear from you honestly. Didn’t think you’d want anything to do with the Blues.”

  She’d been looping one of her curls in a finger and stopped. “I have nothing against the Blues.”

  Coach gave her a sad look. She hated them the worst.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I want to work here. I want to try my new therapies. And hey, you’ve got to use your connections when starting out, right?”

  “Have you tried anywhere else? Not that I don’t want you here.” He backpedaled. “We’d be glad for a physical therapist.”

  Compared to last year when they didn’t have anyone. Gillian knew. Her parents had kept her in the loop. Even though her dad never went to the games anymore, they had kept in touch with Coach. Then what was the problem? She pressed on. “Are you happy for me to try out some different ideas?”

  Coach yanked on his beard something fierce, telling Gillian he wasn’t as sure about her gig here as she was.

  She plastered on a smile. “And I’m volunteering my time for experience, Coach. An offer doesn’t get much better than that.”

  Defeat sounded in his heavy sigh. “You’re right. I’m just not sure how the lads will react to some of the practices you have in mind.”

  Ah-ha. So was Coach just doing this for Andrew or her parents? Alternative medicine and holistic practices were all the rage in other parts of the world, but obviously hadn’t quite made their way to northern Michigan.

  “Gillian?”

  “Oh, sorry, was just thinking of how to approach the boys with it.” She reached over and grabbed Coach’s hand on the desk. “Let me try, okay?”

  He remained silent for a minute, then asked, “You think you can handle them? They’ll let you wrap their ankles and massage their muscles, but are you willing to take on twenty men and yoga?”

  Grr…it wasn’t just yoga. It was the whole approach to pain management. Did she have to convince Coach, too?

  As if waving her thought away, Coach answered his own question. “Ach, you’ll do fine.”

  “I know I will. But also, the Blues will be more successful for it.”

  Coach nodded slowly, his gaze averted. “I’d like you to try and help our newest player, just came in from Ireland. He’s taking oxycodone at the moment.”

  “Whoa.” So addictive.

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  “Supposedly for pain. But it’s a long story. He’s come to us from a professional European club. Just see if you can do anything for the lad. You might have seen him as you came in. He’s tall with dark hair. Our new number five.”

  He must mean Mr. Roaming Eyes. Total jock head. But Irish? That was different. She’d always wanted to go to Ireland. “What did his agent say?”

  “Not much.”

  “Why is he here?”

  Coach tapped a pen on the large calendar planner on his desk. “Don’t really know honestly, but if he comes around, he could be good for the club.”

  “And you think I can help him?”

  “We can only hope.”

  Chapter 4

  It was time to get up. Morning sun slanted through the vertical blinds, illuminating dust particles in the air. The small, foreign room offered no comfort. His heart ached, his body heavy with dread for the day. He had no desire to play rugby. Not here.

  Some days, like yesterday, his anger blinded him so entirely he couldn’t even dredge up enough passion to want to play rugby at all.

  He had slept away most of the weekend, barely interacting with the other boys, only once taking a cab to and from the shops to buy groceries. Hell, Del had been out drinking most of the weekend. And Ruaridh Cameron, Rory as Del called him, hadn’t been around at all, but Padraig hadn’t bothered to ask where. A twenty-two-year-old young buck Scotsman? Probably out with a girl.

  When Padraig tried to roll over to his side, his lower back muscles seized, shooting darts of pain down his left leg. He wrapped half of the pillow around his face and bit down to muffle his groan. Most mornings he woke to an unbearable throbbing in his back, the pain increasing with movement, and no matter how gently he tried to maneuver out of bed, it always ended in a battle of wills. The last couple of months, Padraig rarely won.

  At twenty-six, almost twenty-seven, he was an old man.

  At each big breath out, he moved limbs, trying to ease himself from the mattress.

  He stilled to take a break from the pain. Sweat trickling down his forehead to his temples, Padraig lay twisted in the sheets, staring at the ceiling. He let the ache subside and shifted until he was perpendicular to the single bed, then draped his legs over the side.

  Most nights he relived the horror of getting busted by the WADA official, the entire episode playing in vivid detail. The Doping Control Officer approaching him in the locker room in front of the other lads after their victory against Leinster. The room going silent. Peeing in a cup. The man watching…everything. Padraig’s utter and absolute mortification. If he was lucky, only some of the memory invaded his sleep other nights, segments flashing uncontrollably in an abstract chronology.

  A tear dripped down the side of his face into his ear. Annoying, but it was nothing to the memory that awakened pain so severe, his throat swelled. He gasped, wetting his mouth with his tongue—once, twice. His nostrils flared like they did right before he lost it.

  Not today.

  With a growl, he wrenched himself into a seated position, letting the waves of pain subside before he stood. He rubbed his face abrasively to wake and then started his stretches, the same routine he’d been doing since before the sanction. Without accessibility to Munster’s team physician or team therapist, Padraig was unsure if he needed to change the exercises, but he kept at it.

  The sound of chatter and the clunk of a bowl onto a wooden table hit him before he made the stairs. The house they shared was old and small, but it didn’t bother him. He had grown up in a large family in the middle of Cork City centre with less space than the three boys had. In Ireland, their terrace house was old and thick, breezeblock built, but still hadn’t muffled the sounds of six kids in the family. Good Catholic breeding he was from, three boys and three girls, him the second eldest but oldest male.

  He played with the bottle in his loose pocket, the tiny clicks of the pills against the plastic music to his ears. Assurance.

  A younger fella was blending some sort of breakfast muck in the food processor when Padraig stepped into the kitchen. Must be Rory. He turned at Padraig’s entrance. “Mornin’.”

  Del only raised his coffee mug in salute, then went back to the laptop that rested on the table in front of him. A bowl of Weetabix sat at his elbow getting mushy.

  “How’s the form?” Padraig asked as he pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He opened the fridge, pretending to browse for food. With his back toward the lads, he quickly unscrewed the cap to the bottle and rushed a pill into his big palm. In one fluid motion, he popped the pill into his mouth as he raised his arms above his head in a yawn and stretch.

  Neither seemed to notice.

  “Forgot to mention my one rule in the house, bro.”


  Feck. Maybe Del had. Padraig swallowed the pill dry. His heart raced as he turned toward the sink to disguise his anxiety.

  “No sex the night before a match.”

  Padraig snorted out his nose. Was he kidding? “And who made you boss of the house?”

  “I did.”

  Unbelievable. Padraig took a deep breath. Outside the kitchen window, an older gentleman in his robe led a small yappy dog around on a leash in his front yard, plastic bag at the ready for him to do his business. This whole situation was getting worse by the minute.

  “Be ready in ten, Paddy,” Del said to Padraig’s back, “or I’m leavin’ without you.”

  Padraig whirled on him and grabbed the back of the wooden chair so it clunked loudly on the ceramic floor. “Don’t call me Paddy.” No one had that right except for his teammates back home.

  The whir of Rory’s blender stopped, filling the room with silence as Del and Padraig stared each other down. The nickname was non-negotiable, and Del must have sensed the same.

  Del’s face remained expressionless except one raised eyebrow, his fingers hovering like claws over his keyboard. “No worries, mate, what you want us to call you then?”

  “How about my name?”

  “Nah, everyone on the team gets a nickname. Plus, your name is too hard. Like Rory’s, except his nickname sounds like his real name.”

  Padraig pinched his brows together, lifting his hands in wonderment. “For who?”

  Del had started typing again. “For everyone.”

  Padraig pushed off the back of the chair and turned. He pulled a bowl from the cupboard, ripped open the paper packet of instant oatmeal, and poured it into the bowl. “Whatever.”

  There was a pause, and out of the corner of his eye as he topped the dry cereal with water at the sink, he could see Rory trying to smother a laugh at whatever Del did behind his back.

  Del’s deep voice continued in his slow fashion. “I think something simple. Like…Irish.”

  “To Irish.” Rory raised his breakfast shake and drank.

  When Padraig popped his oats into the microwave, Del’s chair scraped loudly along the floor. “Ten minutes, mate, and we’re leaving.”

  “Not a problem, mate.”

  Rory raised his glass to Padraig. “You wanna try?”

  “No, thanks, that looks like shite. I’ll stick with my porridge.”

  “It’s good for yees—it’s got yogurt, spinach, eggs, and blueberries.”

  Ugh, fuck that shit. Padraig ignored him and sat at the table, shoveling big scoops of steaming cereal into his mouth. “Ye have a good weekend, then?”

  “Aye, good enough, spent most of my time training.”

  “On the weekend?” Padraig looked at him skeptically.

  “I go over there to do sprint exercises and practice my kicking.” Rory gulped his green shake in one go, plugging his nose to get it down. Was this kid for real?

  “What position are you playing?” Padraig asked him.

  “Full-back right now, but hope to move up to center.”

  No chance in hell. Good height but the kid was a stick.

  “Let’s go!” Del yelled from the front door.

  Padraig and Rory clambered from the kitchen, and the men and three large gear bags crammed into Del’s two-door banger with rust around the wheel arches. How the mighty had fallen. Some of the Irish players that had sponsorship, like Keating and Mahony, were driving around sports cars. Here, because he was the new bloke, he had to move the front seat forward to squeeze his large frame into the rear. When Del pushed the driver’s seat back, Padraig’s legs cramped up around his ears. He buckled himself in and turned his body so that he could stretch the length of the backseat.

  The Kiwi couldn’t have been driving on the right side of the road for very long, and sure enough, he peeled in reverse out the driveway, the tires squealing as the car looped around to face the wrong side of the road.

  Rory laughed, but Padraig bit his tongue, shaking his head in silence.

  Once they had come to an abrupt stop, Del drove slowly, to Padraig’s relief, passing rows of boxy houses, most with front porches like their own and manicured lawns with the same bushes and flower baskets along the fronts.

  They turned onto a main road that led to a T-junction and the main artery that ran along the waterfront and through the city. Hooking a left, they passed the same way the cab had brought him in on Thursday.

  Traverse City hadn’t looked like much from the airport until they’d hit the shoreline. The area catered to tourists, classy downtown and a nice waterfront, but too many resort hotels blocked the view. Lake Michigan sparkled from between the buildings. Padraig was riveted to the glimpses of blue that passed in short bursts, a staccato performance of man against nature. Sad, but the buildings won by a long shot.

  It was Padraig’s first time in the States, unless he counted when he was a baby, which he didn’t. Nothing like Cork, a beautiful city with lots of character. The rest of the world was so busy looking at Dublin they rarely saw what a great city Cork was. The coast was even better. In the summers, his ma and da had driven the family out of town past Ringaskiddy, a patchwork of light and dark green fields flowing into the Atlantic ocean, to the colorful town of Kinsale where his ma’s sister lived, the buildings painted in bright oranges, blues, greens, and yellows. Trawlers and sailboats filled the large harbor, sometimes tied two or three thick to the docks.

  Padraig missed home already.

  When they finally arrived at the sports complex, Padraig’s back was aching. He wished he could pop another pill real quick, but there was too much activity around as the lads fed into a stream of players heading into the main entrance of the clubhouse.

  Bodies jostled and teammates called out to each other, the room reeking of male testosterone. Since Padraig still hadn’t been assigned a locker, he stood off to the side and watched, dumping his bag by a wall. There were some big fellas on the team, larger than he’d expected. But he hadn’t expected much.

  Coach weaved around the men down the center of the locker room to the far end, passing right under Padraig’s nose without even an acknowledgement. The boys naturally followed and gathered around Coach, some sitting on plastic stackable chairs, others leaning against the lockers and walls.

  Padraig trailed behind the rest, then sat on the end next to Rory.

  When the room quieted, Coach spoke, his back to a white board. “A few things I want to talk about before we get started on the pitch. First, I want to introduce you to the newest member of the team”—he waved at Padraig to his left—“Padraig O’Neale. Straight in from Ireland.”

  All eyes on him. There was some applause, but nothing hearty in it. He held his hand up in a half-wave to acknowledge them, though none was needed. He was the only new guy in the room. One of the lads with thighs wrapped for lifting, black electrical tape and tubing, nudged the guy next to him. No contest. Padraig had inches on him.

  “Padraig will be starting lock forward, our number five. He comes to us with more experience than the team put together with the exception of Del.”

  The Kiwi snorted, jerked back his head like a disgruntled horse, and crossed his beefy arms in front of his chest. “You got that right.”

  Coach ignored him. “He has over one hundred caps for his previous provincial club, Munster, and thirty caps for the Ireland International team.” He referred to his notes. “He was with Munster when they won a Heineken Cup and the Irish team when they won a 6 Nations Championship.”

  No response from the lads, as if Coach was speaking Chinese. “Give O’Neale some respect,” Coach said.

  At the cue, the players shifted noisily out of their seats and stood. With a single loud clap from Del, they started a rhythmic clap and stomp routine. It lasted only a minute, but Padraig couldn’t hide the smirk. What the hell were they doing? Must be some ritual they performed when someone did well in a game or maybe even at practice. What were they, in kindergarten? Rewarded for
good behavior? The haka he could understand. The Kiwis and other islanders had been doing a war dance before matches to intimidate their competitors for years. And it worked. It was daunting. He had stood in front of the almighty All Black team before, and there had been some serious passion, energy, and power radiating off them.

  But this?

  Every passing minute in this club seemed a bigger, fatter joke.

  The team looked to him for some sort of reaction. What did he do in return? High-five them all? Pat their bums, which American sportsmen seemed so fond of? He only nodded. “Thanks, lads.”

  He felt Coach’s stare on him and turned. Hard to read, Coach—the shaggy beard hiding his expression. He spoke to the team. “Thanks, boys.” They resettled into their seats, some throwing glances at Padraig, and none in a friendly manner. “Next business…” Coach began. “As you are all aware, the World Cup is next year.” Murmurs started between pairs of mates that Coach subdued with a raise of his hand. “We’ve been waiting to hear when the scouts are coming around to view the team in action, and we got a confirmation letter today.” He glanced down at the sheet. “Looks like they won’t give us a definite date, just that it will be one of our home matches at the end of this year.”

  There were loud groans, and then one of the players piped up. “At least it’s a home game. We’ll have some advantage.”

  “Not much,” scoffed Del.

  “Settle down,” Coach said as the banter reached a feverish pitch. The noise continued, so Coach backed up and pounded on the white board.

  As it quieted, Rory leaned into Padraig and whispered, “It’s not like any of us have a chance. Don’t know what they’re getting so excited about.” Padraig couldn’t agree more. Who in this motley crew would be called to represent their international team? Not one of them.

  “The only players not eligible for selection are Del and Rory. Mr. O’Neale is lucky enough to carry an American passport.”