In Touch (Play On Book 1) Read online

  All eyes turned to Padraig again. Feck. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. No way could he play for any team but Ireland, even if that wasn’t going to happen. And then play against his old teammates? What honor was in that? He bowed his head with the thought and had nothing to say.

  Coach saved him by continuing, “So let’s drive it hard the next couple of weeks, get us up to where we want to be. Anything that we had put on the backburner to address later, we’re gonna work on now. I’ll break you into special units to work on strengths and weaknesses.”

  “Excuse me, Scotch?” A lad with coifed hair raised his hand as if he was in school. “I don’t think I can make it to most games in November ’cause I gotta pull extra shifts at my job to save more money for Christmas.”

  Coach held up two hands in front of him. “We’ll talk about that later, Austin, see what we can do to help. Any other questions?”

  Silence prevailed. A few stared out into space, as if lost in the dream. Only Padraig, and he was sure Rory and Del, were itching to get onto the pitch. Get out of that room and do something. Get moving. It was the longest Padraig had gone without training in years, and it looked like he was going to have to do most of it himself.

  “So that leads me to the last bit of business. She should be here any minute.” Coach glanced up at the clock. “Since we are trying to give this club and you lads the best chance of success, management have decided to introduce a specialist for the team.” He cleared his throat and rushed, “And she’s volunteered her time.”

  Just then a soft knock occurred on the back door that led to the pitch. Without waiting for an answer, the brunette from Thursday walked in. Today, she wore black leggings with a funky pattern at the bottom, an oversize white collared shirt, and a fedora.

  “This is Gillian Sommersby, and now the Blues physical therapist.”

  She passed a quick look over the men, resting at last on Padraig at the end of the row. A moment of recognition tweaked in her smile.

  “She’s all right,” whispered Rory when she stepped in front of the semicircle.

  What the hell was he looking at? Fair enough, she was cute, and again today, his belly had roiled at the sight of her, but her getup was…odd. This whole circus was strange and made Padraig mighty uncomfortable.

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “The Traverse City Blues has asked me to come on board to help you with injury rehabilitation and pain regulation.”

  Padraig’s heart skipped a beat. Did this have anything to do with him? Couldn’t be. They wouldn’t get a specialist just because he needed pain meds to play rugby. Lots of the lads were on them. They just didn’t get caught like Padraig had.

  “You can regulate me any day,” Dick joked, which received a few laughs.

  That didn’t make Coach happy, anger furrowing his brow. He hitched up his pants over his belly, then pointed at Dick. “You’re a starting member of this team, Dick. Act like it.”

  Coach motioned toward her. “Sorry about that, Gillian, please continue.”

  “Like sports medicine?” The short hooker with the beard piped up. She gave him a grateful smile.

  Gillian walked over to the table at the wall and set down a worn brown satchel with musical notes patched on the front. “Yes, similar, but not only in the traditional sense. Meaning, I incorporate traditional physical therapy with alternative methods to get the best response from your body.”

  Snickers and laughs, and one guy even let out a whoop.

  “So give the lads an idea of what you mean,” Coach prompted from behind her. Having surrendered the floor to Gillian, he was now leaning against the row of lockers at the back.

  “Well, not only do I work with muscle and joint mobilization, but I also incorporate acupuncture, acupressure, massage, yoga, and herbal supplements. Whatever is needed. It is a holistic approach to injury and body management.” She cringed. “Have I lost anyone yet?”

  She waited, and then continued when only feet scuffles replied to her query. “Coach, can I borrow your white board?”

  “Aye, sure, Gillian. Just let me wipe the plays off first—”

  “No problem, I can do it,” she said as she grabbed the eraser from Coach and stepped to the board.

  She bent over to retrieve the marker cap she dropped. Now, that view wasn’t so bad.

  She took her time drawing a rough sketch of the human body. She made short strikes in a star around the left knee. “Let’s say you have a knee injury, and after a hard hit, you suffer from pain for the rest of the game.” She took the marker and highlighted around the kneecap. “You can mobilize muscles and joints through therapy, and the pain seemingly goes away, but really you are only covering up the injury. Because when the body is in pain, it will try to assist, and often overuses other parts to compensate.” She then drew long circles around the outside form of the upper leg. “The knee injury could lead to a thigh muscle injury, as is seen in most cases, because the body will try and balance for the lack of strength in and around the knee by putting more strain on certain leg muscles.” She seemed to pause for effect. “And the next thing you know your groin is out.”

  Half of the lads groaned, some of them cupping their dicks.

  “Yep, works every time.” She laughed, but there was an evil tinge to the chuckle. Padraig would bet money she was getting a kick out of their discomfort.

  Coach walked over and stood next to her. “I’m going to put a timesheet here,” he said, motioning to the table with Gillian’s bag. “Each one of you will sign up for a twenty minute slot with Gillian.” A couple of the lads hooted, but Coach silenced them with a finger. “Over the next week, she’ll go through any past or present injuries you have or had, any current pain when you’re playing on or off the pitch, and any other health issues you feel you need addressed to perform at a peak level.”

  Before Coach had stepped away, several boys jumped up and swarmed the sign-up sheet. Coach had to yell to be heard over the noise in the room. “As soon as you’re on the sheet, get out on the pitch for warm-up.”

  Padraig stayed well back from the pack but watched as a couple of the lads engaged Gillian in conversation. She was animated in her discussion, as if she was excited about what they had asked.

  When he finished taping up his thighs with the electrical tape and tubing for the lifts, the room was empty and the signup sheet had been knocked to the floor. Grabbing it up, he perused the options. But there were none. Every single slot was filled. Fuck it. He tossed it onto the table and throttled through the door to the pitch. He didn’t need any hocus-pocus new age bullshit to help him with his pain. That was what the pills were for. And he had his exercises. He’d get by. He had for the seven years he’d played professionally. It wasn’t like there were going to be big hits on this field.

  He had to do his time until the drama blew over and he’d be back with Munster, the returned hero, better than before he left. Reformed. Who didn’t love a fallen hero to rise up once again better than the Irish? He’d get there.

  By the time Padraig placed his first foot on the Blues rugby pitch, the rest of them had finished warm-up, high-knees, shadow runs, and butt-kicks, and Coach was trying to organize them into specialty groups. Padraig headed for Del because he was the captain of the team and Padraig wanted some answers.

  An insane noise blared from the loudspeakers when he was a few strides from reaching Del. Moaning whales and whimsical harps? Combined, they created a vomitous sound that retched out of the stadium speakers. As one, the team turned heads toward Coach. Padraig felt bad for him. Even at the distance between them, Coach appeared flustered, an awkward walk-run on his way into the building. Gillian ran out the door to meet him halfway at the try line, and an animated discussion ensued.

  Most of the team had gathered around Del and Padraig. “Hope Coach doesn’t let her sound this shit off while we practice,” one of lads said.

  “Why couldn’t she play some hip-hop or something?” Mitch asked no one
in particular. Padraig was thinking the same. If you wanted to pump a bunch of athletes up, this new age elevator music wasn’t the way to go.

  “Coach is coming back,” one of them said.

  Del introduced Padraig to the two players beside him. “Padraig, mate, this is Dick and Damian, they’re the Blues’ wings, also known collectively as Dick-n-Mouth.” Both shook Padraig’s extended hand halfheartedly, too focused on the happenings at the other end of the pitch.

  “Hoo-wee, and she’s coming, too,” Dick said. “Right this way, boys.” He puffed out his chest and began to do some warm-up exercises, whirly gigs with his legs, like you did when you were cold going onto the pitch. What a feckin’ eejit—Dick was acting the peacock.

  Gillian approached them at a fast pace, the piece of paper in her hand clipped and bent with the breeze she created. She stopped directly in front of Padraig, out of breath, her chest heaving. Padraig didn’t want to stare so looked down at her shoes instead. The same black Converse she had worn last week.

  “Mr. O’Neale?” she asked.

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “You didn’t sign up for your initial consultation.” Her hat was gone, and as her breathing settled, she pulled strands of loose curls away from her face and tucked them behind her ears.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could sense the other boys moving away. At least that Dick fella had stopped his ridiculous warm-up routine. What a muppet.

  “There weren’t any spots left, but I don’t mind. I don’t need an appointment.” He teased the last word as if it was a joke, but Gillian didn’t appreciate it. Not one bit.

  “I’m already late getting started or I’d offer to add you to the end of the list, but there won’t be time today.”

  “No problem. Whenever.”

  “You don’t seem too enthused with my services.”

  Padraig glanced away briefly, then turned back to her. “I don’t need your services.”

  “That’s not your choice. Coach McKenzie is your boss. You are employed with the Traverse City Blues Rugby Club, and this is part of your tenure.”

  “Listening to this?” Padraig’s temper was rising. He could feel it in his jaw, and his back pain was making him a cranky prick. “What the feck is this shite?”

  “Music therapy.”

  “For what? The dead?”

  She bit her lower lip, and he could tell she held back the thousands of oaths she would have spewed forth if she wasn’t in a professional environment. At a pub, he probably would’ve deserved a slap.

  “I apologize,” Padraig grunted out.

  “As you should.” At that moment, the music changed to a twinkling of piano keys, a soft melody almost like a lullaby. A small but sure breeze lifted strands of her hair outward like static electricity from a balloon. Her gaze locked with Padraig’s, and for a moment his life softened, the edges not so cruel and bitter. It was as if she had radiated a calming spell onto him. With all the funky clothes she wore, maybe she was a witch. His ma believed in the banshee, so he supposed anything was possible.

  When one of the lads shifted into his peripheral vision, breaking the spell, Padraig cleared his throat and looked away.

  “I’m working group sessions all day Thursday, but you can stay late after practice, and we can do your interview then,” Gillian instructed.

  Payback obviously. She was standing her ground, letting him know she wouldn’t be walked on. Even though he understood, and would have done the same himself, that agreement didn’t relieve his irritation. Not a request. A command. Either he could follow through and put himself right in her and the club’s eyes, or he could flack it. Not go. But for now, she was waiting for an answer. “Sure ’nough, I’ll wait around.”

  A slight nod of her head in recognition. “I’m sure you will.”

  Whether it was sarcasm or not, Padraig couldn’t tell. He didn’t know her from Adam.

  “Well, I’m late starting this morning, so I’ll talk to you then.” Without acknowledging the other fellas, she turned on her heel and headed back to the complex.

  The entire squad watched her walk the pitch until the door closed behind her. A strange one, she was.

  Chapter 5

  Gillian’s best friend, Junette, drove up as she was opening the garage door. Music blared from Junette’s open window. Gillian called out, “Come here and help a sister out.”

  Junette climbed out of her compact car, dragging an oversize handbag with her. “I’m coming. Hold your horses.”

  “Can you hop into the driver’s seat? I’m going to push the beast out of the garage, and when it’s halfway down the driveway, you step on the brake.”

  Junette dropped her bag on the grass. “You’re all gung ho, aren’t ya? Haven’t been here two minutes and you’re on me like a fly to shit.”

  Gillian laughed. “I’m feeling good about this whole thing, so yeah, let’s go!”

  After Junette hopped in, Gillian went around to the back to push the car out nose first. “Ready?”

  “Don’t you need the ignition on for the car brakes to work?”

  “The car won’t start, ya dork. Why do you think I’m pushing it out of the garage? For exercise?”

  Junette stuck out her tongue before shutting her door and rolling down the window. “So I’m not mechanical. Sue me.” With a wave at Gillian to go ahead, she said, “Go on, then, Fix-it Felix.”

  With a laugh, Gillian pushed hard against the trunk. Her feet slipped as she found traction, but the beast finally started to inch forward. When it picked up momentum on the decline, she let go. “Brake!”

  The car came to a jerky stop with a short squeak of the brakes. Junette shifted it into park and hopped out. “Shoot, that was tough going. I’ve worked myself up a thirst.”

  Gillian pointed to a green reusable grocery bag on the lawn. She ducked her head under the hood, but could hear her friend rifling through sack. A bottle of beer appeared in Gillian’s line of sight.

  “No thanks, no beer, but can you open my wine?” Gillian swiped a dirty finger down both sides of her face like war paint. “My hands are greasy.”

  “Still off the beer?”

  “Yup.”

  “Like the feather, by the way.”

  Gillian tapped her head until she found what Junette referred to. “Oh, yeah, found this gull feather on the lawn this morning. Thought it added to my warrior look.”

  “Truly hard core.” More rustling, and Junette said, “I found the six-pack, but no bottle of wine.”

  Gillian balanced the troubleshooting manual on the engine block, wedging it between some clear tubing and what she had identified as the radiator. She weighted the first pages down with a wrench so the book would stay open. “It’s there at the bottom.”

  Junette snorted. “You mean this airplane-sized bottle of Cab Sav?”

  “One glass of red wine a day is beneficial. Finally recognized by the US health system, known for centuries by the Europeans.”

  Gillian turned in time to catch Junette making crazy eyes at her. “What?”

  “Nothing. I guess that means I get to finish this six-pack off myself. I’m good with that.”

  “All yours.”

  “So how was your first day with the Blues?”

  Gillian shrugged, then took a sip of the wine and set it on the ground. “All right.” She unscrewed the cap on the air filter and lifted it off.

  “You don’t sound too enthused. Not like when you talked about it this past spring.” Junette pulled a portable camp chair from the lawn to the car and took a seat. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea. You can’t change people if they don’t want to be changed.”

  Gillian couldn’t look at her best friend so busied herself inspecting the guts of the car, not really seeing anything. She’d started out in college as a music major, but changed her second year to physical therapy. So much happened that year, and she had been determined then, as much as she was now, to have a career that might help others. If she
only impacted one person, that was enough. But to her surprise, she found she was good at it, too. In her own non-traditional ways. “No, but I have to try.”

  “That’s honorable, Gill, but why don’t you just get a job as a PT in an established practice like everyone else out of college? That would be better for you.”

  “Because I’m not everyone else.”

  Junette snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Gillian eyed the air filter, blew into the creases, and then placed it back into the circular receptacle.

  “Gillian, did you hear what I said?”

  “Sorry, no, what?” Gillian walked around the side of the car to give it an appraising look. All the work. Years of fixing the rusted frame, replacing piece after piece from entire doors to floor pedals, updating the engine, everything. Andrew was the talented one as machines went. She had mostly handed him wrenches and contributed her pennies. She should have watched more closely, should have listened when he spouted off his mechanical wisdom.

  “I said would you turn this shit off? Every time I come here, you’re playing the same crap.” She swirled her beer in the air. “Like hello, we left the eighties over thirty years ago.”

  Simple Minds was singing “Don’t You Forget About Me” and hell if she was going to turn it down or off. It was one of her favorites. “Eighties music is the best. So much passion and ingenuity. Folk will catch on and my music will come back full force. I’m just way ahead of the rest of you.”

  Junette blew a raspberry. “Whatevah.”

  “Plus, it’s a beautiful night for it.” Gillian opened her arms and did a slow twirl. “A warm summer evening in Michigan. Lawn mowers buzzing, sprinklers sprinkling. The kind of balmy night you want to sit out and turn up the music until the mosquitoes drive you nuts and you head inside. The kind of summer night you’d love to be in love.” Gillian let her arms flop to her sides and turned back toward the car. “I was born in the wrong era.”

  “Old news. Let’s move on.”

  “No, I’m serious. I don’t get it these days. It all seems so complicated. All this technology and pace. I can barely breathe trying to keep up.”