In Touch (Play On #1) (11 page)

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 get 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.”

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.”

Padraig pulled her back into his embrace, to which she succumbed. He wanted badly to wipe away the conversation and start over. Luckily, Gillian did just that.

“You’re one of the best rugby players that the Blues have seen on their pitch. Yet, you care less. It breaks my heart, really.”

He rubbed his forehead in frustration. She hadn’t mentioned his meds, but it seemed like every time they spoke of the Blues, it was there, an elephant in every word. “I’ve just got a bit going on at the moment, Gill, but trust me when I say that rugby is my life.”

All the pain he suffered every day was a result of that passion. His love for rugby and nothing else. But how could he tell her about his past? Where he had been and how far he had fallen? He had learned that words didn’t work well with him. When he tried to rectify his behavior through explanation, it turned out wrong, turned against him to play out his worst fears. The media had taken all his comments, his defense, out of context until he had sounded like the biggest langer in the world. He’d learned the hard way to keep his mouth shut.

But he could show her.

He trailed kisses down the back of her ear, along her chin, then to her neck. Her small gasp of pleasure was all he needed to suck on the pulse zone in the fleshy part between her chin and neck. He dipped his right hand down to massage her clit through her shorts, using his other to squeeze her left breast, gently applying pressure against her nipple when he circled up over her fleece.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. The words carried away with the wind. He had massaged her to the point where Padraig thought she would come, then stopped. Not because he didn’t want her to, but because a young family walked by at the edge of the water. Each of them had their pants rolled up to not get wet, but still could enjoy the sensation of lapping water around their feet.

She wiggled to a sitting position, her eyes still glassy from arousal. “I think I might approach Scotch about water therapy for the team.”

Padraig groaned.

“I’m serious. All the big rugby teams in Australia do resistance training in the water a couple times a week.

“They have the weather for it.”

“We can make arrangements with the local pool on a Monday every other week instead of conditioning training.”

Even though Padraig was still unsure of her therapy methods, her passion was a turn-on. All the new-age music and yoga. All the acupuncture and salves that she applied to the boys’ ankles and shoulders that stunk to high heaven. She believed in it so strongly he couldn’t help wanting to believe in it, too. But wanting was the key word. He wasn’t ready to give up his pain meds, no matter how sexy and wonderful the woman was.

She now sat up cross-legged in the V of Padraig’s legs stretched around her. He ran his hands up the back of her sweatshirt, then circled around to grasp both breasts in his hands. He caressed them under the bulky hoodie, using slow and deliberate motions for discretion. There was something so erotic about sitting in a public place and pleasuring a woman. She hadn’t put a stop to it yet, either.

He ran his fingers over each nipple, the thick buds pronounced through her thin bra. She leaned forward into his hands, small soft grunts of
ah
escaped her as she dug her fingers into the sand on either side of his legs. The world had dropped away, the traffic noise and voices a distant resonance, as if they were both submerged in water. Even the lakeshore and horizon had blurred into abstract shapes and colors as his focus turned inward.

His rubbed himself against the thickness of her short’s waistband, and even though he knew they should get up and go, he couldn’t get himself to stop.

With a quick movement of body and sand flying, Gillian jerked away from his hands and turned to face him on her knees. Placing her hands on each side of his face, she laid a gentle kiss on his lips. “Irish, I need you in me right now. Let’s go.” She yanked at his hand to rise.

He was more than willing, following Gillian to her car, the squeak of sand from their bare feet loud in his ears.

As he rounded the front of her station wagon, he asked, “Are we going to yours?”

“Nope, your place is closer. I don’t think I can hang on much longer.” She hopped in as Padraig did the same. When inside, she turned in her seat and locked her lips to his, forcing them into a deep kiss, tongues and lips sucked to swelling. “That should keep us till we get there.”

“What about the boys? They’ll see you. They’ll know then.”

“Screw the lads!” she said in a mock Irish accent. And this from a woman who proclaimed such integrity for their discretion, to not cause any trouble within the team and to keep a professional distance at all times.

He laughed, then louder as she peeled out backward. “Watch out, there might be kids!”

“Oh, shit. Oh, no.” She peered into her rearview mirror. “Thank God, there wasn’t. I’m acting like a lunatic. I get this way around you.” She grabbed his hand and held on, driving the car with only her left. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He could relate, but couldn’t find the words. He understood the loss of control he had when they were together. All the energy was both liberating and frightening as hell. It had been awhile since Padraig had been caught up in such a whirlwind of emotion and need. With a female at least. Rugby had always been his first love.

His house was less than a mile away, the red glow of sunset behind them as they headed east away from the lakeshore. Before they turned off the main street onto the cul-de-sac where the house was located, Padraig suggested they park around the corner and walk in, but Gillian was having none of it.

“If they are going to know, they will. I don’t like to be sneaky.” She turned to him in the car. “And I’m not embarrassed of you or the situation. Are you?”

A little, but he squeezed her hand for reassurance. “Nope, not at all.”

Del’s car was gone when they pulled up on the curb in front of the house. That was a bit of luck. Padraig still clicked his door shut quietly behind him.

As they strolled along the lawn together to the front door, Gillian hooked her arm through his. Brave. He imagined much of her lust had rescinded like his, but she was still determined. A feisty lass his ma would be proud of. Nothing but the best for her eldest son, she had always said.

He held the door for Gillian as they entered. The telly was on in the living room, an evening newscast, and he could hear commotion coming from the kitchen, a pot set hard onto the cooker, and cupboard doors clunked shut. Must be Rory and his late-night snacking. The young man was a stick yet ate non-stop.

He put his finger to his lips and motioned up the stairs. They might just get away with it. They both laughed, acting the teenagers. And when he closed his bedroom door behind him, he became shy. She had never been in his space before. Not that there was much Padraig had added.

He did a quick skim of the floor to make sure no dirty underwear was lying about and moved to the small desk where the pill bottle sat out in the open. He had taken his workout pain relief, but had left the bottle behind when they met for dinner. A big step for Padraig. He rarely separated the pills from his person. She knew he took the meds, but he didn’t want to bring it to her attention. He muddled about as if he was stacking papers and clearing the area, discreetly opening the top drawer and swiping the container inside.

He jumped when she came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Nervous, Irish? I know it’s not your first time,” she joked, “but I’ll still be gentle with you.”

Her husky voice and sexy banter brought his focus back to the room, to her head resting between his shoulder blades. He turned in her arms and kissed her gently. “The boys will recognize your one-of-a-kind car, especially since it is sitting up on our curb in front of the house.”

She laughed and shrugged. “We’ll have to deal with any backlash together. Not that there will be much… I don’t think.” She grabbed a curl and twined it around her finger, her gaze fixed to the middle of his chest, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

“Right so, then let’s get it on,” he growled into her hair, pushing her back onto the bed. He ripped open a condom and placed it on the table beside his bed.

Another laugh from her notched his heart up a couple of degrees. But his giddiness and fun turned to hot fire when she grabbed his ass with both of her hands and tugged him against her crotch, his hard-on nestling between her legs. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t still try to be discreet…ya know, for respect for the team and the club…”

Silencing her with a deep kiss, he’d worry about the club later. Right now, Padraig wanted only Gillian, tasting her in different places, first her brow after he had lifted off her glasses, soft pecks that returned the wanted result when Gillian shivered beneath him. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he slowly removed her hoodie, then singlet, kissing each mound of exposed breast on his way down to tugging off her shorts.