In Touch (Play On #1) (16 page)

To be sure. Maybe he had it all wrong. Obviously the Yanks loved the Irish, and he could work it for all its worth. What was that saying…
There are only two kinds of people in the world, the Irish and those who wish they were.
Flattery could get a person everywhere.

After he had completed the form and returned it, adding another smile for the woman, he sat and waited, his forearms resting on his thighs. A telly in the corner was set to a morning show, the hosts sitting in a semicircle in front of the camera. He’d watched this particular one once and that was enough. Talk about narcissistic. All they wanted to do was talk about how the current events affected them, how funny they were, what was happening in their lives. That wasn’t news. Without RTÉ, he had resorted to watching the BBC or CNN.

Ignoring the perky blonde on the show, he sat up to see if there were any good magazines to read. Nothing but
People
and
Woman’s Day
.

He hadn’t prayed since he was a child when his mum and dad took him to mass every Sunday. By the time he was a teenager, his rugby training consumed even Sundays, but his folks allowed him to skip mass, knowing even then that Padraig was headed to the Irish team. Or if not knowing, at least supporting in hope.

He bowed his head into his hands, nonchalant like.
Sweet Mary, please, please let something go my way.
He was begging—he knew it. Then he recited the rosary in his head, leaned back, and stretched his legs out in front of him. And waited for the call.

Not ten minutes later, a young nurse popped her head through the door next to the receptionist window. “Padraig O’Neale?” She surprised him and pronounced his first name correctly. Must be a golf fan.

After greeting him, she motioned for him to stand on the electronic scale that settled at two-ten.

“What’s that in kilos?” he asked her.

Flustered, she turned to a chart on the wall, and when she couldn’t find it quick enough, pulled out her phone, presumably to Google the answer.

“Don’t bother. It’s grand.” He had said it gruffer than he meant. Not her fault that the rest of the world used metric while the States was one of the last few countries to continue to use the imperial measurement.

Flustered, she motioned for him to follow her down the hall. “Sorry about that. We had to learn both in nursing school, but I don’t use it enough.”

When she got him settled into an examination room with a chair, bed, and medical stand, he finally took a moment to look at her. The nurse was not bad. Quite cute—in an American way. Straightened hair with highlights, big chest.

He could tell she fancied him by her nervous gestures and stilted speech, her avoidance of eye contact. But he couldn’t get his mind off Gillian. He wondered if anyone would ever compare to her. He doubted it. Now, she was the control that he would base all further experiences on. She was the litmus paper on which all other women would test.

They hadn’t spoken, not even by text, since yesterday. He had resorted to checking his phone every ten minutes, but nothing. Badly, he wanted to call her, but didn’t know what to say and dreaded the awkward conversation that would likely follow. He’d wait and see her at practice tomorrow. Then he’d know just by looking at her.

So he let the nurse go through the motions of taking his blood pressure and temperature under his tongue without saying a word, no smiles or chatting. When she deposited the black tip of the gauge into a small rubbish bin with a lid that she lifted with her foot, she said, “The doctor will be right in.”

Right so. Padraig was ready, the planned speech and replies rehearsed in his head a thousand times.

He was contemplating checking the cabinets for possible meds when, with a soft knock, the doctor entered the room. Barely glancing at him, he extended his hand to Padraig. “I’m Doctor Asgard. What can I do for you today?” Padraig and Gillian had watched the movie
Thor
last week. Wasn’t Thor from Asgard? The doctor had another clipboard in his hands, which he placed onto a small counter that housed a tiny sink, box of tissues, rubber gloves, and a clear bottle of extra-long swabs. He pressed the bottom of his pen that opened with a loud
click
.

Only when Padraig didn’t respond did he look up. He was younger, probably not much older than Padraig, which gave him hope. But he looked a bit of a wanker with his tightly parted hair and pointy shoes, which shrank the optimism as quick. Probably just out of med school to be working at a clinic like this.

Padraig decided to take the offensive. Rugby was the intellectual man’s sport. It required thinking by every player, not just set plays that each man followed like a puppet. The game evolved in seconds, and Padraig knew enough to analyze his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, to think ahead to preempt their moves and counter before they did.

“I’m a professional athlete playing here in a local rugby club and need a refill of oxycodone to help with back pain that I have suffered from since my surgery in December of 2014.” It came out in a rush of breath. Padraig had tried to keep his words controlled, hold steady eye contact, show his confidence, but it was as if he could restrain the words no longer. He had held them in for too long, and they surged forth in attack at the poor med student-cum-doctor in front of him.

But it got his full attention. The man raised his eyebrows in a surprised gesture.

The doctor said nothing for a minute, looking over the notes from his clipboard Padraig assumed.

“Do you still have the pain?”

Did a leprechaun love the poitín? Of course he did! That’s why he was here, wasn’t it?

“Lay on the table please, and I’ll have a look.”

Oh Jaysus, this was getting worse. Why couldn’t he just write the prescription and Padraig could leave? There were dozens of families out there that needed to be seen. More than him. He could still hear the little ones crying, and remembered the mothers trying to soothe them on their shoulders. Guilt washed over him.

Padraig did as he asked, folding his arms for a pillow for his head. The doctor shifted the waistband of his shorts down over his bum, then pressed along his spine. “Does this hurt?”

“Yes.”

“And this?”

“Everywhere on my lower back.”

“Is the pain from a former injury?”

“Yes!”

The man worked the pressure of his fingers outward and down along his pelvic bone. “And this?”

“Like I said, yes.” The words came out more belligerent than he wanted but it was too late to retract them now.

He told Padraig he could get up then. “How long have you been on oxycodone?”

“Six months.”

Surprise again in his eyes before the doctor quickly recovered. They must teach repose in med school. Show no emotion or reaction. Keep the calm.

“I see you’re from Ireland.”

Oh, here we go.

“Oxycodone is a serious narcotic and used rarely in the United States.” He paused as if waiting for Padraig’s attention. “Mostly because of its addictive nature.” Padraig had heard this all before. Another pause. “I’ve never heard of it prescribed for extended use.”

The cunt! It wasn’t what he had expected, nor wanted. He was totally off his game on so many levels.

“Before I give you a prescription for the pills,” he continued, “I’ll need to contact your physician in Ireland to confirm.”

That’s exactly what Padraig didn’t want. There was no way he’d get his local doctor involved, especially after all the bad press. The old man had retired shortly after Padraig’s disgrace. Padraig had abused Dr. Doherty’s kindness and naiveté in sports medicine. It didn’t matter anyway. As a player, he was solely responsible for any prohibited substances. Although Padraig had heard of players trying to shift the blame to a physician, even their agents suggesting it, he couldn’t have done that to the old man. Even though the strict liability condition with WADA laid all responsibility with the player, Dr. Doherty could have lost his license after what had happened with Padraig.

He no longer belonged to the Munster squad and had use of the team doctor. Not that he would have helped, anyway. Padraig’s anger welled as the realization hit him. It wasn’t going to happen.

“Could you at least give me a week’s worth while you wait for confirmation?” He had to try. Anything. At least that would give him a chance to pull a few strings over there. Give him a false name or number.

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that, but I can offer you prescription strength Motrin which will help in the meantime.”

Padraig launched himself off the table. “That won’t feckin’ help!”

He hovered over the doctor by at least four inches, but to Padraig’s surprise, or relief, the doctor didn’t flinch. Didn’t show any reaction to his outburst.

He scribbled on a small pad of paper. “Well, that is what I can do for you now. If you have the name and number of your attending physician back home, I will make a call as soon as possible and see what we can do for you.”

The small room shrank around him, a poster of a human skeleton looming at the corner of his vision. Taking a step back away from the doctor, he drew in a long breath, then let it out slowly. This wasn’t the end. He could find another physician, go to the emergency room if he had to. Four days. There was still time.

The week had flown by, but at the same time crawled slower than traffic on a Cork roundabout. Every day Padraig had gone out to different pharmacies and asked for a few oxycodone tablets. To tide him over until the next day, he’d beseeched them. Charming the receptionist at the first doctor’s office had given him the idea. He persisted, targeting the small independent pharmacies just before closing. And it had paid off. Finally, a female pharmacist, after discussing for a half hour her and her husband’s trip to Ireland back in 2007, gave him four tabs to keep him going until his supposed appointment the next day. But instead of saving them, he’d gorged, and now he still only had one left.

At practice today, drums beat from the speakers in an intense pounding rhythm, similar to an African tribal dance. Now, this was more like it. Warriors readying for battle. Shivers ran up his spine with the adrenaline. Gillian must have changed tactics. Good on her. And once again his thoughts had circled back to the woman who somewhere was massaging out a cramped muscle. As long as it wasn’t the groin.

He told Gillian he would try, and he would.

Mitch smacked him on the back as they moved to reset the scrum, jarring him from thoughts of the sexy American lass. “Pretty good tackle for a second-row.”

He reeled to follow the young punk as he moved away. Padraig was about to have a dig at him when Mitch turned back, showing off a large cocky grin. He was joking. With him. That was a good thing, especially after their bad start. Padraig now took all the blame, for Mitch was only a young pup, barely out of high school. Had Padraig been so different?

Padraig returned the jest. “You’re pretty fast for a short stumpy dude.”

“That’s right, tall man, I’d take you on across this pitch any day.”

“Okay then, after practice tonight. Length of the pitch.”

Mitch had turned so he walked backward. “You’re on, Irish.”

But Padraig knew it was okay. Mitch had smiled and gestured rudely to him. In a good way, and something only men would understand completely. A woman would have been offended. A man would know he was considered on their level, as their equal.

He waited next to Champ for the front row to stop blathering and reset. The other second-row, Austin, was a quiet fellow but eager like the rest, much thinner than Padraig but only a couple inches shorter. During practice, they normally played opposite sides, and during the last match, everyone had been so focused on directions from the referee, or shouts from Del, it hadn’t been the time for niceties. But he had offered him a beer at the cabin. For as much binding as they did together, he barely knew the man, fewer than a dozen words had passed between them. As his wingman, or Padraig’s his, that should have been different. For the intimacy of the scrum demanded a trust that few, unless they played a forward position, would understand. Today, that would change.

“So you have any kids?”

He jerked his head around to Padraig. “You talking to me?”

Padraig chuckled and looped his arm around the number four’s waist. “Yep, you’re the one.”

Binding his own arm around Padraig, he answered. “Nope, but I just got engaged to be married.”

Coach interrupted their banter with the call. “Crouch—”

“Seriously?” They bent at the hips as one unit, their unbound arms stretched out from either side like crooked wings.

“Asked her this past weekend.”

“Bind—”

Both jammed their heads between the hooker and their respective prop. The thick chests of the front row muffled Padraig’s, “Congratulations.”

The scrum stilled, poised with muscles taut and loaded to spring. Raw energy boiled around him. Unleashed human power restrained by the call of one man, the referee, but today Scotch.

“Set!”

With loud grunts, the two sides of the scrum engaged. Padraig groaned with the rest of them, digging into the ground with his feet and pushing hard through his legs as he’d been taught. Not with their arms, for these were only tools used to hold him to the rest of the animal. The legs were the power, and as usual, the pain traveled up his hamstring over his glutes and splayed along his pelvic bone to center in his lower back at the base.

He yelled out, tunneling the pain into his voice and out of his body. The ache only added to his drive during the scrum. It pinpointed a release for him, a single moment all his aggression and anger purged from him body and soul. He roared as his side gained ground, his fingers digging into Champ’s waist and, on his other side, the muscles of the flanker were coiled and ready to run.

First Jimmy, then Josh channeled the ball to the back to Champ, the pack pushing over to try to retain their possession.

And then, like that, it was over. Coach’s whistle blew as the inside centre on the other team took their runner down on the first phase. Shoving the ball back between his legs to Mitch, Damian didn’t let go of the ball in time so the team was penalized for not releasing. All the hard work in the scrum gone with a simple penalty that could have easily been avoided.

He walked with his hands braced onto his sides, heaving deep breaths. The burn of lactic acid tightened his leg muscles, but the ache was familiar and wanted. He let the irritation of the penalty pass, and while the other team’s fly-half set up to kick for three points, he searched the sidelines for Gillian once again.

Whenever he had a moment, he had gravitated toward her, getting as close to the sidelines as possible without seeming obvious. Twice, he had made eye contact. He had smiled and lifted his hand in a small wave. The first time he was rewarded with a flutter of her own in response, the second time she had motioned behind him as Rory had been trying to get his attention.

Surpassing the pain in his back was the gnawing sting in his chest from her absence in his life, made only more apparent when he saw her at training. She had been the light in his dreary days, supportive and uplifting, she could bring him out of his depression and self-loathing with a simple smile or hug.

With that gone, all the sourness of life had returned. And he was lonely, he had to admit. There was only so much gym training and watching bad American telly at nights with the boys he could do. Although, he did like the series called
The Walking Dead.
Zombies. He knew the feeling. He was one of them as he plodded through his time in Michigan. He could almost grasp a glimmer of a future here if it held Gillian with it, but now again, he was lost. Not only would Gillian not return his calls, nor would his agent. As if they had both given up on him.

But the irony that the lads had finally accepted him didn’t go unnoticed by Padraig. And the more he came to know them, the more respect he had for the bunch. And maybe, just maybe, playing for the Eagles in a cup wouldn’t be that bad.

He had worked hard at practice. He threw himself into the play with wild abandon, often stopping to make suggestions to the other players. Most of them, but not all, were receptive to his constructive criticism and he could feel the shift of their perceptions, even sensing respect from some. He did his yoga that Gillian taught him religiously, twice a day, sometimes three, since he didn’t have enough balls to ask her for a massage or physio treatment. And she never had offered.

The penalty kick went wide and he reengaged in practice. They set up for the restart, Padraig’s team receiving. The kick went long and straight to Dick, who fumbled it on the twenty and a knock-on was called. Simple and stupid mistakes but the lads’ hearts just weren’t in it that day.

All the boys were itching to be finished for the start of a long weekend in the US, a holiday called Labor Day, where everyone went off to enjoy the last days of summer. Even Del and Rory had plans to drive to Kentucky where Del had a Kiwi mate that worked at one of the racetracks behind the betting counter. They were pumped with the anticipation. All they could talk about the last few days was the money they were going to win and the ladies they were going to meet and invite back for post-race partying.

They had offered for him to go, too, but he had still hoped to fix things up with Gillian. And the thought of putting on a façade hadn’t appealed to him at all. Rewind a couple years, and he would have been there in a millisecond.

What was he going to do? Number one, get a prescription for his meds. As soon as practice was over, he was heading in Del’s car to the emergency room, the remaining facility he had yet to try. Perhaps emails and calls to Ireland after. That would take a whole half hour. But rugby season in Europe would be starting up again soon, and maybe his agent would get some interest. Maybe a player would get injured and they’d need a replacement.

The long days stretched ahead of him in a type of foggy misery. With nothing definite, he wished the weekend over before it started.

They were almost done, and Gillian was nowhere to be seen. After the last knock-on, Coach called the end of practice early, and a cheer was raised by most of the boys before they headed off the pitch.

Except for Mitch, who loped his way over to Padraig. Mitch’s persistence amused him, and he smiled. A feisty young fella, but he had to give him credit where credit was due. “C’mere then.” He motioned for Mitch to walk back with him to the goal line. “You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that?”

Bunching up his face, Mitch spit at the ground. “Your legs might be longer, big man, but I’ve got speed running through these veins.”

The wind whipped up as they set their feet to sprint. Dust blew in across the grounds, stinging his eyes. In Ireland, he had played in most conditions, their season starting in the autumn and running through winter. But dust wasn’t one of them. Ireland was one of the wettest countries in the world, and dust wasn’t part of the equation. Ever. He stood to shield his eyes until the gust of wind passed.

“Come on, you pussy, what are you waiting for? You’re just tryin’ to delay the inevitable. Your defeat and my victory.” Mitch was still crouched ready to spring. Most of the lads had already headed into the locker room, ready to get on with their evening. There were a few stragglers, but none interested in what they were doing on the far side of the pitch. No Gillian, who must have already headed out for her big weekend plans. Jealousy consumed him for a fleeting moment, which he tucked away to burn later. What was she going to do? And more importantly, who was she going to be with?

“You want to put a little wager on it?” Padraig delayed again.

Padraig knew Mitch didn’t have much money. He worked in a minimum wage job at a sports store so he could have the flexible hours to pursue the rugby, practices, home games that took up most of the day, away games that took up most of the weekend. He didn’t know how the team did it, some with families and holding down full-time jobs, only to rush over to practice at night and spend the rugby season away from their kids. Understanding wives for one. And passion, the other. Selflessness. A trait rarely recognized in high-level professional athletes, Padraig included. A fact made more apparent next to the men he played with now. The American rugby players reminded him of Gaelic Football back in Ireland. You’d not meet more passionate men and followers.

“Twenty bucks,” Mitch suggested.

Padraig was an old man next to him. “Why don’t we make it fifty?”

Mitch hesitated, most likely wondering if he could afford it. It would probably take him hours to earn the amount at his low-paying job. While fifty euros back home barely got Padraig a round of drinks with his mates.

With a bravado that wasn’t convincing, Mitch answered, “It’s your money to lose.” But then the kid smiled, and Padraig clapped him on the back.

Mitch danced his feet back and forth like a boxer in a ring.

“You going to call it?” Padraig asked.

“Ready, set, go!”

A head shorter than Padraig, Mitch took two to every one of Padraig’s strides. When Mitch pumped his arms like a train, Padraig had a fleeting thought he should show Mitch how to run before the little shite pulled ahead of him. Padraig wasn’t out of breath, or tired, getting into the rhythm after half the pitch had blurred away, but he could hear large gasps and pulls of air coming from next to him. Mitch was on his last wind.

At the twenty-two meter line, Padraig accelerated with a burst of speed to nose in front of the kid, which resulted in louder gasps, flailing of arms and legs as he dug into his last reserves.

And then, as they were about to cross the line, Padraig let up, slowing imperceptibly. Mitch threw out his chest and stumbled over the line.

Padraig walked over to the lad, still heaving where he lay, and patted him on the back. “Good craic, mate. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Mitch rolled onto his back and punched a fist into the sky, letting out an obnoxious
whoop
!

Bending at the waist, Padraig tried to gain his breath, pulling at the hem of his shorts like all men did to give their crotch some space. They both stilled, only the sound of their loud panting filling the void. Then Padraig reached out his hand to help Mitch up, who accepted it with a clap against his own.

Arms around each other, they headed off the pitch toward the locker room.

“You got that fifty on you?”

Padraig snorted. “Of course. I don’t lay a bet without having the funds on me.”