In Touch (Play On #1) (2 page)

For fuck’s sake. This place was ridiculous. Fucking piece of shit hellhole.

Padraig rattled the pill container in his left pocket, reassuring himself it was still there. He stood in the locker room off to the side, gear bag in hand, as the other lads walked in and out of the shower. Confident and secure in their nudity, they laughed and joked with each other. Some shouted across the room. Lockers clanged open and shut. The acrid smell of a man’s deodorant or aftershave smothered the body odor but choked the air in its extremity.

No one seemed to notice him standing there even though the facility wasn’t very large, as if he blended in with the framed prints of the Traverse City Blues RFC that flanked the walls, annual portraits in a line, starting from years ago to the most recent team.

The locker room was like others he had used. When he was in
school
. Padraig swallowed the F-word that again wanted to breach his lips.

A far reach from professional facilities. Wood benches ran the locker rows with a shower room off to one side. But in the familiarity, it was all wrong. It wasn’t Ireland and the Munster squad. It was a bunch of Yankees and a half-arse chance of furthering his rugby career. Feck it. This was stupid. Why had he agreed to this? How could this club be his savior?

A young, cocky face appeared in front of him. Wiry and shorter, the lad was probably part of the backs. “Hey dude, are you lookin’ for someone?”

Padraig barely glanced at him, then nodded. “Where’s Coach?”

“Ah, you must be that new Irish guy that Scotch told us about. Said you’d be startin’ next week. A bit early, ain’t ya?”

Padraig ignored his question and asked one himself. Avoidance tactics, he was good at. “Who’s Scotch?”

“Scotch is our nickname for Coach McKenzie. He’s from Scotland.”

“You don’t call a Scotsman ‘Scotch,’ you daft cunt.”

“We know that
now
.” The boy’s lip curled at Padraig before he sauntered off to a locker where he gave him one last dirty look, then slammed it shut and walked out of view.

Stupid bloody Americans. Didn’t know their arse from their elbow. He hadn’t been in the States for a day, and he was ready to go back home to Ireland on the next flight out. This was the wrong decision, and he could kick himself for letting his agent convince him otherwise.

He was about to bugger off and find his own way to his arranged accommodation when he saw a big man with a shaggy gray beard round the corner and head his way.

“Padraig O’Neale?”

The Scotsman’s large paw was outstretched before he reached him. Padraig dropped his bag and gripped the man’s hand. It was larger than his own. He had seen pictures of Coach, but none of them did any justice. A bear of a man still at his age, which Padraig guessed to be in his fifties, he must have been a force in the forward pack of his team.

“Mitch told me you were here. Didn’t expect you today, but you’re more than welcome. Thought your agent said you wouldn’t be in until Monday.”

“Change of plans.”

Coach lifted his chin in a contemplating manner, but then nodded. “Come with me to the office, and we’ll sort you out.”

He led Padraig to the back of the room. As he passed, some of the lads turned to stare, a few nodded. Padraig didn’t care. With any luck, he wouldn’t be at the Blues long enough to make friends. He was here to do his time, keep his body in shape and his head in the game until his agent could work his magic and get him to Argentina.

“Take a seat,” Coach said, directing Padraig to a pair of chairs set in front of a large desk. Coach lowered his large frame into the swivel chair on the other side and swung around to face Padraig, who had flopped into the one on the right, dropping his duffel bag into the other. The pill bottle pinched when he sat, so he had to squirm to adjust it out of the way.

Coach folded his hands in front of him. “How was your flight?”

“Just in now, came straight from the airport.” Padraig worked his way around a straight answer to keep his distance. Next thing, Coach would be asking about his personal life, and that Padraig wouldn’t have. None of it.

“Your agent sent through all your paperwork, so you’re good to start on Monday. Lucky you have a US passport or it would have been a heap more trouble to get you to start for this season.”

Padraig grunted. “Yeah, lucky me.”

Other than a subtle pinch of his eyebrows, Coach’s professionalism remained staunch, even at Padraig’s flippant answer. His eyes remained on Padraig as he ran his hand down his beard, pulling from his chin to the ends. Padraig couldn’t hold the eye contact and looked over Coach’s head out the window. Tall at six-foot-four, he could do that. “One of the best second rows to play for Ireland,”
The
Irish Times
newspaper had quoted. In the same article, they had also crucified him for offending the sport of rugby.

“Practices are on Tuesday and Thursdays. Conditioning training on Mondays, and we expect you to train at the gym on the off days at the minimum. The other foreign players are going once a day.” Coach opened a drawer and pulled out a large, sealed manila folder. He undid the clasp and turned it upside down. A set of keys fell onto his desk. He picked them up and handed them to Padraig. “You’re sharing with a couple of other lads for the moment. If you stay on past this season, it’ll be up to you to find a place to live.”

Not likely, but Padraig only nodded, his gaze out the window, half listening to the drone of Coach’s voice.

“…most of the lads are happy to move on from sharing, anyway. As for transportation—you can get a lift with the guys you’ll be staying with. Del has a car and Rory does, too. I’m sure you’ll…”

The view from the window was a small stretch of the rugby grounds, some of the stands visible across the pitch. Tiny in comparison to the new Aviva Stadium in Dublin where fifty thousand fans had cheered him during the international rugby matches. Didn’t even hold up to his Munster club stadium that was four times the size of the Blues’ sports complex. If he hadn’t been so mad, his heart would ache from the disaster his life had turned into.

“You still on the oxycodone?”

At mention of the drug, Padraig snapped his attention back to Coach who fiddled with a pile of paperwork on the cheap desk, the decorative vinyl trim peeling away from the edge. “Only when I need it,” he lied.

“How often is that?”

Padraig shrugged. “Not very. Maybe after a big game, or if I get some big hits.”

Coach unwrapped a piece of gum, then offered one to Padraig who shook his head. “Never chewed gum until I moved to the States, and now I can’t seem to quit.” He raised his gaze to lock with Padraig’s again.

Was he hinting at something? “Yeah, anytime you watch any of the American sports, they’re all chewing and spitting. I don’t get it.”

“Especially baseball.” Coach chuckled. “It helps them to stay focused. All part of working both sides of the brain, they say.” He changed tack abruptly, back to the subject Padraig had wanted to avoid. “You’re lucky they don’t test at Division 1 in America, but that might change soon.”

That’s why I’m here.

“Your agent said your narcotic usage was more a misunderstanding with your prescribing physician, but IRB sanctioned hard against you to show zero tolerance going forward. Something to do with”—Coach used his finger to find the note on his paper—“a Keep Rugby Clean campaign.”

“Something like that.” Most of it was true, but his agent had instructed him to keep the details to a minimum, to reveal as little information about the situation as possible.

“You know an Eagles player got pulled for oxycodone during the 2011 World Cup.”

“Heard about that.”

Coach waited, a blank stare at Padraig, as if looking for further explanation, for Padraig to connect the dots.

Padraig picked up a small framed photo sitting at an angle on the desk. “Is this your family?”

“Aye, my wife and two daughters.” Still an unreadable, drawn face.

“Nice picture.” Good-looking girls, but he was smart enough not to vocalize that opinion. And women were the last thing on his mind at the moment.

Coach reached across the desk and plucked the picture from Padraig’s hand. “We’ve got some other options for pain regulation at this club you can take a look at. Got some newfangled therapist starting next week, in fact.”

“It’s not a problem,” Padraig said.

Shoving the chair back, Coach rose and started for the door. “Well, let me know how it goes. Keep open communication with me at all times. You got it?”

Padraig understood the signal and gathered his bag and jacket. “Will do.”

“Now, let’s see if we can catch Del before he leaves. Then the club won’t need to pay for a taxi to your place.”

Coach let Padraig pass before he closed the office door behind him. The locker room had quieted, only muffled voices coming from the far side of the room. Coach walked ahead of him and shouted down the last row of lockers, “You seen Del anywhere?”

One of the men answered, “Think he already headed to the bar, Coach. It’s Thursday, after all.”

“That it is.” Coach hitched up his pants and turned back to Padraig. “A New Zealander, who has graced us with his presence, is captain of the Blues this year. What you can do is make your way back to the office and ask the receptionist to call you a cab.

“Take it easy over the weekend and get over your jet lag so you’re ready bright and early Monday.” He turned to leave, but then swiveled back on his foot. “Don’t let Del talk you into the pub yet. Alcohol is the worst thing you can do for jet lag.”

Padraig was already in motion to get out of there, his hand on the door handle, his shoulder to the glass, when Coach spoke again. “Oh, and O’Neale? Might be a good idea to make friends on the squad, not enemies. I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but it’s all a part of the performance of the team.”

“No worries, Coach, just a bit grumpy from traveling.”

The older man ran his hand over his beard again, then gave a slight nod. “I’m sure it is.”

Coach had barely made it a few feet before another player had stopped him to talk. It was a good time to make his exit. Padraig retraced his steps back through the trophy room to the reception area that sat adjacent to the entrance. That was a great feckin’ start. He must have pissed off the young fella, Mitch, and he had told Coach.

A blonde was on the phone when he approached, so he set his bag down quietly and waited. She caught his eye and stuck up a finger to gesture she’d be a minute. A fine, young wan but Padraig didn’t even bother to acknowledge her.

More team photos and awards mounted the walls, club banners and an advertisement for the Rugby World Cup. He clenched his jaw at the sight.
He
should have been playing that tournament. Playing for the Irish team.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

Padraig turned away from the Cup poster. “I just need a taxi, if you could call one for me.”

“Of course, under what name?”

“O’Neale.”

The girl was younger than Padraig and a good bit of skirt, like sex on a stick. Big, violet eyes and platinum blond hair in ringlets, not natural but still a hard-on for most lads. But it seemed nothing could turn him on these days. Even when she stepped up to him in her knee-high fuck-me boots, her perky chest straining at a button down shirt, his dick didn’t stir an inch. Nothing.

“Oh yes, heard you were coming. Love your accent. Couldn’t wait to see you just so I could hear you talk.”

What a flirt.

“How do you pronounce your first name? Pad…rake?”

She crucified his name as he thought she would. “Depends on where you are from in Ireland. North of Galway, it’s paw-rig, but in the south, it’s pawd-rik.” He sounded it out for her. “Like the golfer, Padraig Harrington?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m not much of a golf fan. What part of Ireland are you from again?”

The Americans always loved the accent, and his home region had one of the strongest. “Cork.”

“Never been to Ireland but have always wanted to go. Heard it’s beautiful and the people so friendly.”

“Mostly.”

She smiled at him and either ignored his grunts or didn’t notice his bad manners. “Why don’t you take a seat while I call?” She picked up the phone and dialed, her long, painted nails clicking on the keys. Padraig turned away but ignored her request for him to sit. She asked for a taxi from the rugby club, then louder to him, “Pad-rake, what is the address you are going to?”

She had covered the bottom of the phone in a polite manner, as she had to raise her voice to Padraig who had moved across the room.

He didn’t know the address and should have dug it out of his backpack. “Sorry, have it right here…” He wrenched out a bunch of folders. He had organized everything before he came, but now flustered, couldn’t remember which folder the address was in, nor could he find it as he scanned quickly through the papers.

“I thought it was—”

“Aren’t you living with Del?”

He nodded as he struggled to jam the papers back into his pack.