In Touch (Play On #1) (14 page)

His arm had fallen asleep where her head lay, the buzzing in his fingertips unbearable, but he didn’t want to wake her. She slept so peacefully, spooned up against his side.

He pulled the hair away from where it had fallen over her face. How could that not bother her? Scratchy…or something. She hadn’t moved, so the possibility of getting loose to take his pill was not likely. The meds were in his bag. At least, he remembered putting them there, but after yesterday’s party, things were a bit foggy. Panic seized him, and he shivered. Gillian stirred but didn’t wake.

Torn between the warmth of the woman lying by his side and the need to take the med, Padraig was thrumming inside. He struggled, and the struggle lasted too long. Minutes that were hours in his head.

He pressed his eyes shut tight, then released them.
Here goes.

He moved his hand along her belly—soft caresses that feathered over her skin. She groaned in her sleep, and he took that confidence and moved to her breasts. He embraced one then the other, and when she stirred, he ran his fingers over her nipples until they hardened.

Her eyes fluttered open, but she stared out into the distance, caught between sleep and waking. He nuzzled her neck, pushing away her long hair to kiss along her chin.

As he had hoped, she turned into him. A soft smile he couldn’t resist, and he pressed his lips to hers. How different everything felt over here. In the States versus back home in Ireland. Like he was on holiday, and nothing was quite real. As if he knew he had to return to a life filled with repetition and work and…what? Nothing.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him, long and sensual before she pulled back and whispered, “Good morning.”

She was so close, he couldn’t focus and had to withdraw farther to take in her rested face, flushed from the kiss, freckled from the sun yesterday, and so beautiful.

He couldn’t talk, so he kissed her, caressing his hands down over her naked body, her skin soft as a warm Irish summer, light and lovely, holding so much promise.

And then the burn began. The hunger to be inside her. As much as he pressed against her, it wasn’t enough. There was nothing so stimulating, nothing so right, as the tactile feel of skin on skin. As if humans weren’t meant to be clothed, and like children in the sprinklers in summer, would choose the freedom and fun of nudity in the hot sun.

He readied himself with a condom. Scooping one arm around her waist, he pulled her under him and gently prodded at her opening, and then slipped into a heaven on earth. So perfect. So complete. Unlike last night when he was buzzed up and giddy on booze, when the lovemaking had been playful, nips and sucks and laughter. This morning it was slow and sensual—emotionally charged as he used his body to try and show what his mind and words could not communicate to her.

It was a slow build to climax, Padraig holding on until Gillian released with a tremble, pulling him against her chest when she came. And then Padraig let himself go, ducking his head into her shoulder so that she couldn’t see how his eyes watered. For the guilt he harbored, for the affection for this amazing woman. But for once, it wasn’t for the pain. And yet he craved the pills in that little plastic bottle. Right then, he knew he was messed up more than he’d ever let himself believe. And why his rugby career was here instead of over there.

He drew in two deep breaths to settle his racing heart and to clear his eyes so Gillian wouldn’t see. Pecking her on the nose, he threw off the covers. He withdrew faster than she must have expected as a small gasp escaped her. “Sorry,” he mumbled and threw his legs over the side of the bed. “Need to get some headache tablets.” He faked a laugh. “I’m in bits.”

She smoothed her hand over his thigh before he was able to get up. “What does that mean?”

“Got a bit of a hangover.”

“I’m feeling rough, myself. Will you bring some back for me? And a gigantic glass of water.”

“You didn’t even drink,” he teased her.

She stretched. “Yeah, but must have gotten too much sun. I feel yuck.”

“Grand, so.”

Padraig lifted off the bed, a bit of a sway when he did. Her soft hand trailed his leg as he rose. He slipped on his rugby shorts from yesterday, now caked with mud and smelling of stale beer and sweat. Nice. He’d been in better positions. He hooked a left out of the bedroom to where he’d dropped his bag the night before by the kitchen counter. He was pumped up, ready for the pill. It was like when he had to piss real bad. The closer he got to the toilet, the more he had to go. The nearer to his bag, the harder his heart thumped against his chest.

In such a hurry, he snagged the zipper on the fabric and cursed under his breath. It was stuck, and the more he struggled, jamming it back and forth to release it, the more fabric the zipper took between the teeth. “Goddamn it!”

He rocked back on his heels and drew in a deep breath. When he did, he noticed his back didn’t ache as much this morning. His knee still hurt like hell, but he had learned to live with the strain years ago. Another couple of deep intakes, and he tried again. This time with gentle motions, breathing deeply in and out of his nose like Gillian had taught them in yoga. Calm. Keep it together. A smile burst onto his face when he freed the side zipper and there it was. Right where he had left it, on top of his dirty socks and the old tape he had ripped off after the game.

“How many pills left?”

Gillian stood leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, his Irish rugby T-shirt over her naked form. Her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head, her glasses on.

He must have taken too long to return to the bedroom or she’d heard him going off and had followed him into the kitchen. She moved into the middle of the lounge room looking vulnerable, unhappy. Sadness radiated from her eyes, but no judgment. He couldn’t have borne it if she passed a verdict on his addiction.

He looked away from her to the cupboard. “Eleven.”

“To the right of the sink.”

His fingers around the handle, he rested his forehead briefly on the smooth wood. “Thanks.”

She waited and said nothing. With a pop, he wrenched the cupboard door open and grabbed out a drinking glass. He filled it at the sink and popped the pill in his mouth with his back to her. “I never meant to stay.”

“What?”

Padraig shook his head, his gaze stuck on the corner of a chipped tile on the floor.

“What do you mean?” Her question had taken on an edge. Anger roughened a voice normally filled with an iridescence of tranquility and grace. A voice that could calm the angriest of beasts. “Will you look at me, please?”

He turned as she had asked, leaning his bum against the front of the sink. “I don’t want to be here. Is that clear enough?” Raising his glass, he took another drink. His throat had tightened from the change in her. “I am only here until my agent can find me a better club to play for.”

“Does Coach know?”

“Nope.”

“So why are you telling me now?”

He rolled his eyes and released a loud sigh. “I don’t know.”

“So we aren’t good enough for you, is that it?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Gill, come on. For fuck’s sake. I need a club that will challenge me.”

“Maybe it’s not all about you. Maybe you are meant to be here to challenge them.”

“They hate me.”

“They’re intimidated. That’s all. But God, Padraig, if you gave them the time, they could learn so much from you.” She took a step closer. Still too far away for him to wrap her up in his arms and try to make her understand, but it was better than a step back.

“Why would I do that?”

Her mouth dropped open. “And you call yourself a rugby player?”

He hissed through his teeth. “I do. It’s my profession.
My job
,” he emphasized.

“Is that all rugby is to you?”

“Right now it is.”

She slapped her hand hard on the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

Padraig shrugged. “Believe what you want.” As much as he wanted her on his side, his temper had flared and the meds hadn’t kicked in yet. Top that with the worst hangover he’d had in ages, and foul was a light word for his mood.

“You know the boys are volunteers at the club, don’t you?”

“I do.” Swirling his glass, he concentrated on the water that made elliptical movements around the glass.

“They go out there every week as underdogs. The Blues can’t compete at the same level as the bigger cities. We are a rural club. We don’t have a large pool of talent to pull from, and those who start with the Blues and are any good are recruited by the larger clubs like Chicago. Even the high school kids are usually enticed away to the college programs.” She pointed a finger at him. “Which you probably didn’t even know or care are up-and-coming in the States.” Gillian was on a roll, and Padraig wasn’t about to stop her. His anger had subsided, replaced by wonderment of the woman before him. “You know some of the team travels as far away as Boyne City and Harbor Springs to play with the Blues? That’s over seventy-five miles away. Just so they get a chance to participate.”

Padraig turned his back on her and placed his empty glass at the side of the sink. When he was younger, all he’d wanted to do was play. Like the Blues’ players, he had simply just wanted to be a part of a team, playing the sport he loved. When he’d been recognized for his ability, his drive had changed to what he could achieve in the game. But even then, it had still been about the passion. After years and multiple agents, the politics and bullshit of the club sport had drained him.

In a softer voice, she continued. “You could really help the Blues get to the top of their division.”

He whirled on her. “Are you done with your preaching yet?”

She looked as if he had stabbed her in the stomach. Then rage surfaced. It had arrived on her face and in her stance way before any words were spoken. A side of Gillian he had not seen, and yet he knew he had provoked her. Why? As if he was sabotaging on purpose the only thing he cared about here.

“Those boys on the team are some of the most courageous and unselfish men I have ever met. Their strength is in the pride they have in their play. They love, bleed, and breathe to keep the club strong and going.”

“Why do
you
do it?” He needed to know. She’d been evasive about it long enough.

Her eyes watered, and Padraig wondered if she was going to cry.
That
he couldn’t deal with. Her anger kept him poised on defense. If she shed one tear, that would be the last of him and he would break, promising her anything to get her to stop. “Because I enjoy what I do. Because it makes my life fuller. Because I believe in them. But mostly because… Ah, fuck you, you don’t deserve to know.”

“For Andrew?”

Her eyes widened with anger. Her teeth clenched and she took a few slow steps toward him. “Don’t you dare change this back on me. This isn’t about me. This is about you and your stupid pills.”

“What do you know about me?” he yelled. “Absolutely nothing. So don’t go judging anything in my life.”

She was right on so many levels. Padraig was a shit and had been to the lads. He had stood on a pedestal, believing he was above the Blues and their club. He had put in only a half-arsed effort since he’d arrived.

He was older and on his last professional legs of rugby, but he wanted to get to the World Cup. The drive had been poison in his veins. And only the call to represent Ireland would have relinquished his body of the taint that had cloaked him for years.

Gillian continued when silence hung over them for minutes, the room claustrophobic with tension. “You’re right. I don’t know you at all.” She began to pace back and forth in front of him. “For all I know, you are using me for sex.”

“I don’t need this shit.” He set into motion. She was wearing his only clean jersey, so he grabbed out the wrinkled and dirty Blues jersey from the game yesterday and pulled it roughly over his head. He didn’t bother with socks, nor untying his runners that he had slipped off the night before. He crammed each foot in, struggling with the back of the second one. It wouldn’t slip on, so he grabbed his bag from the floor and wore it out like a flip-flop.

“So that’s it. You’re just going to leave.”

“Yep.”

“Maybe I’m using
you
for sex!” She was yelling now, fuming as she still paced back and forth. “You’re just like the rest of them.”

Who was the rest of them? He wanted to slam the door. He should have, but he also wanted to be that good man she thought she saw. He controlled his anger enough to let the door click quietly behind him. But the adrenaline kept him going, pounding through her physio room and out the front door. He didn’t even think which way to turn, only that he did, and he kept moving.

When he reached the traffic lights and the red hand blinked at him to stay, only then did he take a look around to get his bearings. From the drive, he knew there was quite a distance between her apartment and his house, but he hadn’t a clue how to get there. More than anything, this infuriated him. His helplessness here. No car. Shared accommodation. Relying on others for lifts. It was as though he was back in high school instead of one of the best Irish International rugby players. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the funds to buy a car, but he wasn’t planning on staying. How he missed his Toyota SUV from back home. Black and all decked out, even tinted windows. One of the few vanity purchases he had allowed himself. Hell, he was from north side Cork City. His family never allowed him to forget where he was from.