In Touch (Play On #1) (7 page)

Padraig left the pitch a bit early to make his appointment with Gillian and headed to the showers. He’d been surprised on many levels today. First, his body felt as limber as it had in a long while, and second, the boys had played hard today. Their scrum was tight, their wings fast, their centers navigated the pitch, and their scrumhalf was a creative wee devil. All in all, not a bad bunch.

But then there were moments he was back in junior club rugby. Their technique was lacking and even with Del’s leadership, there were plays where it was mere organized chaos. But they had potential, something that Padraig hadn’t seen on Tuesday.

He grabbed his towel off the rack, and then walked dripping over to his locker, scrubbing his face and hair. After a quick wipe-down, he wrapped the towel around his waist and jerked open his locker. None of the cubbyholes had a combination or padlock. Coach said they didn’t play that way. Fair enough. It didn’t really promote goodwill in a team if everything was on lock down. They had to trust one another, but it still made Padraig nervous.

Before he deodorized, he patted the pocket of his folded jeans on the top shelf, checking for the pill container. His throat tightened when the hard cylinder shape wasn’t there. He pushed the panic back and retraced his steps in his mind. He was almost sure he had secured the bottle in his jeans before training. He had been running late, but always took a minute to place it somewhere safe.

He yanked out his jeans, then his shirt, socks, and shoes, patting down every piece of clothing—but nothing. Adrenaline raised the bar, and his world focused, every nerve ending poised for fight or flight as panic set in. Flight wasn’t an option—he hadn’t had a chance to get a refill on the pills, no backup, not even fucking Motrin here or at the house.

He dove through his training shorts and shirts, then his cleats. Unlikely places, but when desperate… He went through every inch of his locker and bag again, zipping and re-zipping, his rage bubbling like a teakettle. And he had the feckin’ appointment in ten minutes. He couldn’t even get to a pharmacy by then. Where was a fucking pharmacy? Not anywhere near the club, he knew that much. But he had no control, relying on Del for lifts everywhere.

By his third search, panic and anger overwhelmed him, and he kicked hard the bottom of an adjacent locker. The boys had started to filter in from the pitch, chatting and laughing, splitting up to their different locker rows. Head down, seeing red, Padraig started to shove his dirty gear back into his bag.

A shape loomed up to his right. “You looking for this?”

The sound of rattling pills snapped his attention to Dick, who shook the container like a maraca.

Padraig raised himself up to his full height, expanding his chest, dominating the space. He was only four inches taller than Dick, but he outweighed him by a couple stone, twenty-five pounds, at the least. “They’re mine,” Padraig said, wanting badly to say “ya prick” but Dick held the pill case, not Padraig.

Dick threw the bottle at him, but it was only a gesture, and he laughed when Padraig reacted, jerking his hands out to catch. “What is this”—the ignorant tosser squinted at the bottle—“Oxy…co-tin you are on? Some good stuff, O’Neale? Must be, the way you were looking for it just now.”

A few of the other lads with lockers near him had gathered around to see the fuss. Padraig was barely holding his rage in check, but didn’t want to make a scene. The towel still wrapped around his waist, and he had to get dressed to meet Gillian in Coach’s office in less than five minutes.

At least he was calmer than before. Dick wasn’t helping, the cunt, but the pills were in sight. Not lost or gone, so there was still hope. He tried to play it cool. “Thanks, I thought I had lost them.”

“So the all-powerful Padraig is on drugs.”

Padraig shook his head, rolling his eyes. “They’re just pain meds for my back. Not much stronger than anything you can get over the counter here in the States.”

Dick hesitated, and Padraig could tell he was considering whether it was the truth or not. He tossed the container up in the air and caught it, then repeated the action faster, over and over. All the while Padraig watched the bottle up and down, up and down.

“Well, if it’s no big deal, maybe I’ll keep them for myself. I did find them after all.”

In a second, Padraig had slammed Dick up against the locker, his forearm pressed into Dick’s neck. “Did you fucking take them out of my locker?”

The commotion brought the team running. For good measure, Padraig lifted him and threw him back into the metal, an almighty clang echoing through the room. “Did you?”

Dick’s eyes showed no fear. With all his teammates around him, he knew he was safe and Padraig was making a show of himself. To make Padraig look even worse, he gasped out, “I found them on the floor this morning. Just under there.” He freed his one arm to point under a bench across from Padraig’s locker. The hand he pointed with also held the bottle.

“Hand it over.” Padraig motioned with his free hand.

Dick slammed the plastic container into Padraig’s outstretched palm. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Let him go, O’Neale.” It was the Kiwi, behind him with the rest of the team.

Dick’s face had turned red, his eyes bulging from lack of oxygen. With one last stare-down, Padraig released him, and Dick’s body relaxed off the lockers.

“Pretty big words for such a small prick,” Padraig sneered and turned his back on him.

Wrong move. Dick shoved him hard from behind into his open locker with a mighty
crack
. Having lost his towel, too, Padraig swiveled around to face him again, all naked fury. Dick stood his ground, his hands fisted in a boxing stance. “C’mon, ya Irish junkie, have a go, then.”

“Stop! Don’t act like stupid knuckle-grazers.”

All heads turned to see Gillian standing with her hands in her hoodie pocket. And there Padraig stood in all his glory. Bad enough all the team sided with Dick. Now he looked ridiculous standing there butt-feckin-naked in front of the team physio.

“You’re late for our meeting,” she said. Her eyes lowered to the pill bottle in his hand. At least, that’s what he hoped she was looking at.

He scooped his towel off the floor and haphazardly wrapped it around his waist and held the two sides together. “Give me a minute.”

“Okay, lads.” Del clapped his hands loudly together once, a big whack. “Who wants to go to the pub?”

Some murmurs, and the boys began to disperse. He waited for Dick to move on. His locker was in another row. No reason for him to have been here in the first place. With his chest puffed out, his shoulders back, Dick pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at Padraig. He mouthed, “I’m watching you.”

Padraig didn’t bother responding. Dick finally pranced away on the balls of his feet. Within minutes, the rest of the boys in his row had left, as if their proximity made them guilty by association. Guilty of fealty to the new guy, guilty of taking meds themselves, guilty of…what? What exactly was Padraig accountable for? Thousands of athletes took medication to help with injuries. But, going natural was all the rage these days, and medicating was voodoo.

He stood there, staring into the darkened space of his locker. He re-tucked his towel. His breathing under control, he untwisted the cap, shook the pills until one spilled onto his palm. It went down with a quick sip from his water bottle.

He probably could have done without one, the pain bearable today, but he was seething with rage. He quickly dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved Irish rugby jersey, tucking the pills into his pocket. Outside, it was still warm so he slipped on his flip-flops and headed to Coach’s office.

The door was open. Typing away, she had her laptop in the center of the desk. He knocked on the opened door and remained standing in the entrance. She looked up, then glanced at her watch. “Glad you could make it. Please take a seat.”

Padraig took the same chair he had the first day he’d arrived, laying his arms along the wooden rests. Since the age of nineteen, he had been his current height, the last eight years filling out the pounds and muscle. Rarely did he fit into normal chairs comfortably, and this was no exception. He was wedged into the chair, his knees bending well over the edge.

She shifted her laptop to the side so there was a direct view between them. The obscene overhead office light reflected off her glasses, but the boys were right. There was something about her. A bit of something. Especially in her yoga gear.

“So what happened out there?” she asked, jerking her head toward the locker room.

“Nothing important, and you’re not Coach, so none of your business.”

She seemed to expect his smart-arse reply. She ran her top teeth over her bottom lip, sucking it gently before letting it be. More titillating than Padraig wanted to admit.

“It is if one of you guys get hurt.”

“Well no one did, but doesn’t mean no one
will
, if they don’t stay out of my business.”

She nodded. “Is that the business of your oxycodone?”

He was taken aback for a moment until he realized Coach must have told her. “It’s a prescription…and legal,” he added when she didn’t respond.

“It is, but may not be for long. What is your dosage?”

Fine. If she had to have the information, he’d give it to her. He dug the bottle out of his pocket and tossed it to her without warning. She was quick and snatched it from the air. She turned the bottle around, read the label, then set it down on the desk. She didn’t push it back toward him or offer to return it.

When Padraig leaned forward to retrieve the bottle, she wrapped her hand around it, making a small fist.

Padraig took a deep breath through his nose. If she wanted to play games, then fine. He sat back and tried on his best nonchalant pose.

“When were you issued the oxycodone?”

“By the team doctor after my back surgery. It’s called OxyContin in Ireland.”

She shrugged. “You’re not in Ireland now.” She waited for a response that he never gave, then continued. “Pain relief is often prescribed post-operative, but from Scotch’s notes, it says your surgery was over six months ago.”

“Yeah, well, it obviously didn’t work.”

“Oxycodone is a highly addictive pharmaceutical. Have you been taking it since”—she ran her finger down some notes on a legal pad—“last December?”

He mirrored her and shrugged. “Doc gave me a prescription for it, and it helps, so I take it.”

“Just five milligrams once a day in the morning?”

“And at night.” And in between.

“You know that oxycodone is a banned performance-enhancing substance by WADA.”

Only too well. Funny she called a game a performance. Maybe in the US it
was
. For him, rugby was life, and it didn’t end when he walked off the pitch.

She looked once again at the label and read, “Prescriber—Doherty. Is that your family physician?

“That’s none of your business, either.”

To Padraig’s surprise, she twisted off the cap and peeked inside. She shook the bottle up and down in quick motions. What her intentions were, he had no clue. She finally tightened the cap, set it back on the table, and pushed it toward Padraig. “Are you done after this?”

His stomach twisted at the thought, but he’d been planning since he came here to get the new team doctor to refill the prescription. Little had he known, there wasn’t one. “Sure,” he lied, nodding in affirmation.

She cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips. “Great, because there really are so many other options.”

“What? Music and yoga? I don’t think that shite can really help on a professional level.”

“It can, and it will.” She typed fast, her fingers flying over the keys. “First, I’m going to do some acupuncture on your back. Anywhere else you have injuries that still cause you pain?”

“My left knee.”

“Okay and your knee. We’ll concentrate on that for now. I’d also like you to try an herbal remedy for chronic pain. It takes a while to take effect, so I want you to start it immediately. It’s a salve and you need to rub it into the areas three times a day.” She cleared her throat and looked away. “It’s the same stuff I used on you yesterday.”

That smelly shite? No way in hell. “Great, are we done here?”

She tilted her head in a thoughtful expression. “Yeah, I think so.” There was a long pause, and as Padraig was rising to leave, she spoke again. “Thanks for saying something to Dick today.”

He hesitated. “No bother.”

“Do you want to go get something to eat?”

Whoa. That was unexpected. He sat back down on the edge of his seat, holding the arm of the chair in a death grip.

“Do you mean on a date, like?”

“Uh-uh. No.” She lifted both hands in defense. “No, no, not a date. It was nice of you to defend me earlier…and I thought I could pay you back.”

She was flustered, Padraig could tell, curling a strand of hair around a finger, and looking at anything but him.

“We’re both hungry, right?” she directed at the wall. “And I can give you a ride home.”