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
“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
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