In Touch (Play On #1) Read Free Page A

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.
    “Don’t worry. I know his address by heart.” She gave him a wink. “That boy partakes in a few drinks after the matches and is always catching a taxi home.”
    She recited an address into the phone, thanked them, and hung up.
    She walked over to him. “Is that all the luggage you got?”
    “Yup, that’s it.”
    “For the entire season?”
    “Don’t need much.”
    She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, rows of bracelets rattling when she raised her hands with the gesture. “Okay then, I suppose men don’t pack as much as women do. If I was living abroad for almost a year, I’d have half my wardrobe in five suitcases.” She eyed him from top to toe. “Probably