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

deep breath. Outside the kitchen window, an older gentleman in his robe led a small yappy dog around on a leash in his front yard, plastic bag at the ready for him to do his business. This whole situation was getting worse by the minute.
    “Be ready in ten, Paddy,” Del said to Padraig’s back, “or I’m leavin’ without you.”
    Padraig whirled on him and grabbed the back of the wooden chair so it clunked loudly on the ceramic floor. “ Don’t call me Paddy.” No one had that right except for his teammates back home.
    The whir of Rory’s blender stopped, filling the room with silence as Del and Padraig stared each other down. The nickname was non-negotiable, and Del must have sensed the same.
    Del’s face remained expressionless except one raised eyebrow, his fingers hovering like claws over his keyboard. “No worries, mate, what you want us to call you then?”
    “How about my name?”
    “Nah, everyone on the team gets a nickname. Plus, your name is too hard. Like Rory’s, except his nickname sounds like his real name.”
    Padraig pinched his brows together, lifting his hands in wonderment. “For who?”
    Del had started typing again. “For everyone.”
    Padraig pushed off the back of the chair and turned. He pulled a bowl from the cupboard, ripped open the paper packet of instant oatmeal, and poured it into the bowl. “Whatever.”
    There was a pause, and out of the corner of his eye as he topped the dry cereal with water at the sink, he could see Rory trying to smother a laugh at whatever Del did behind his back.
    Del’s deep voice continued in his slow fashion. “I think something simple. Like…Irish.”
    “To Irish.” Rory raised his breakfast shake and drank.
    When Padraig popped his oats into the microwave, Del’s chair scraped loudly along the floor. “Ten minutes, mate, and we’re leaving.”
    “Not a problem, mate .”
    Rory raised his glass to Padraig. “You wanna try?”
    “No, thanks, that looks like shite. I’ll stick with my porridge.”
    “It’s good for yees—it’s got yogurt, spinach, eggs, and blueberries.”
    Ugh, fuck that shit. Padraig ignored him and sat at the table, shoveling big scoops of steaming cereal into his mouth. “Ye have a good weekend, then?”
    “Aye, good enough, spent most of my time training.”
    “On the weekend?” Padraig looked at him skeptically.
    “I go over there to do sprint exercises and practice my kicking.” Rory gulped his green shake in one go, plugging his nose to get it down. Was this kid for real?
    “What position are you playing?” Padraig asked him.
    “Full-back right now, but hope to move up to center.”
    No chance in hell. Good height but the kid was a stick.
    “Let’s go!” Del yelled from the front door.
    Padraig and Rory clambered from the kitchen, and the men and three large gear bags crammed into Del’s two-door banger with rust around the wheel arches. How the mighty had fallen. Some of the Irish players that had sponsorship, like Keating and Mahony, were driving around sports cars. Here, because he was the new bloke, he had to move the front seat forward to squeeze his large frame into the rear. When Del pushed the driver’s seat back, Padraig’s legs cramped up around his ears. He buckled himself in and turned his body so that he could stretch the length of the backseat.
    The Kiwi couldn’t have been driving on the right side of the road for very long, and sure enough, he peeled in reverse out the driveway, the tires squealing as the car looped around to face the wrong side of the road.
    Rory laughed, but Padraig bit his tongue, shaking his head in silence.
    Once they had come to an abrupt stop, Del drove slowly, to Padraig’s relief, passing rows of boxy houses, most with front porches like their own and manicured lawns with the same bushes and flower baskets along the fronts.
    They turned onto a main road that led to a T-junction and the main artery that ran along the waterfront and through the city.