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

Hooking a left, they passed the same way the cab had brought him in on Thursday.
    Traverse City hadn’t looked like much from the airport until they’d hit the shoreline. The area catered to tourists, classy downtown and a nice waterfront, but too many resort hotels blocked the view. Lake Michigan sparkled from between the buildings. Padraig was riveted to the glimpses of blue that passed in short bursts, a staccato performance of man against nature. Sad, but the buildings won by a long shot.
    It was Padraig’s first time in the States, unless he counted when he was a baby, which he didn’t. Nothing like Cork, a beautiful city with lots of character. The rest of the world was so busy looking at Dublin they rarely saw what a great city Cork was. The coast was even better. In the summers, his ma and da had driven the family out of town past Ringaskiddy, a patchwork of light and dark green fields flowing into the Atlantic ocean, to the colorful town of Kinsale where his ma’s sister lived, the buildings painted in bright oranges, blues, greens, and yellows. Trawlers and sailboats filled the large harbor, sometimes tied two or three thick to the docks.
    Padraig missed home already.
    When they finally arrived at the sports complex, Padraig’s back was aching. He wished he could pop another pill real quick, but there was too much activity around as the lads fed into a stream of players heading into the main entrance of the clubhouse.
    Bodies jostled and teammates called out to each other, the room reeking of male testosterone. Since Padraig still hadn’t been assigned a locker, he stood off to the side and watched, dumping his bag by a wall. There were some big fellas on the team, larger than he’d expected. But he hadn’t expected much.
    Coach weaved around the men down the center of the locker room to the far end, passing right under Padraig’s nose without even an acknowledgement. The boys naturally followed and gathered around Coach, some sitting on plastic stackable chairs, others leaning against the lockers and walls.
    Padraig trailed behind the rest, then sat on the end next to Rory.
    When the room quieted, Coach spoke, his back to a white board. “A few things I want to talk about before we get started on the pitch. First, I want to introduce you to the newest member of the team”—he waved at Padraig to his left—“Padraig O’Neale. Straight in from Ireland.”
    All eyes on him. There was some applause, but nothing hearty in it. He held his hand up in a half-wave to acknowledge them, though none was needed. He was the only new guy in the room. One of the lads with thighs wrapped for lifting, black electrical tape and tubing, nudged the guy next to him. No contest. Padraig had inches on him.
    “Padraig will be starting lock forward, our number five. He comes to us with more experience than the team put together with the exception of Del.”
    The Kiwi snorted, jerked back his head like a disgruntled horse, and crossed his beefy arms in front of his chest. “You got that right.”
    Coach ignored him. “He has over one hundred caps for his previous provincial club, Munster, and thirty caps for the Ireland International team.” He referred to his notes. “He was with Munster when they won a Heineken Cup and the Irish team when they won a 6 Nations Championship.”
    No response from the lads, as if Coach was speaking Chinese. “Give O’Neale some respect,” Coach said.
    At the cue, the players shifted noisily out of their seats and stood. With a single loud clap from Del, they started a rhythmic clap and stomp routine. It lasted only a minute, but Padraig couldn’t hide the smirk. What the hell were they doing? Must be some ritual they performed when someone did well in a game or maybe even at practice. What were they, in kindergarten? Rewarded for good behavior? The haka he could understand. The Kiwis and other islanders had been doing a war dance before matches to intimidate their competitors for years.