Running Back

  Mom tilted her head. “The what?”

  I must have told them about the conference at least three times, but I made myself explain again without snapping, though my gut twisted unpleasantly. “It’s the conference Jeremy and I are presenting at in the fall. It’s one of the annual archaeology conferences? We were really lucky to get a space to talk about our fieldwork—usually people just present papers or workshops. ”

  Dad grunted. “And what if you don’t find anything? Then what are you going to talk about?”

  “Dad. I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay. ”

  “Are you? You know what I learned when I was researching Professor Anderson? That whenever people write about him, they also write about a Dr. Henry Ceile. ”

  My shoulders slumped. Great.

  Like Jeremy, Dr. Ceile studied pre-historic Ireland, but he was of the opinion that focusing on Greek and Roman ancient sources was ridiculous and useless. He also had a personal bone to pick with Jeremy, since Jeremy had received funding to look for Ivernis that had originally gone to Ceile’s research. I tried to avoid calling the relationship between Jeremy and Ceile a feud—but it was kind of a feud.

  Dad pointed his fork at me again. “This Ceile says that Anderson is crazy. Do you want to be caught up in the middle of this?”

  “Yes, Dad, I do. ”

  “That’s not how I raised you. ”

  “Please,” I snapped, and then bit down on my tongue so none of the other words flew out. You barely raised me at all. You barely came home from the office for long enough to pat me on the head before disappearing into your study.

  He raised his brows. “What was that, young lady?”

  I shook my head and dug into my Pad Thai.

  Silence descended and stretched.

  Then Mom sniffed. “I went to Ireland once. ”

  “You went to Scotland,” Dad corrected.

  “I went to Ireland too. ”

  Dad cut her a dismissive sneer. I felt it scrape across my spine and tried not to wince. “When?”

  “When I was eighteen. They flew me out for a weekend shoot. ”

  “And you’re positive it wasn’t Scotland?”

  Forks scraped against plates. I desperately searched for something to say.

  Please, I thought. Get me out of here. Get me to Ireland.

  * * *

  Cam looked up from her email when I walked into our apartment. “Your undergrad friend emailed me back. She’s going to sublet for the summer. ”

  “Great. ” I flopped down on the couch.

  “Whoa. ” Cam’s head snapped up. “You’re wearing pearls. And a cardigan. Dinner with the Sullivans?”

  “Yes, and it was just darling. ” I unhooked the line of freshwater mussel irritants and slung it across the room into my shoebox of jewelry. “I can’t get to Ireland soon enough. ”

  “Any news on the football front?”

  “Yes! I got an email on the way up to my parents’. I’m going to meet with Mike O’Connor tomorrow. ”

  “Oh, good. ” She paused, and then said in her attempting-to-be-delicate voice: “Have you thought what you’re going to do if he says no?”

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what if doesn’t give you permission to dig?”

  I waved a hand. “Come on, he’s a first-string Leopard. He doesn’t need a little non-functional farm in Ireland. ”

  “Yeah, probably. Though, you know, it wouldn’t be awful if you stayed here this summer. I mean, if you stayed in one place for longer than six months, you could probably even date. ”

  Page 4

  I laughed. “I’m way too busy to date anything other than my carbon. ”

  “You’ve already made that joke,” Cam said, a little more acerbically than I thought warranted. “What about that guy in your program that you got lunch with yesterday? How was that?”

  I shrugged. “It was fine. It was lunch. I had a strawberry gazpacho soup. Pretty exciting. ”

  “Oh my God. ” Cam stepped over the back of the couch and dropping down on it. “Nothing happened. ”

  “What was I supposed to do?” I pushed my shoulders back defensively. “I smiled. We talked. ”

  “See, this is why you don’t have a boyfriend. You were probably all chummy when you should have been, you know, cute. ”

  “Hey. ” I waved a hand down the length of my body. “What about this isn’t cute?”

  Cam shook her head. “I just don’t even know what I’m going to do with you. ”

  “It’s not my fault. It’s not like I’m friend zoning everyone, they’re friend zoning me. ”

  “Well, you’re helping them right along. ” She leaned forward, bracing her hands against her thighs. “Okay. Here’s the plan. We’ll call it Operation Irish Boyfriend. You find an Irish boyfriend. ”

  “Great! What’s the plan?”

  “That’s it. Go and find a boyfriend. ”

  “Hey, I’m finding a connection between ancient Rome and Ireland. I need a more detailed plan than that. I expect it in my inbox by Thursday. ”

  She mimed tossing a pillow at me. “It won’t be that hard. ”

  “Whatever, I don’t need to. The carbon, you know. It’ll be keeping me busy. ”

  “Oh my God. Stop. ”

  I dropped onto the opposite side of the couch from her. “What? I’m sorry I prioritize my work. ”

  “You don’t prioritize work, you completely ignore your emotional health. It’s like you’re a little emotionless bot trained by Madame Sullivan to react to all situations with grace and poise and the best angle to be photographed, but without any legit feelings. ”

  “I’m sorry, when did you switch from engineering to psychology?”

  “Only someone who doesn’t understand simple human behavior would interpret this as legit psychology. This is common knowledge. Besides—wait. ” Cam sat up with a fervor that made me very, very wary. “I have an idea. ”

  “Nope. ” My pendulous earrings swung out as I shook my head. “I’m not doing it. ”

  “No, I swear, this is a good one. ” Cam gathered her hair upward and then let it cascade down. If I had been less afraid, I might have commented that this made Cam look like a mad scientist, but instead I just waited. Last time Cam had spoken in that tone, we’d ended up doing past-life regression, and the stupid regresser kept saying I was a medieval serf while Cam got to be a pirate queen. “What have you been complaining about for a solid week?”

  That sounded like a trick question. “The theft of my harbor?”

  Apparently I’d answered correctly, because Cam bounced up and down. “Exactly! Exactly. Who stole your harbor?”

  “I thought leading questions were bad. ”

  “For lawyers, not best friends. So?”

  I gave in. “Michael O’Connor. ”

  “Who you’re seeing tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah, though did I tell you they wouldn’t even give me a real time?” I swung my legs over the couch arm, and dropped my head into Cam’s lap. “Just sometime between three and six. I’m terrified that if I’m five minutes late they’ll say I missed my chance. ”

  “Okay, that’s not the point. ” Cam waved a hand dismissively. “The point is that Mike O’Connor is a highly attractive individual. ”

  I flushed. “Then why don’t you go out with him. ”

  “Aha!” Cam stabbed a finger at me. “See! There. You implied you wanted to date him. ”

  I pushed back my shoulders defensively. “I did not. I just know how your mind works. It was a preemptive strike. ”

  “Come on, this is brilliant. You have a perfectly legitimate reason to talk to him. ”

  “Yeah, it’s a business meeting. ”

  “Right, he’ll sign the papers and then you’ll never see him again. So it’s not like you can get embarrassed if it goes badly, because then you don’t have to see him.
But if it goes well, then you get to date a Leopard player. ”

  “Do I get a gold star too?”

  Cam narrowed her eyes. “Only if you’re lucky. Which, coincidentally,” she said, examining her nails and obviously compressing a smile, “will only be if you get lucky. ”

  I swatted at her nose.

  “Think what a perfect story it would be for your grandkids! And you can totally pull it off. Seeing how the only generous thing Tamara ever did was give you her looks—”

  I peeled open an eyelid. “Really, Cam?”

  “I mean, if I had the height and eyes of a Russian supermodel—”

  “And the breadth and chin of a mutty lawyer—”

  “—I would use them to my advantage. Instead, I get guys with Asian fetishes. I think we know who the winner is here. ”

  “Ugh. ”

  “I’m just saying,” Cam said. “Wear something pretty. ”

  Chapter Two

  When I was little, my father used to take me to the      Leopards’ Stadium. We’d ride the commuter train in from Westchester, and he’d      buy me popcorn if I asked, but I’d always known we weren’t at the games for a      father-daughter bonding experience. We were really going in so Dad could meet up      with my half-brothers.

  I loved them. Peter, with his staunch sense of right and wrong;      Quinn, who rarely spoke but made me sock-puppets and always complimented my      mangled drawings of boats; and even Evan, who scowled and pulled my hair and      blamed me for every item he broke. Evan, at only three years older, was actually      my favorite, and I spent hours trying to get him to play with me. But sometimes      when I saw the way our father smiled at them, my stomach knotted up and my      throat hurt.

  And everything hurt after the boys moved out of the city and my      father no longer mentioned going to games.

  I went with friends in later years. Or with my brothers, when      Evan moved back to New York after college. Quinn lived just outside the city and      Peter usually came up from D. C. and sprung for all of us once a season. Still,      when I left the subway part of me felt like my father should be at my side.

  It was a little weird to not walk directly into the stadium,      but instead through the bright, modern halls of its offices. Photos of the      owners and the stadium’s construction hung in neat frames, while action shots of      players served as accent walls.

  I pushed open a door labeled 301, as O’Connor’s agent had      instructed. I entered an airy waiting room not unlike the dentist’s, except the      walls were decorated with action shots instead of health certificates, and all      the magazines featured people who played there.

  Page 5

  “Hi. ” I smiled brightly at the guy behind the desk. “I have an      appointment with Michael O’Connor at three. ”

  He took my name and license without more than a glance, his      fingers flicking over the keyboard. “Take a seat and I’ll let you know when he’s      ready. ”

  Which would probably be at ten past six.

  I couldn’t concentrate on any of the articles I tried skimming.      Butterflies kept trying to fly up and out my throat. I wanted to get up and buy      a bottle of water, but I was terrified if I left the kid would say I’d missed      O’Connor. So instead I sat there, paralyzed, going over every possible      scenario.

  I shifted yet again, my attention caught by a girl with dark      hair in a pale blue dress. She wandered into the waiting room and lingered at      the door as she wrapped up a phone call. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but after      two or three sentences I got a jolt of surprise and started listening in      earnest. “Maybe Celtic music playing in the background, and, I don’t know,      documentaries or links to the primary sources—especially the smaller ones, that      you’re not going to be expanding on? And in the main one, the Cogad Gáedel re Gallaib, when they’re comparing Brian      Boru to Alexander—we should definitely make the first book pop up. ” She paused      and laughed as I stared. “No worries, I’m at the stadium anyways. Skype      Monday?”

  She hung up and entered, and I couldn’t help speaking up as she      walked by. “Sorry—are you working on a project about Brian Boru?”

  She stopped, an expression of disbelief and excitement crossing      her face, like a first year grad student stunned that someone actually had any      interest in their research, and eager to expound.

  By the time you asked anyone past their third year about their      research, they usually just wanted to strangle you.

  She smoothed a hand over her blue sundress and smiled.      “Yeah—I’m working on a book about him. ”

  Competitiveness flared in my belly. I had a couple of papers      published, but no books. Was this girl doing a multi-media thesis? Did that      happen? “Small world. I specialize in Iron Age Ireland archaeology. ”

  “No way!” She dropped into the seat beside me. “Are you a grad      student?”

  “Yeah, Columbia. You?”

  She surprised me by shaking her head. “Oh, no. I’m a      collaborator on a historical satire series. My friend, though, the writer—she      just got her degree at Chicago. But in Hellenistic Studies. ”

  “So how’d you guys end up working on an Irish hero?”

  “It’s a whole series about historical figures—Alexander,      Hannibal, Genghis Khan. So did you say—have you studied Brian Boru?”

  “No, my field’s really a thousand years earlier. ”

  “Well, even so—do you mind if I get your info? If my friend      could pick your brain. . . or if you know anyone else who works with that      period. . . ”

  “Definitely. ” I handed over my cell. “Is she in New York? I’d      be happy to get coffee. ”

  “That would be great. ” She typed in her number. “I’m Rachael,      by the way. ”

  “Natalie. ”

  We shook hands.

  “Ms. Sullivan? You can go in now. ”

  Both of us turned at the receptionist’s voice, which sounded      much warmer than he had earlier. My stomach unclenched a bit. Maybe O’Connor had      sounded pleased to see me.

  “Just go straight down that hall—it’s the third door on the      left. ”

  I practically leaped out of my seat, before remembering to      pause and smile at Rachael. “It was nice to meet you. ”

  She lifted a hand. “See you around. ”

  * * *

  I stood in front of the door, my finger tapping a rapid      beat against my thigh. Okay. Fine. So he was an incredibly talented running back      and gorgeous to boot. What did I care? I shouldn’t even notice the brilliant      auburn hair that formed into loose curls, or eyes the color of streaming coffee,      dark in shade, glinting mahogany in the light. Or by the fame and worship      garnered by young heroes. No. I was not some young, foolish undergrad. I      listened to NPR and paid for my own utilities and thought really hard about      getting my own health insurance.

  It was just that my parents’ insurance covered me until I was      twenty-six.

  At least it was O’Connor, not one of the other Leopards. He was      the charming one. His modus operandi ran to bright grins and genuine laughter,      and he was more likely to be in a Got Milk? or St. Jude’s commercial than one      with fast cars and women. I’d watched six interviews before coming in, and he      came across as genuine and good-natured in all of them, even the cell-phone      video taken by a slightly obnoxious sixteen-year-old fan.

  I’d just negotiate the contract with my usual aplomb and waltz      out. And, you know, maybe he’d be super impressed by how bad-ass I was, because
,      well, archaeology. He’d say, “You’re an archaeologist? Really?” because that was      what everyone said, and I’d smile—oh so coolly—and      say, “That’s right, I just got back from a dig in Ecuador excavating Inka      fortresses. ”

  I nodded briskly. I had this.

  I straightened my back, imagining that a pole ran upward along      my spine and kept my posture perfect. Then I rapped twice and pushed the door      open.

  Michael O’Connor stood framed in the window, sun highlighting      the red-copper of his hair. A black athletic Leopards jacket clung to his broad      shoulders, while work-out shorts hung down to his knees. Below them, the strong      tendons on his calves were lightly tanned.

  Now what? I didn’t even know how to address him. I couldn’t      call him O’Connor, and Michael sounded too intimate, and Mr. O’Connor when he      was only a few years older than me was ridiculous. . . “Michael O’Connor?”

  Page 6

  He turned slowly and my heartbeat ratcheted up. For Pete’s      sake, I had to get a hold of myself. I wasn’t interviewing for a job or trying      to get funding. I wasn’t walking a survey across mountain cliffs or trying to      chop down a tree with a blunted machete. I was just meeting a guy. A normal      guy.

  My lips parted, and I started to say you       were great in the game against the Bears in December, and that drive where you practically front flipped into the       end zone—I swear my heart stopped for two seconds—

  And then I saw his face.

  For a moment, I couldn’t place what was so strange. I thought      it might be how the light haloed him, turning the moment into a ridiculously      picturesque scene, with fire in his hair, light and dark and flame. But no, that      wasn’t what sent shivers down my spine—it was how serious he looked. I’d never      seen a picture of O’Connor without that effervescent grin, that twinkle in his      eye, as though he was ready to sling an arm around a teammate or laugh with a      reporter. Now, he looked deadly serious.

  Unease washed through me.

  “So. You must be Natalie Sullivan. ”

  “And you’re Michael O’Connor. ”

  Our hands clasped. His grip was warm and firm, but he applied      more pressure than I expected. I raised my gaze to his and found him already      looking at me. He regarded me with wary intelligence in his chestnut-colored      eyes. I felt odd, and some of the butterflies woke up. I had to remind myself to      breathe.