Running Back (2 page)

“You said you wanted Thai.”

“We could have gone to Lemon Grass.”

“But you’re tired of their menu.”

I leaned into their line of vision, swooping the menu off the table. I flashed a smile to the right, then the left, forcing eye contact on both my parents. “Let’s make a note on the menu, and then we’ll know not to order from it next time.”

Dad finished cutting off a small corner and popped it in his mouth, then spoke around the mouthful. “I don’t dislike it.” He leaned backward in his seat.

As though pulled by a taunt string, Mom leaned forward. “But do you
like
it?”

He shrugged.

I put the menu down. “I have good news! I got my grant for Ireland. Isn’t that exciting?”

My parents didn’t often agree with each other, but now they looked aghast.

“I don’t understand why you can’t stay here.” Mom reached out and ran her fingers through my thick blond hair, which I’d left loose as a concession to her. “You just got back.”

I frowned. “I told you. I went to Ecuador for a specific class, but since I want to write my thesis on Ivernis, I need to spend the summer in Ireland. I can probably even spend most of the year there, since I’ve finished off all my coursework.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do? You’re so pretty, Natalya.” Mom’s famous gray eyes mourned. “I thought maybe we could spend some time this summer seeing if there were any photo shoots you were interested in.”

I looked from her to my father, and both appeared unhappy. “Oh.” My voice came out smaller than I’d intended. “You didn’t expect me to get the grant.”

“It was very competitive—” Mom said hastily.

“We didn’t want you to get it,” Dad said bluntly. “How long are you going to do this, Natalie?”

I slowly straightened. “How long am I going to do what?”

He waved his fork through the air; Mom tracked it, her gaze pinned to the speck of translucent onion ready to slide off. “It was fine when you were in undergrad, but you can’t seriously expect to spend your life chasing after adventure. You have to settle down.”

I had to press down on my frustration, because I didn’t want to get into a fight with Dad. Peace was fragile enough in my parents’ house without me adding to the unbalance. “Dad, I’ve been in my program for the past three years. What did you think I was going to do?”

He finally put his fork down. “You said you were going to be a professor.”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, and I still probably will, but this is my fieldwork. I have to do it to get my doctorate.”

He shifted. “But you don’t have to do it with that idiot—”

My fork clattered against the table. “Professor Anderson’s not an idiot.”

“No? He hasn’t found anything in half a dozen years. I read up on him. He’s essentially the laughingstock of the academic community.”

“Well, you’re not part of that community, so I don’t see why you—”

A thunderous expression crossed his face. “We have supported you in whatever you want to do, but enough is enough. What am I supposed to tell people when they ask where you are? Say that you’re off chasing leprechauns? What was wrong with Ecuador, for Christ’s sake? If you have to stay in this ridiculous profession, can’t you at least be realistic? If you align yourself with Jeremy Anderson, no one is ever going to take you seriously.”

My nails bit into my palm and my mouth tensed. “Dad, I got a grant from an independent non-profit. And the whole reason I received it was because of all the research I did, which shows there is a very,
very
good chance that the harbor of Ivernis is buried somewhere on Kilkarten. So, no, I don’t think I’m being ridiculous or following insubstantial rainbows. I’m doing my
work
, and I expect results. Results that I intend to present to the American Academy of Archaeology in September.”

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.”

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.

“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?”

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.

Then, so suddenly and smoothly I thought I’d imagined the
wariness, he switched to a charming grin. He removed his hand and gestured at
the seat before his desk as he dropped into a swivel chair behind it. “Please
sit.”

I nodded and perched on the very edge. I shouldn’t be this
nervous, but I’d never interacted with someone who I both admired and needed
something from and was attracted to before. There were just too many feelings
twisting up my gut.

Okay. I tried to order my thoughts. “First of all, I’m sorry
about your loss.”

For half a heartbeat, his charming smile froze and his eyes
flickered. “My
loss
?”

My finger ticked nervously against my thigh, and I quickly
crushed it in the grip of my other hand. “Of your great uncle?”

His expression shifted back to ease, and he flashed a bright,
shocking smile that made me flush straight to my toes. “That’s right,” he said,
as though the memory had just now occurred to him. “Poor ol’ Uncle Patrick.”

He didn’t sound any more broken up than I felt.

“Um, yes.” I tried to recover from that smile.

“But you’re not really here to offer your condolences, are you,
Ms. Sullivan? You want to talk about Kilkarten.”

“That’s right.” I shook myself and smiled again. “As I’m sure
you know, your uncle and I had negotiated a deal regarding excavating the Iron
Age harbor at Kilkarten Farm. I’m an archaeologist with Columbia University, and
we’ll be partnered with an Irish university for the dig. I’ve emailed you the
agreement, but I brought a paper copy as well.” I pulled the packet from my
briefcase, wrinkling the paper on the way out. Why couldn’t I ever be suave?
“I’m hoping we can keep the same terms that Patrick O’Connor and I worked out,
and if you’re happy with them there are just a couple of forms to sign.”

He closed his eyes for one brief moment, and when he opened
them they were focused on me with an intensity that made my own widen. He leaned
forward and my throat dried up. “Look, Ms. Sullivan, I’ll get to the point.
There isn’t going to be an excavation.”

Wait.

What?

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.” I tried to keep my
voice from warbling as I tucked my loose hair firmly behind my ear. “You object
to the terms?”

I could see all the tensed energy in his muscles as he brought
his arms to rest on the desk. He laced his fingers together. One red lock fell
across his forehead. “I know you had an agreement with my uncle, Ms. Sullivan,
and I’m sorry about that.”

“This dig’s beginning in a month,” I said dumbly.

He shook his head and spoke with finality. “No, it’s not.”

I blinked rapidly. “Why not?”

His expression didn’t change. “Personal reasons.”

Personal reasons.

Personal
reasons?

Personal was seven years of school. Personal was Jeremy’s
damaged reputation, years of research, a lifetime of love, conferences and
papers and passion. It was bureaucratic tape and persuading cranky old men and
academic feuds and my father’s disdain. “I don’t think you understand how
important this project is.”

O’Connor’s hands twisted, his thumb and forefinger biting into
the skin between his fingers. He smiled, and didn’t bother trying to make it
reach his eyes. “Important means very different things to different people.”

My stomach turned over, like I’d only had coffee all morning
long. “So you’re saying that...you’re not going to give me the rights to dig at
Kilkarten. I’m going to have to cancel the excavation.” I blinked. “Can I do
anything to make you change your mind?”

For the first time since I’d walked in, he betrayed some
regret. “I’m sorry, but no.”

I nodded. “Oh.” There was a pit in my stomach, a knot that
pulled everything in me down, that turned every emotion sour and made it hard to
breathe. My body felt uneasy and weak and shaky. “I see.”

His brows lowered in slight consternation. “Can I get you
anything? Water?”

I waved a hand. “No, I’m fine. Just—I don’t suppose you can
tell me why?”

His face masked once more. “I’m sorry, it’s—”

“Personal. I get it.” I sucked in a deep breath and stood. I
would have to call Jeremy. And the locals I had hired. And the suppliers I had
contracted with for equipment.

And my parents. At some point, I would have to tell my parents
I had failed. Well, at least someone would be happy with this outcome.

Standing, I swallowed dryly and stuck out my hand. “Well—thank
you for your time.”

He took my hand, his own large and warm. His eyes scanned mine.
“You’re really upset about this.”

That almost made me laugh. “You could say that.” I took a deep
breath. “But. That’s not your problem.”

“Hey.” His hand held on to mine as I began to pull away, and my
eyes rose back to his. “Do you think it’s really there? You think you would have
found this lost harbor of yours?”

My chest clenched and my heart twisted. “I think I would have
found everything at Kilkarten.” I extricated my hand and forced a smile.
“Anyway. I guess I should go.” I shrugged. “Go Leopards.”