Running Back (3 page)

And then I left.

Chapter Three

I spent the next week running.

It was amazing, the amount of energy that unhappiness and
stress created. Every time I thought about the loss of Ivernis or the meeting
with O’Connor, another spurt of speed burst through me.

Now what? I couldn’t base my thesis off research that didn’t
happen. I couldn’t study a site if I never found it. I would have to change my
entire focus.

In the middle of circling Central Park’s giant reservoir, I
came to a stop and stared blankly across the water at Midtown’s skyline, at the
hotels and the towers of Times Square, and, off to the left, the familiar peak
of the Empire State Building. Cam and I always joked about how scenes would go
in the movie version of our lives, and I imagined this was the point where I
would fall to my knees and start crying.

“
Fuck
,” I said, because if I wasn’t
going to cry,
something
ought to mark the collapse
of my dreams.

The water didn’t answer me. The trees, heavy with spring buds
and the chirp of sparrows, swayed lightly. Behind me, fellow joggers bounced
along in the sanctioned counter-clockwise direction, and tourists ambled to a
stop every few steps, cameras clutched in hand. No one seemed to notice that the
world had just ended.

I sighed and yanked my falling elastic out of my hair, flopping
over at the waist so that the thick dirty-blond strands tumbled toward the dirt
path. I gathered it in one hand before it trailed against the ground and bundled
it back into a messy ponytail, and then readjusted my bobby pins as well.

Time to go home.

* * *

When Carthage fell, when Rome fell, bacchanalian chaos
reigned in the streets. When Hailey’s Comet streaked through the sky, people
fell into the arms of strangers.

Since this was on a slightly smaller scale, I ran and watched
cat videos.

A week after Mike O’Connor had refused to sign the papers, Cam
came home to find me once more in front of my laptop. She threw her purse into
her room, where it landed with a soft thud. “What are you doing?”

I waved at my computer. “This cat’s trying to eat a watermelon.
It’s adorable.”

She reached over and closed my laptop case. “Okay. No. You’re
not watching cat videos for the rest of your life.”

“But I looked up things that make people feel better when
depressed, and this came up.”

She shook her head. “You have to focus on the positives. Like,
maybe we don’t sublet your room, but instead you stay here and we have the best.
Summer. Ever.”

“Oh, I’m not staying here,” I said. “I’ve decided that I’m
still going to Ireland.”

Cam’s eyes narrowed. “What? How does that make any sense?”

I shrugged. “Jeremy’s in Ireland. All the other specialists in
our field are there. And even if I can’t dig at Kilkarten, I can still go look
at the land, especially the public property surrounding the farm, and look at
old records that are only available locally. It’s not ideal, but it’s better
than nothing.”

“That’s stupid. You’re going to go there and stare at the land
you can’t excavate? It’s going to drive you crazy.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “But it’s better than doing nothing at
all.”

* * *

Two weeks after my failed meeting with Michael O’Connor,
my brothers came into the city so we could go to the NFL Draft.

I’d been looking forward to it for months. We’d talked about
going for the past several years, but since tickets were distributed on a
first-come, first-serve basis the night before the Draft began, it took some
organization. This year, though, Peter planned a whole trip up from DC with his
wife and four-year old, who opted to see a musical. Quinn, who lived in Philly,
bunked with Evan in his cramped Village apartment. And the night before the
Draft began, the four of us spent hours in line to pick up wristbands that would
give us entrance.

I was thrilled to see my brothers. I had bets placed on which
teams would draft which players. But right before I was supposed to go meet my
brothers to line up to enter Radio City Music Hall, nerves hit me hard.

“I’m just not feeling well,” I told Cam. “Maybe I should stay
home.”

Cam looked up from her computer. “You’re kidding right?”

I shrugged. “I think I have a cold.”

“Hey.” Cam closed her laptop case. “Is this about O’Connor?
You’ve liked the Leopards since you were five years old. You are
not
not going because he made you feel bad.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Just—what if he’s there?”

“You mean, what if he’s up on stage and you’re in the audience,
so there’s actually no way of running into each other?”

I nodded several times.

“And didn’t you say most of the players are showing up on the
second night? So maybe he won’t even be there tonight.”

“Okay. You’re right. I’m going, and I’m going to have a good
time. And I’m going to meet Leopards and get— Oh my God.” I whirled back around.
“What if I’m getting autographs and end up asking O’Connor for one? That would
be
humiliating.
”

Cam’s mouth quirked. “Or, alternatively, you could ask him for
a signature and present the excavation contract.”

I stared at her. “Who were you in your last life?
Machiavelli?”

She snorted. “Please. He just wrote
The
Prince
to be satirical. He was really a good guy.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” I tipped my hat at her,
gathered my things, and left.

I hadn’t been to Radio City Music Hall since some long ago
Christmas, and my overwhelming memory was of long legs and camels. (While the
camels also had long legs, I mainly remembered the human variety). No camels
were present today, but it remained another sort of circus: of the media, the
fans, the celebrities and players and coaches and managers and scouts.
Excitement bubbled up in my chest as soon as we entered the concert hall, and
the chatter of thousands filled the space. People in jerseys and nametags were
everywhere we turned, and every so often we caught glimpses of people who
usually lived in our televisions. I saw two famous coaches within the first
twenty minutes and could have died happy.

The glitz didn’t just come from the people, but from the goods
on display. We saw Lombardi trophies and Super Bowl rings. Banners and cameras
were everywhere. Inside the hall, screens hung from the ceiling and along the
back of the stage. The NFL logo was everywhere. Burnt orange and purple lights
lit up the proscenium arch above the stage. The famous Art-Deco interior had
been designed in the 1930s. Peter leaned close and told me, just as our father
had a dozen odd years ago, that the stage elevators had been so advanced that
the Navy had used their hydraulics for World War II aircraft carriers.

People packed the auditorium. We had seats, but around us
others stood. The screens before us flashed with images, and the countdown
began. It ended in a burst of cheers and applause and music, and then the NFL
Commissioner walked out onstage. After a short speech, he officially opened the
draft.

Round One began at 8:00 PM, but the Leopards, as one of the
NFL’s best teams, didn’t pick until close to last. Selection order depended on
rankings, and the lowest rated got the first position, so last year’s Super Bowl
Champion was dead last, while the teams that didn’t reach the playoffs received
the first twenty picks.

Eight million people watched from around the country with us as
futures and teams were made. I liked theater, but I liked the draft more. Here,
we got to see the faces of the draft picks as they finally made it
professionally. The top college picks waited in the green room, looking strange
in their tailored black or gray suits instead of uniforms and helmets, and
listened with (theoretically) more anxiety than the rest of us for their names
to be called. When they were, they strode onstage to accept their jersey for
their new team.

My brothers and I speculated with each other and the people
around us. We groaned as our mock drafts were destroyed and cheered when we
accurately predicted the future. Quinn did the best out of all of us, and was
the only one to call the first overall pick, but Quinn had always been the best
at numbers.

When we left, I was exhausted, happy and satisfied. I’d spent
time with my brothers, seen some amazing people in real life, and caught nary a
glance of Michael O’Connor.

We couldn’t see the second day of the Draft—the tickets had
been given out to fans at ten the night before, while we were inside watching
the first rounds—but that didn’t prevent us from gathering outside Radio City
Music Hall on the second night as well. Today more current players were in
attendance, but I was more relaxed given yesterday’s lack of conflict.

Of course, that’s how it always is, isn’t it?

Peter and I were angling for a better view of the red carpet,
which had been set up outside of Brooks Brothers—Evan and Quinn were both tall
enough that they could see over most of the crowd with little effort—when a
contingent for the Leopards appeared. The crowd reacted with cheers for the home
team, but a little tickle of unease crept down my spine. I kept remembering
O’Connor’s intense eyes, and just the memory made me feel odd.

Most of that dissipated when he didn’t appear, especially
because the excitement roused by the players who did appear was high. Ryan
Carter was one of the best quarterbacks in the League, and wide-receiver Malcolm
Lindsey had set several records.

They were also both incredibly attractive, but I didn’t mention
that with my three brothers beside me. Besides, I thought they both had
girlfriends.

“Hey! Hey, ancient Ireland girl!”

It took me a couple minutes to realize the raised voice of a
girl several feet away was directed at me, but when I turned I recognized the
girl from the Leopards Stadium. Rachael. Small world, but I supposed if we were
both fans it made sense we’d turn up outside the Draft. I waved back. “Hi!”

Rachael made her way over to me. “Hey, nice to see you again.
Isn’t this something?”

“Yeah, it’s awesome.” I waved at the players several yards
before us. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this close.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, like she was biting the
inside of her cheek. “Mmm. Yeah. So you’re a Leopards fan?”

“Uh-huh.”

She hesitated. “I was, um, curious because Mike told me you
wanted to work on his land.”

What?

I hadn’t given a second thought to why she’d be in the
Leopard’s offices the other week. Did she work there? How did she know Mike
O’Connor? “He did?”

Rachael waved a hand. “Not that it’s my business. Anyway. This
is totally last minute, but the friend I told you about—the one doing the
book—is in town this weekend for the draft. I know I should’ve called you up
earlier, but I’m a slacker, so. If you’re interested, I’m having some people
over on Saturday.”

I stared at her, the wheels in my head clicking. “Wait—are the
people going to be... Mike wouldn’t be there by any chance, would he?”

Her brows rose. “It’s probable.”

A girl made her way though the crowd to Rachael’s side. A tall,
black girl with a face that could launch a thousand ships. My eyes darted back
and forth between them and my throat went dry.

Rachael took in my surprise, and a small smile hovered on her
lips. She nudged her friend. “People always recognize Bri. Why is that?”

Briana Harris shrugged. “I blame being on TV. Also, I’m
prettier.”

I finally got my vocal cords back in order. “You’re Briana
Harris. You’re wide-receiver Malcolm Lindsey’s fiancée.”

“Thank you for the recap,” Briana Harris said.

I turned to the shorter girl. “And you’re Rachael...” The more
I looked at her, the more familiar she seemed, but I couldn’t attach a name.

She spread her hands. “Rachael Hamilton. My boyfriend’s the
quarterback.”

Wait.
Ryan Carter?
Possibly one of
the top ten NFL players?

Briana arched a brow. “I take it you’re a fan.”

I managed something that sounded like “Ull...”

“Well, then,” Rachael said. “You should definitely come to our
party.”

And somehow, I got hold of myself enough to agree.

* * *

Rachael lived in one of those hotel-like buildings on
the Upper West side that real people did not live in. Real people walked past
them on nice days, pushing their baby strollers and walking their hairless dog,
mingling with slow moving tourists who took pictures in front of the Natural
History Museum with alarming looking cameras, before buying pretzels that cost
more than designer coffee.

Anyway, I’d never met anyone who actually lived on Central Park
West, except for one girl in college, and that was at 105th so it didn’t really
count.

The doorman directed me to the elevator bank, and I’d barely
had time to check my hair in the mirror before it whisked me up to the
twenty-first floor. There were only two doors, but one looked like a closet, so
I rang the bell of 2101 and waited to be let in.

Waited in a nonchalant manner, of course, because I came to
things like this all the time. Yeah.

The only problem with attending a party filled with sports
heroes I was mad about came from having one of those sports heroes being mad at
me. Or at least irritated by my existence. I hadn’t had it in me to pass up a
chance to meet and mingle with Malcolm Lindsey and Dylan Pierce, but I would do
my best to avoid O’Connor.

The door swung inward. Michael O’Connor stood in the frame.

My stomach swooped to my feet.

For a bare half second surprise flared, but he smoothed it away
with a smile. He propped his arm against the doorframe and leaned forward. A
shock of auburn hair fell over his eyes. “Natalie Sullivan.”

The sound of my name on his lips made me swallow. “I didn’t
expect you to remember me.”