Running Back Page 4

  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.”

  “Oh, I remember you.”

  My eyes started to his, and we both stared at each other for a drawn out moment. Heat filled my cheeks. Did that mean I’d been so obnoxious I’d been impossible to forget?

  He cleared his throat and looked away. “What are you doing here?”

  “Rachael Hamilton invited me.”

  He glanced behind him. I followed his gaze to find Rachael Hamilton watching us with open curiosity. She quickly ducked behind her wine glass, which did exactly nothing to hide her.

  When Mike turned back to me, his eyes glinted, hardness shining beneath the soft gold sparks. “How’d you meet Rachael?”

  I pushed my hair back self-consciously. “I ran into her at the draft.”

  “What were you doing at the Draft?”

  I stared at him. “Watching. Why? What do you think I was doing there?”

  For the first time since I’d met him, a hint of embarrassment heightened his color. “I thought—maybe—you wanted to talk about Kilkarten.”

  I lifted my chin, feeling my cheeks warm to match his color. “Why? Do you want to talk about Kilkarten?”

  For a long moment, we just stared at each other, and my heart rate increased. Then he finally stepped back. “Come on in.”

  Okay. I was going to act all collected. Cool. Like Indiana Jones, minus the fedora.

  I failed after two seconds. “If you want to talk about Kilkarten—”

  “I don’t.” He interrupted me almost before I finished the last syllable, with so much force I drew back. “I don’t talk about Kilkarten.”

  Chapter Four

  I swallowed and nodded as he turned his back and walked deeper into the apartment. I felt strange and intensely curious. What did that mean? Not “I don’t want to talk to you about Kilkarten” but a straight out “I don’t talk about Kilkarten.”

  Or maybe I read too much into things.

  I stepped clear of the entrance and stopped, stunned at the apartment, a massive open space with bright wooden floors and a glass wall overlooking Central Park. Laughter and steam and spices filled a copper and chrome kitchen at one end, while two dozen famous faces ranged throughout the room.

  I looked for Rachael, but she was over in the kitchen, clearly giving very pointed directions to a set of two defensive tackles twice her size. They seemed to be concerning tableware.

  “Let me guess,” someone said behind me. “Friend of Rachael’s.”

  Linebacker Abe Krasner grinned at me from beneath a halo of dusky brown curls and held out a beer. I was very good; I didn’t gape or pinch myself or anything, even though the last time I’d seen him he’d been preventing a game-losing touchdown.

  “Yeah.” I took the bottle and tried not to sound too star struck. “I am. Sort of. I’m Natalie.”

  “Abe,” he said, in case I lived under a rock. “Are you the archaeologist?”

  Archaeology small talk for the win. I smiled brightly, back on firm ground. “That’s me.”

  Abe’s easy going manner put me at ease within minutes, and he introduced me to several other players. Within another twenty, Rachael appeared, a tall, quiet woman at her side who she introduced as Alexa. Alexa was the grad student from Chicago, and I probably could have talked to her all night. We did talk for a full hour before dinner was ready. I didn’t often run into people who not only cared about my research, but understood it. When I had to explain archaeology or Iron Age history to people that didn’t study it, I felt like I was translating everything into another language, one neither me nor my listener understood very well.

  Of course, it went both ways. Once I asked one of my earth science friends to describe what she did, and she basically told me I would never understand.

  When Ryan hollered from the kitchen, everyone fell in like a well-ordered troop. Mike tried to seat me far down the table, but Rachael out-maneuvered him and we found ourselves directly across from each other. Abe dropped in on one side and lowered his voice. “Ryan’s nickname is the General, but I always thought Rachael would be called the Commander.”

  I laughed too loudly, and clapped a hand to my mouth. Mike eyed me warily, and then shook his head and turned to smile at some tiny, beautiful brunette beside him.

  Despite Rachael machinations, Mike and I didn’t talk directly to each other until the very end of dinner. Instead, everyone else spoke, mostly about their plans before training camp started up at the end of July. “Bri wants to go to Paris,” wide-receiver Malcolm Lindsey said, referencing his absent fiancée. He sent a look at Rachael. “Somehow that got in her head.”

  “Wow, what a great idea,” Rachael said with patent transparency. She turned to Ryan Carter. “Interestingly enough, there’s a book fair in Milan that work’s sending me to in July.”

  Ryan failed to suppress a grin. “You need to work on your subtly.”

  “I don’t really think so.” She glanced at me. “You have any plans this summer?”

  Only by sheer dint of willpower did I keep my eyes from lifting to Mike’s. “Um. Actually, I’m going to Ireland in two weeks.”

  Mike coughed explosively. “You’re what?”

  Rachael looked between us with quick eyes. “Oh?” She directed
the question at me. “What part?”

  I dug some of the sweet raisins out of my couscous. “A little town in Cork. Called Dundoran.”

  Mike pinned me with those steel eyes. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to Dundoran.”

  “Well,” I said delicately, very aware of the eyes of half the Leopards, “I’m sure it’s big enough for both of us.”

  Mike snorted. “Why would you even go when you’re not excavating?”

  “My advisor lives in Ireland. Even if we’re not able to dig, I’ll need to talk to locals and do research that will only be possible in the area.” I paused. “Of course, a dig would be preferable. There’s a wealth of information just waiting to be discovered.”

  Mike set his fork down with a loud clatter. “Then it can wait a little bit longer.”

  “You know,” I said, “there’s so much development going on that if it doesn’t get excavated now, there’s probably going to be a rushed contract archaeology dig before a bunch of condos are built there. A handful of state mandated archaeologists will go in, do a quick excavation, and they won’t even have finished typing up their notes by the time the bulldozers destroy everything. Wouldn’t you prefer the land’s protected?”

  “You’re forgetting the most important factor—no one’s building anything there without my permission.”

  “So why don’t you want anyone building anything?” Rachael asked.

  Mike took a deep, frustrated breath and turned his gaze to the hostess. “Rachael.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Michael.”

  I watched, fascinated, as Mike O’Connor locked gazes with Rachael Hamilton, and then lost the anger that had been simmering toward boil. Just like that. One moment, he was ready to yell at me, and the next he was laughing and apologizing to Rachael, and throwing even me a sheepish grin, and he’d changed the topic to Rachael’s job without anyone really noticing.

  After dinner, everyone migrated back toward the east side of the giant room, with the window overlooking Central Park. I hovered in a small circle with Rachael while Mike sat on a couch directly before the window.