Allison Parr - Running Back

“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.”

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.