Allison Parr - Running Back

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.”

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.

“Sorry about Mike.” Rachael frowned. “He’s usually a lot more—charming—than he was tonight.”

I let out a scoff. “Charming? Him? Yeah, sure.”

Rachael looked at me consideringly.

“I bet that’s just his agent talking.” The wine felt warm and fuzzy, like a blanket draped over my sensibility. “A selling point. Each player needs a distinctive trait, something that will make them stand out. Mem’rable. Memorable.”