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.

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.