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.”