Luck of the Irish

I wake up the next morning to my alarm in my ear. Silently, I pat myself on the back for remembering to set it before crashing into bed the night before. Strolling into the kitchen, phone in hand, I expect to find the place empty. It’s not.

“Morning, Jane,” a groggy Andrew Shaw greets me in basketball shorts and ratty Cubs shirt.

At least he’s clothed.

“Um, hi?” I begin patting my hair down. “Where’s my sister?”

“Ran for coffee,” he explains as he takes two slices of toast out of the toaster. “You guys were out.”

“Right,” I sink into my usual seat. “Did you… spend the night?”

“We got in late from the club and I might have had a few drinks,” I could swear I see a slight blush creep up his neck. “She drove back here. I still had a gym bag in my car.”

I nod wordlessly as my phone vibrates in my hand. It’s not a number I have in my contact list, in fact, I don’t even recognize it. But the context of the message sheds some light on the sender.

Coffee soon?

Patrick.

So I had given him number. I hadn’t been sure if it had been a part of a dream of if after the slightly awkward car ride from the rink I had indeed added my number to his phone.

“I’m back,” Joan’s voice is low. She probably assumes I’m still asleep. And as tired as I am, I actually hope she didn’t bring me coffee. “Oh, you’re up.”

“Imagine my surprise when I come out to see Andrew Shaw, fully clothed, in my kitchen,” I wink at them as he puts an arm around her shoulder and she hands him his Starbucks order.

“I thought you would still be sleeping and would get coffee on your way,” she blushes. “Assumed you’d be sleeping in a little.”

It’s a valid point. Usually, if I’m nervous, I like to sleep as much as I can so as to avoid thinking about what’s to come. It’s only seven thirty and my meeting isn’t until noon. What possessed me to set my alarm so early is beyond me.

“It’s okay,” I say looking back at my phone screen and the message – now with his name at the top. “I think I might go out.”

Joan squints at me before swiping my phone away. To her credit, she keeps Andrew’s prying eyes away as she reads the short message, once, twice.

Without a word, Joan grabs my wrist and pulls me across our living room to the tiny bathroom. Shoving me in, she shuts the door, with my phone in her hand.

“Shower,” she commands.

I guess I’m going for coffee.



I couldn’t sleep. At all. She’d given me her number. I hadn’t even asked.

I’d asked for coffee together, not even specifying when or where. But just like last time, she extended her hand and I gave her my iPhone.

Waking up from my last fitful sleep, I snatch my phone from the nightstand and stumble into the living room and fall to the couch. We have an afternoon skate before we leave for Dallas and St. Louis after dinner.

With the news as background noise, I open a new text and relish in the feeling of having her actual number. I can text her now, whenever I want. That’s an odd feeling to have. I’ve never really had someone to do that with that I wasn’t related to or was just friends with.

Coffee soon?

She doesn’t respond right away and I wonder if she’s still sleeping. If I had it my way, I’d still be in bed too. I try to focus on the news broadcast, but somehow, some way, her face pops up.

“Sinead O’Malley is preparing for her first major event since returning from the Summer Games. In a few weeks, the top female boxer will be headed to Boston, Massachusetts to compete in the National Women’s Boxing Tournament in the Lightweight division. Known as Jane O’Malley, she took gold in the first Olympic Games were women’s boxing took part. A press conference will be held later this week where she and her team will address the press.”

Jane certainly doesn’t look like a lightweight. She’s small height wise, but she seems pretty muscular. So, like any clueless man would, I take to Google. Except in my case, she has a Wikipedia page that’s just waiting to be read.

She was born on May 5th, her middle name is Teagan, and her oldest brother, Kian, had introduced her to boxing when she was nine. It mentioned that he lived back in Ireland, where he’d been born and she visited each summer.

But before I can let my mind wander to what she might look like without her sports bra and long athletic shorts from that day in the gym, my phone buzzes.

How does this morning sound? I’m free until 10.

She has her meeting today. An editor that might want to publish her book. I don’t want to sound eager and respond to quickly, but I can’t help myself.

Starbucks on Michigan in an hour?

Could I wait an hour?

See you soon.



My hair just barely dry, I’m walking down the sidewalk with my jacket zipped and a scarf on. Where’s the warm weather hiding? I’m growing tired of my Northface and boots.

I’m surprised Patrick chose what might be the busiest Starbucks in all of Chicago, but after Joan had reported my plans after making them on my phone, I’d been relieved. It was my normal haunt, other than Donny’s, the diner from the first night.

Just as I begin worrying about whether to go in alone or wait for Patrick, I round the corner to see a familiar looking set of curls under a Bulls hat. He’s hunched low on a bench with a wool coat zipped around him and he’s staring at the ground.

“Hey,” I say once I’m close enough to be heard and this time, he’s the one jumping. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” I can’t keep the smirk off of my lips.

Patrick turns and I see him smile. “No big deal.” He stands up and takes his hands out of his pocket. He holds them out from his body for a second; unsure of what he should be doing. Finally, he decides to let them drop to his sides. “So? Coffee?”

“Coffee sounds great,” I agree and let him open the door to the still bustling coffee house.



“So you train 365 days a year? Literally?” I gape. That’s impressive for any athlete.

She shrugs. “Some days are easier than others; just a run or some weights. But I’m working almost every day. I take off my birthday, Christmas, New Year’s Day, and of course St. Patty’s day.”

“What about when you visit your brother?”

Jane cocks her head to the side and looks at me. Wait, had she told me that or had I read that this morning? Judging by the laugh that she emits, it was the latter.

“Did you Google me?”

I try to keep my telltale grin under wraps but she’s howling with laughter again, doing her best to muffle it with her hand. In our secluded corner, only a few heads turn but at the sight of her wild curls, they turn back around.

“That’s awesome,” she calms down enough to sip her latte. “Completely.”

“Oh, so you’ve never Googled me?” I’m simply teasing, but Jane shrugs.

“Course I have,” Jane says it simply. “Without sounding like a total creep, I’m a fan. I’ve Googled a lot of other athletes. A lot of them I know personally now.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I prodded. “What do you do when you visit your brother?”

Jane grows quiet and I worry about how I stepped over the line. What had I said?

“When I visited Kian,” she shifts around. “Which by the way translates to Kane,” she raises a finger once. “We worked out together. He went back to Ireland for work as a news analyst.”

I don’t understand what I said. Her answer was innocent enough for my innocent question. But then again, after years of being interviewed after hard losses and dealing with the fallout from my various misdemeanors, I should understand better than anyone what it’s like to have a simple question strike a nerve.

Her eyes had dropped to her coffee and she fiddled with the hem of her pink sweater. She sniffles and I kick myself. Will she cry? After dealing with my sisters, I know how to calm someone down just enough so that they can stop their tears themselves, but in a public place, I won’t know what to do.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I say it quickly as I reach across the table to let my hand linger on her arm. “What’s wrong?”

She blinks a few times before glancing at the time and reaching for her jacket. “I’m- I’m fine,” Jane clears her throat. “This was great, really. Thank you for the coffee and the muffin.” Quickly, she wraps her scarf around her neck and zips her coat. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

She’s gone in a flash and I’m left wandering after her in the chilly streets. Jane is at the curb, waiting to cross, when I catch up with her.

“Jane, wait up!” I insist and though she hesitates, muscles tense, she listens.

“What, Patrick?”

“What happened back there? If I said something,” I try to be as gentle as I can be. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt you.”

She laughs and it’s almost bitter. “You didn’t offend me Patrick, I promise,” my shoulders descend in relief. “It’s just… talk about Kian is hard.”

“Why?” I mentally slap myself again. “I mean, if you can answer that.”

Traffic begins to halt again and she whips around once before facing me again. The look in her eyes is scary. A mix of sadness, hatred, and sheer anger fill her suddenly wide pupils and green irises.

“He’s dead.”