Page 15 of An Irish Summer

“It’s hard to say no to you, you know. Even if it does mean betting against my own city.”

“Game on, then.”

His smile returned, hitched up more on the right than the left, and I tried to let the moment slip behind us. There was no

reason for it to be tense when we talked about my life in Boston, so I wouldn’t let it be. And I’d apply for the job when

we got back to the Wanderer so I wasn’t a total liar.

The match moved at lightning speed, and I had to strain to hear Collin over the noise of the fans.

He explained the rules, but between his accent and the jargon I wasn’t sure I caught a word.

Not that it mattered. I knew how to read a scoreboard, more or less in this case, and I could see the numbers next to Galway were higher than the numbers next to Dublin.

And I could see the wrinkles between Collin’s eyes deepening as the match neared the end.

“Have you recovered from the first loss?” I asked. “In time for the second loss, I mean?”

“Let me ask you something, Chelsea,” he said, leaning dangerously close to my ear. I put my hand around it as if to say I’m listening . “Do you ever stop talkin’ shite?” he whispered.

“I thought I was supposed to be blending in with the locals.” I laughed. “But if you can’t handle a little friendly competition,

you could have just said so.”

“I just thought you’d leave me with at least a shred of dignity, that’s all.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.”

“Kind of hard when it feels like you’re trying to keep it that way,” he said.

Before I had a chance to respond, a big, fat raindrop landed directly between my eyes. I turned my face to the sky just in

time to watch it open. The rain was loud on the metal bleachers, and I couldn’t stop myself from putting my palms out like

a child.

I turned to look at Collin, relieved to see the rain was enough of a distraction from our conversation. He pushed his hair

from his eyes, then turned his palms up too.

“Told you it’d come bucketing down,” he said.

“Not a hard prediction in this country, is it?”

“There she goes again,” he said. “Taking every ounce of dignity I have left.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so willing to hand it over.”

“Keep myself closed off like you, should I?” He was smiling, but his words burned in my chest all the same.

“I am not—”

The final whistle of the match triggered an eruption in the crowd, and I turned back to the field just in time to see the

celebration on the Galway side.

“Fair play,” Collin conceded, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up and down the length of my body. “You know how

to pick ’em, don’t ya?”

“Galway had to be good for something.”

He rolled his eyes under lashes dark and slick with raindrops. Lashes I had no business staring at. “At least you’re giving

her a chance,” he said. I resisted the urge to remind him he hadn’t given me much of a choice.

By then the rain was coming down in sheets, and we were trapped in the slow-moving sea of other fans rushing to the car park.

There was hardly an overhang, and I could feel the rain soaking into my skin under my clothes.

“Come on,” Collin said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me from the crowd. “I know a shortcut.” We stumbled backward against

the current, bobbing and weaving until it spit us out into a dim corridor that appeared to be closed for repairs. “I think

if we follow this around the back, we’ll be near the truck by the time we’re back out in the rain.”

“Do you really think I’m closed off?” I asked before I could stop myself. The sound of the rain had been reduced to a steady

hum in the distance, and the quiet in the corridor let his words seep in.

“What?” he asked, looking absentmindedly down the corridor for the right way to go.

“You said I’m trying to keep you from getting to know me,” I said. “Did you mean that?”

He turned to face me, and I focused on counting the raindrops that dripped from his hair while I waited for a response. “Is

that not the case, then?” he asked. “Tell me it’s not true and I’ll believe it.”

“It’s not you,” I said.

“Let me guess, it’s you? A classic.”

“I meant that it’s not you, specifically. It’s just... the circumstances,” I said, though even I knew it was lame. “Since

I’m only here for the summer, there’s no need for everyone to really get to know me, is there?”

“Is that what you always think? That the only people who should get to know you are the ones who are in it for the long haul?”

“We’re different, Collin,” I said, clapping my hands together. I wanted to blame my increasing frustration on my cold, wet

clothes, but I knew that wasn’t the case. “I’ve had the same best friend since I was a kid. She’s been there for everything

that’s ever happened to me, so there’s nothing to hide. But you’re meeting new people every single day, people who come and

go with the wind, which might be comfortable for you, but I’m not like that.” I was winded by the time I finished talking.

“So you plan to just get through the summer without actually connecting with anyone?”

“It’s not... I mean, when you say it like that, it sounds bad,” I fumbled. “But I’m not good at meaningful connections

in such a short amount of time.”

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit,” he said, taking a step closer. The space was already tight, so this put him only a breath away.

“It’s only going to make it harder to leave,” I said, barely audible over the rain.

“So now you’re worried the leaving’s gonna be hard?” The sheen on his lips made it impossible to look away from his growing

smile, and it made me want to lie motionless in the car park in the rain for the rest of the afternoon.

“Aren’t we supposed to be taking a shortcut?” I asked. “At this rate, everyone else has probably gone by now.”

“And whose fault is that?” He laughed, and I was impossibly relieved at the sound.

I groaned at myself. “I just don’t like when people have negative opinions of me, that’s all.”

Collin took only a step closer to me, but it felt like a leap in the narrow corridor. The wet jersey clung to him just tight

enough that I could make out the lines of his body, which made me wonder what they would feel like under my fingers. The curves

of his pecs, the hard plane of his stomach, the peaks and valleys of his collarbones.

“If you think I have a negative opinion of you, Chelsea, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Maybe I’m just thick,” I said, mimicking his accent on the last word. If Ada had known I’d made a joke in a moment like this,

she’d have killed me.

His laugh bounced around the tight walls, cutting through the sound of the rain. “You’re something, all right.” I answered

with a cheesy smile, and he brought his fingertips to my chin, tilting my face toward his. “So is that smile,” he said, far

quieter than the laugh. I inhaled sharply but said nothing.

“Are ya ready, then?” he asked when I finally looked away after a moment of excruciating, impossibly charged silence.

“Once we get out of the stadium, we’re going to have to make a run for it.

” Just like that, he was peering around the corner and we were back on track to the truck.

And the lingering heat of his hand nearly set me on fire.

Making a run for it sounded grand.

By the time we got out of the rain we collapsed into the truck in a fit of laughter, soaking the seats and flicking water

at each other. Any tension from the stadium washed away on the run, and it felt good to be back in friendly territory.

“Oh, watch your feet, there,” Collin said, gesturing to where my sneakers were already soaking everything underneath them.

I lifted them from a leatherbound journal I must have missed when I got into the truck before the game, but he snatched it

up and tossed it into the back of the cab before I could inspect it any further.

“Secret diary?” I asked.

“Very funny.”

“So, it is?”

“It’s not a diary,” he said. “It’s just, it’s a... a place where I write things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Does it matter?”

“I thought we were getting to know each other,” I said.

He sighed. “Just stories, that’s all. It’s nothing, like.”

“What stories?”

“The fairy stories,” he said, waving his hand like it didn’t matter. “The Irish folklore. The yokes my family tells.”

I was looking at him, but he was staring straight out at the road.

“Collin, that’s—”

“It’s just so no one forgets them,” he said. “It’s not a thing. And my family don’t even think they should be written down

in the first place, so it’s not like I’m to do anything with them.”

“You could let me read them,” I said.

“They’re much better out loud,” he said.

“So tell me one.”

He glanced in my direction and I offered a soft smile, hoping to encourage him without looking too eager.

“You can’t be cynical about them, you know. There’s no sense in telling a fairy story to someone who doesn’t want to believe

it.” I nodded. I couldn’t promise I would believe it, but I could promise I wanted to.

“Right, then,” he said through a soft smile of his own. “Okay, Chelsea. Here’s yer first fairy story.”

I leaned my head against the back of the seat and kicked my shoes off, propping my feet up on the dashboard. And I listened.

The story rolled off Collin’s tongue in a way that was comfortable without sounding rehearsed. Like he’d listened to it and

repeated it a thousand times. Like he’d come from a long line of others who’d listened to it and repeated it a thousand times.

His voice was just loud enough to be heard over the rain but with the softness you’d use to tell a story to a child. And as

always, his accent was music.

In this story, a man passed a fairy hurling match on the way home from the pub one night.

The fairies asked the man to be the referee, and since he feared what would happen to him if he declined their request, he obliged.

They seemed happy enough that he was willing to referee, but as the game became more competitive, he began to worry what would happen if he declared a winner.

Would he face consequences from the losing team?

Is there a chance they could take him away?

He decided to take a risk, fudging the time and calling a draw with a minute left on the clock before anyone could score again.

To his delight, the fairies were none the wiser. They thanked him profusely and invited him back, and while he agreed to return,

he knew better than to follow through. If he was lucky enough to encounter the fairies and come out unscathed, there was hardly

a chance he’d be so lucky a second time.

“Do you have a fairy story for every occasion?” I asked, silently wishing this story had been longer.

“Just about,” he said. His smile was one of contentment, or maybe pride, even, and I had to force myself to look away.

“Why couldn’t one of the fairies be the referee?”

“Aye, some say the fairies can’t go about their business without someone from this side of the world.”

“And what would have happened to him if he’d gone back?” I hadn’t expected to become so invested, but couldn’t help myself.

“Well,” Collin said, “while it’s possible he would have been so jammy a second time, it’s more likely they would have done

him some harm. Taken him in, made him ill, damaged his crops, like.”

“Why?”

“Lots of theories about that one. The fairies just haven’t always had an easy go of it, I suppose. They’ve a dark side. So

it’s good the lad kept a level head.”

“Is that the lesson of this one?” I asked. “Keeping a level head? Good decision making and all that?”

“That much is up to you,” he said, glancing over at me. “The fairy stories give you whatever you need at the time you hear them.”

I hummed but said nothing by way of actual response. Would I ever stop being surprised by Collin?

“Thanks,” I said after a while. “For telling me the story, I mean.”

“Thanks for listening,” he said. “And for at least having the decency to hide your cynicism.” His wide grin made it seem like

he was joking, but the undertones weren’t lost on me. I could tell the fairy stories weren’t always well-received and that

a captive audience meant more than he was willing to let on. Lucky for us both, I could have listened to him tell stories

all summer, whether or not I really believed them.

And whether or not I really believed them, I wondered what else they would give me.