Last Call for Love

14

O n the day of the Football Rounders Grudge Match, Maeve wakes at five in the morning and can’t get back to sleep. Last night, the pub was the busiest she’s seen yet. She was on her feet for twelve hours straight. People were lined up at the door before the place opened. They sold out of pierogi at 3:27 p.m. She posted a picture on Instagram of the last plate and the happy tourists who got it.

She thought of the idea earlier in the week. People were coming in only to be disappointed when the pierogi sold out. She needed a way to let customers know. Then Dylan, one of the longtime bartenders, suggested a countdown board outside the restaurant. But Maeve wanted people to have quicker access to the information. And if there’s one thing everyone is almost always guaranteed to have on their person, it’s a phone. She started an Instagram page for the Moorings and told customers to spread the word. She had no idea the pub would get so many followers so fast. And while she thought it might help control the flow of people coming in for pierogi, it only increased demand. Her economics professor would be so proud of her.

Maeve was sure she’d sleep like the dead last night, but here she is, eyes wide open, her chest buzzing with nerves. She’s not worried about winning the kickball game. Her team has practiced for weeks now. Barb hasn’t let anyone slack, making them run sprints until they want to puke. Winning isn’t on Maeve’s mind. Liam’s list isn’t either. Maeve hasn’t had a single knitting lesson, not that Barb has offered. She’s spent most days and nights at the pub. There’s been no time for anything else.

No, what has her anxious is the same thing that has distracted her all week. Made her stomach hurt so much she’s hardly eaten. Made her smile until her face hurts. Maeve Kaminski has a behemoth-sized crush on Briggs Murphy. She likes him. Like, likes him.

She thought she’d come to her senses while he was gone. Logically, it’s crazy to get involved, knowing she’ll eventually leave. But what felt crazier, what made her sick to her stomach, was the thought of letting him go. And for what? To go home, where she has no job and no roommate, and hide in her basement apartment until the Moorings sells and she can pay off her debt? She had been in a hurry to complete Liam’s list, but now she doesn’t see the point. Maryann and Keith won’t be home until the fall, so Maeve has no reason to go back to Chicago until then. Why not nurse a crush on the most gorgeous man she has ever seen? For once, Maeve isn’t making a list of the reasons why she shouldn’t do something. She’s making a list of the reasons why she should.

She rolls over and picks up the napkin with his number. Technically, since he’s back on the island, their week of silence is over. She could text him right now. But then again, he hasn’t texted her, which could be for the obvious reason that they’re both slammed at work. Or it could be that he changed his mind about her. After all, Briggs said he was scared. Said he needed to think. Said it was best if they didn’t talk. He should be the one to break the silence, right? Or is he waiting for her? Does she text him now, or wait until they’re face-to-face at the game?

Maeve groans into her pillow. She feels like a thirteen-year-old waiting for her crush to pass her a note in study hall. She pulls herself out of bed. She can’t lie around or she’ll go crazy. There is one other option: chance a run-in before the game. She doesn’t want to go to his plunge spot, fearing it’ll come off as stalkerish, so the next best option is Aoife’s meditation class. Maeve dresses quickly, heads out the door, and gets on her bike.

She is almost to the café when it starts to rain. In her distraction, she forgot a rain jacket, so by the time she walks in, she is drenched. The place is packed. She casually glances around, hoping to find Briggs, but there’s no sign of him. Aoife finds her instead and examines the puddle collecting on the floor.

“It’s raining,” Maeve says with a shrug.

“I see that.”

“And I forgot my raincoat.”

“I see that, too.”

“I’m just here to meditate,” Maeve rambles. “With people ... all ... people. No one in particular. You know ... get my head straight before the big game. Not that it’s not on straight. I am perfectly fine. Totally focused. Not distracted at all.”

Aoife wraps her arm around Maeve and guides her toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you grab a change of clothes? I keep some in my office. Class doesn’t start for ten minutes. Grab a cup of tea, too.”

“Tea is good. I like tea.”

“I’ll save you a cushion next to ... people. If anyone in particular shows up.” Aoife winks.

Maeve gets a cup of green tea and finds a change of clothes in Aoife’s office. She only looks half-ridiculous in a white T-shirt, knotted at the side to cinch her waist, and stretchy bell-bottom pants with a bold pattern. But now that she’s finally dry, with warm liquid in her belly, Maeve’s nerves calm. She sits at Aoife’s desk, taking a few minutes to collect herself, examining knickknacks and smelling a scented candle. A framed abstract painting of what seems to be mountains and a forest at sunset is displayed on the desk, the colors bold in places, soft in others. The frame is undoubtedly handmade. It is so Aoife, like the artist captured her essence in an abstract. Maeve tries to find the artist’s signature, but there isn’t one.

Right then, Aoife’s phone, which is sitting on the desk, chimes with a text, reminding Maeve that she has a class to get to. She presses the screen to check the time and sees Briggs’s name. Her stomach drops. She shouldn’t read it, but who doesn’t read a text when it’s right in front of them?

I’m such a fecking eejit. I made a huge mistake with Maeve. It won’t happen again.

Maeve flips the phone over and sits back, frozen with shock. And then to add insult to injury, her own phone buzzes with a text from Dylan. It’s a screenshot from Instagram.

Look at this! The Thatch is on Insta now, too. And they stole our hashtag!

The picture is of Briggs and a gorgeous redhead, standing in front of the Thatch. Maeve reads the caption and gasps. It’s a double slap in the face. Not only is Briggs posed with another girl, but he stole her hashtag!

Maeve’s chest actually aches. Evidently Briggs came to his senses while in Cork, and this is his way of telling her. But can she be mad at him? He asked for time to think, knowing she might not like the decision he came to. He made no promises. She was the one who pressed him to get physical, and he stopped it. Briggs has done nothing wrong. So why is Maeve’s heart breaking?

She changes back into her wet clothes and sends Aoife an apology text for skipping class, giving an excuse about the game. She needs to get back to her eco-pod and regroup. She’s going to win this grudge match if it’s the last thing she does.

Maeve is kicking a ball against the outside of the eco-pod, the afternoon having warmed and turned sunny, when Eoin’s car pulls up.

“Nice form,” he says as he gets out. He wears his black team T-shirt, THE MOORINGS written in white block letters across his chest, and a snug pair of athletic shorts that accent his well-defined legs. On the back is written DOHERTY and his jersey number. Unsurprisingly, Eoin picked the number 1. “Need help stretching? I’m happy to bend you any way you want.”

Maeve kicks the ball at the wall, hard. “Why is everything you say laced with sexual innuendo?”

“The better question is: Why is your mind so dirty you think everything I say is laced with sexual innuendo?” She picks up the ball with a groan. “What’s got you down, Kaminski? You always find me charming.”

“Not always. Just . . . sometimes.”

Eoin takes the ball. “Come on, out with it,” he says.

They volley the ball back and forth in silence for a while. Finally, Maeve says, “Did you know Liam?”

“Honestly?”

“Are you ever not honest?”

Eoin cocks an eyebrow. “In law, there’s a lot of gray when it comes to the truth.”

“Then yes, honestly.”

“No, I didn’t know Liam. We met toward the end so he could make sure I knew his wishes, but that was the extent of it. And by then ... well, he wasn’t the man he used to be.”

“What about when you were younger?”

“He was the old twat who wouldn’t let me drink when I was underage.”

Maeve laughs. “I bet you were an ass to him.”

“Total shit,” Eoin says. “What teenager isn’t a narcissistic prick when they can’t get what they want?” He kicks the ball to her. “Where the hell is this coming from, Kaminski?”

Maeve stops the ball and stares at the ground, poking her sneaker into the grass. “It just kind of hit me today that he’s not here.”

“He hasn’t been here the whole time.”

“I know,” she says, swallowing a lump in her throat. “But today ... for the first time ... I wanted him here.”

As Maeve was getting dressed, putting on her team Doherty shirt, she actually felt like one. Like the name on her back wasn’t a stranger to her anymore. And she missed Liam. Or the idea of him. She missed everything she’ll never know about him. She missed ... the relationship they could have had.

And then she felt instantly guilty. Keith is the world’s best dad. He never treated her like she wasn’t his. He let her paint his nails and put makeup on him.

Maeve’s face falls to her hands. She waits for a sarcastic comment from Eoin, but instead, he hugs her, and it hits Maeve how badly she needs to be embraced. She just feels so ... heavy today. She melts into Eoin, happy to be held. She hadn’t expected to care about this place, or Liam, or anyone for that matter. This was supposed to be a transaction. She was supposed to get a fucking vase and move on with her life. Now, she’ll never be able to do that. And that reality sits on her chest like a boulder. She needs to walk away, but every day she stays, leaving becomes harder to fathom.

“Kaminski ...” Eoin lifts her chin.

His clean-cut face is blurry through her tears. But she wants Briggs’s beard. She wants to look at a different face right now. To feel different arms holding her. And then, before she realizes it’s happening, Eoin kisses her, and her brain is too foggy, and her body just reacts. But when Eoin’s tongue slips past her lips, she snaps out of it.

What the hell is happening?

She pushes Eoin back. “What was that for?”

He smiles. “You seemed like you needed a little distraction.”

“Is that how you distract all your clients?”

“I believe you were the one who said we were friends.” Eoin laughs. He puts his arm around her and guides her toward his car. “Don’t worry about today, Kaminski. You have me on your team. I only know how to win. Now let’s go do this for Liam.”

But after that kiss, Maeve starts to think he’s only out for himself. Something else is at play here, and it has nothing to do with kickball.

Maryann has a framed picture from Maeve’s first Cubs game. Maryann, Keith, Maeve, and her grandparents are posed in front of Wrigley Field under the iconic red “Home of the Cubs” sign. They’re all in matching blue-and-red Cubs gear. Wrigleyville looked different back then. The neighborhood wasn’t fancy like it is now. Dive bars serving Old Style, Budweiser, and loud music had lined the streets instead of restaurants with manicured patios and sleek furniture, serving wine and draft IPA.

Maeve remembers the day well. The energy of the crowd. The taste of the hot dog. The sunburn she got. The ubiquitous smells of popcorn and beer. Chicago might be the most lively city in the world in the summertime. But her most vivid memory is when the Cubs won the game and the entire ballpark sang “Go, Cubs, Go” at the top of its lungs. The excitement of tens of thousands of people shook the stadium, and she knew, even as a little kid, that she was experiencing a special moment. Something that only happens in Chicago. In that moment, everyone felt like family. It was impossible to feel alone.

When Maeve steps out of Eoin’s car, she gets the same sense. This isn’t just a kickball game. This is a festival. A celebration of the entire village of Inishglass. A celebration of family, where every person in attendance is an extended member. The soccer field is swarming with people, drinking, chatting, laughing. A band plays traditional Irish music. Kids run around, chasing each other and eating sweets, sporting T-shirts and signs in support of either the Murphys or the Dohertys. It’s a gigantic family reunion.

“Let’s get a drink,” Eoin says and grabs her hand.

“Barb won’t like that.”

“Who cares? I’ve let that bitchy Yank boss me around for weeks. It’s time to have some fun.”

Maeve releases herself from his grasp, put off by his acerbic tone. “I don’t want a drink.”

“Come on, Kaminski. Look around. It’s a party.” But Maeve refuses, crossing her arms. Eoin softens. “The looser you are, the better chance we have at winning. That’s the ultimate goal here, right? You need to win this game. A drink will help your nerves.”

But suddenly, after weeks of trusting Eoin, Maeve ... doesn’t. Not after that kiss. It wasn’t organic. It felt calculated.

“So will stretching,” she says.

“How about both?” And before Maeve can protest again, Eoin heads toward one of the drink stands. Maeve makes her way to the Doherty side of the field, where a tent with a banner that says THE MOORINGS serves as a makeshift dugout along the first-base line. An identical one along the third-base line advertises THE THATCH . The soccer field has been transformed into a kickball diamond, with white lines marking the baselines and pitcher’s mound. Three identically dressed referees confer by home plate.

Seeing her team warming up in uniform fills Maeve with so much love, she can barely contain herself. These people have embraced her without question. It’s not just Briggs who’s made an impression on her. It’s this whole place. And that scares the shit out of her. But now is not the time. She needs to stretch and focus. As she heads toward the dugout, Briggs intercepts her.

“Hiya . . .”

Maeve whips around at the sound of his gruff voice, her stomach dropping. They’re completely exposed, which seems to dawn on Briggs as he glances around at the growing number of people taking their seats for the game. His navy-blue T-shirt boasts THE THATCH in kelly-green lettering.

Briggs clears his throat, steps back from Maeve, and holds out his hand. “I just wanted to say good luck.”

She stares at his open palm. “Is that all?” Immediately she wants to take it back.

Just then Eoin sidles up next to Maeve, a drink in one hand, and drapes his free arm over her shoulder. “Already playing dirty and the game hasn’t even started,” he says to Briggs. “Typical Murphy.”

“Get the fuck out of here and go back to the hole you crawled out of, O’Connor.”

“Easy, Murph. No need to get out your pistols. I’m just here to support my friend. Can’t abandon my team now.” Eoin gestures to THE MOORINGS on his shirt. “She needs me.”

Tension pulses in Briggs’s neck. “Stay the hell away from her.”

Eoin acts shocked. “She asked me to be on her team, Briggs. Buttered me up with dinner and everything. I tried to say no ... but she just looked so cute, begging.”

Briggs lunges at Eoin so fast that Maeve doesn’t have time to think. She jumps in between the two men, each double her size. Eoin throws his drink to the ground, and an elbow—Maeve isn’t sure whose—connects with her shoulder, shoving her away as the men raise fists. She stumbles back, grabbing her stung arm, and loses her balance, hitting the ground on her left side. Luckily, she manages to brace herself before her head hits.

Briggs is reaching for her, speaking, but she can’t hear, his attention not on Eoin.

In that split second of distraction, Eoin lands a punch across Briggs’s cheek, but he scarcely reacts, his focus only on Maeve. People rush the field, and right as Briggs is about to pull Maeve up off the ground, Hugh pulls him back. Barb and Dylan drag Eoin back toward the dugout, telling him to cool down.

The crowd is enthralled, as if both sides brilliantly planned the scene to rile them up before the main event. No doubt, someone is posting photos or video to social media right now.

Maeve picks herself up, her shoulder sore, her shorts wet from spilled beer and damp grass.

“Maeve—” Briggs pleads, but the redhead that Maeve saw in the Instagram photo steps between them, grabs Briggs’s face, and examines his bruised cheek.

“He needs ice,” she says to Hugh, in a sweet Irish lilt.

Maeve turns her back on Briggs and walks away, unable to stomach any of this, trying to shake it off, ignoring the stares and chants of the crowd. She needs this win. Get through this game. Check an item off the list. That is the only goal.

For the next half hour, Maeve ignores Eoin, Briggs, her nerves, and the growing crowd. But she can’t shake the feeling that Eoin and Briggs’s fight is just the beginning of something brewing. The people, the noise, even the air is frenetic.

Barb interrupts Maeve’s stretching routine to hand her a water bottle. “Most people are grossly dehydrated. Drink this.”

Maeve takes it and slugs down a gulp.

Barb stares out at the field, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Liam loved this game. Looked forward to it every year.”

“He did?”

Barb nods. “He was terrible, too. Not an athletic bone in his body. This one time he was up to kick and full-on missed the ball. His legs flew up in the air like a cartoon, and he landed on his back in front of everyone. And you know what he did?”

“What?”

“Laughed his goddamn ass off.” Barb’s face lights up at the memory, and for a second, Maeve thinks she might actually cry. “Then he got up and took a bow. The crowd loved it. He understood why they were there.”

“Why?”

“Why does anyone go to a game? To feel a part of something,” Barb says. “That’s what all these people want. Hell, that’s what everyone wants.”

Maeve chews on that for a minute. Isn’t that what she’s found at the Moorings? On Inishglass?

“When Liam was diagnosed with cancer, he made up a mantra for the end of his life,” Barb continues. “‘Enter laughing.’ If you walked into his pub with anything but a smile on your face and a funny story to tell, he’d make you turn around and try again. I’m not saying he didn’t have bad days, but we have a choice about how we live, and if we’re lucky, how we die. His hip was never the same after he missed that damn kick, but he never told that part of the story. Never focused on it.”

The dull ache of grief settles in Maeve’s bones once again, grief for a father she’ll never know. “Why are you telling me this, Barb?”

“When Liam told me he was giving the pub to you, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But what you’ve done there, in such a short time, and pulling together this kickball team ... It’s more than impressive. Some might call it a miracle.”

The compliment is so shocking that Maeve manages only a sputtering thank-you.

“I have no doubt we can win this game. Just think about how you want to do that. This game is your legacy now.” Barb lets that sit for a beat before adding, “And Monday, I’ll teach you to knit. Nine a.m. Meet me at the store. Don’t be late. And take the day off. This might take a while. Got it?”

Maeve nods.

Barb glares lasers at Eoin. “And be careful with that one. There’s only one thing he likes more than power.”

“What’s that?” Maeve asks.

“Himself.”

As if Eoin can tell they’re talking about him, he glances toward them.

“What’s your karaoke song?” Maeve asks Barb.

“‘Come to My Window,’” Barb says without hesitation. “Melissa Etheridge. Best love song ever made. Linda and I danced to it at our wedding.”

The perfect pick. “Watch out, Barb. I’m gonna start thinking you’re a softy.”

“Love doesn’t make you soft, kid. It makes you strong.” She smacks Maeve on the back. “Now drink that damn water and let’s win this game.”

Then she blows her whistle, and the night begins.

Maeve and Briggs walk to the pitcher’s mound from their respective sides for the coin toss. People cheer: Murphy! Doherty! Murphy! Doherty!

“Just a reminder of the rules,” says the referee with short curly black hair and brown eyes. “This is a seven-inning game. Ten people are allowed on the field. You get one base on an overthrow. No head shots.” Briggs and Maeve both nod. The ref produces a coin. “The Thatch won last year, so Briggs, you get to call it.”

“Tails,” he says.

The ref flips the coin, which lands heads up. “Heads it is.” The ref looks to Maeve. “Do you want to kick or field first?”

“Field,” she says, as Barb instructed.

The ref yells to the spectators, “The Moorings will take the field!”

Both teams begin to move, and another cheer erupts from the crowd.

“Good luck.” Briggs holds out his hand for Maeve to shake. His cheek is red and a little puffy, but the damage makes him sexier, which is downright obnoxious. Everything in Maeve wants to heal his cheek with a kiss.

“I’m half-Irish,” Maeve says with confidence. “I’ve got some luck of my own.” And she walks away, the crowd cheering her on.

At the top of the second inning, with two outs and the Thatch up by one run, Aoife comes up to the plate for the first time. Eoin is pitching. Briggs stands on the sideline coaching, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s not playing, which seems odd to Maeve, considering that he’s the biggest person on his team by far. No doubt he could kick the ball deep. She had assumed he’d be the Thatch’s star player, but he’s just coaching, like Barb, though he doesn’t seem pleased about it.

Maeve is at center field, just to the right of the pitcher. Aoife gives her a little wave and an apologetic smile as she walks to the plate in jean shorts, her team T-shirt cut to the midriff, her toned stomach showing, and her tattoos on display. On her feet, she wears a pair of beat-up red Converse.

“Still as gorgeous as ever,” Eoin says from the pitcher’s mound. “I always loved you in red.”

“You loved me weak,” Aoife counters. Her tone is sweet, almost musical, as usual, but her eyes carry none of it.

Eoin chuckles. “Still can’t let the past go.”

“Some scars never leave you,” Aoife deadpans.

“Remember what I told you, Eef,” Briggs calls from the sidelines.

“Still doing whatever Briggs says?” Eoin tosses the ball in the air. “I thought you’d be done with that by now.”

“Just throw the ball, Eoin,” Maeve says, uncomfortable with whatever veiled conversation they’re having.

“Don’t worry, Kaminski. Aoife likes it when I tease her. Always has.” He undresses Aoife intimately with his eyes, and embarrassment blooms on her face, which only seems to please Eoin more. The move is so violating, so arrogant. Briggs looks like he’s about to launch himself onto the field. Maeve is appalled that Eoin would do this in front of a crowd and yanks him by the arm to the sideline.

“What the hell are you doing?” she snaps.

“I’m just playing the game,” he says, too casually.

“By embarrassing Aoife?”

“No,” he says. “By getting under her skin. Plant doubt, and people mess up.”

“You’re acting like this is a trial you need to win. It’s just a game.”

Eoin holds her gaze. “You asked me to be on this team because I’m a winner, and you desperately need that. This is how we do it.”

“Not by playing dirty.” Maeve takes the ball from him. “I’m pitching from now on. You play center field.” She walks toward the mound.

“Don’t be like that, Kaminski!” Eoin yells. “You like it when I’m dirty!”

Every muscle in Maeve’s body clenches. But he’s right about one thing. She wants to win, not to check off an item on the list anymore, but in honor of Liam. She will never meet her biological dad, never touch his face, smell his clothes, hear him laugh. A month ago, none of this mattered, but now it hurts, somewhere deep inside that Maeve didn’t even know existed. If she will never be able to touch or hold or hear Liam, the least she can do is win this game. Liam would have wanted it. And since Eoin is the best player on the team, Maeve can’t kick him off. But she doesn’t have to let him lead.

She lines up at the pitcher’s mound and glances at Barb, who nods, pleased.

With a deep breath, Maeve rolls the ball to Aoife. Aoife sends the ball soaring into right field and mouths “sorry” as she takes off to first base. She rounds the bases for a home run, right behind her teammates from second and third base.

Eoin snickers. “You won’t win playing like that, Kaminski.”

In the bottom of the third inning, Linda gets a three-run home run. The Moorings inches closer to the Thatch, now only two runs behind, but then in the top of the fifth, a player for the Thatch sends a ball so far into the outfield that it takes several minutes to retrieve it and start play again. By the top of the seventh, the crowd is antsy, anxiously awaiting a big finish and the party that follows. Hugh comes up to the plate for the Thatch.

Eoin walks up to Maeve and says, “He’s got a good kick, but he’s not a fast runner. Put some spin on the ball so if he kicks it, it won’t travel far, and we can get him out at first base.”

Since Maeve took over as pitcher, Eoin’s been quietly playing midfield like a good teammate, which makes Maeve more nervous than when he was being verbose. But she does as he says, and the play goes better than expected. Hugh is tagged out at first base, and the player forced to second gets hit with the ball as she’s running. A double play.

The Moorings side explodes in celebration. Eoin grabs Maeve in a surprising hug and spins her around. As he sets her down, his hand comes to her face, and he rubs his thumb across her cheek. “Just a bit of dirt.”

The crowd watches the intimate moment with collective awe. It all happens so quickly that Maeve doesn’t have time to stop it. She is instantly embarrassed. Not only is Eoin giving the crowd the wrong idea, but he’s undermining her authority. And then to push it just a little farther, he says loudly, “Keep making those plays, and I’ll have no choice but to kiss you again!”

All the air leaves Maeve’s lungs. It feels as though the whole world is staring at her. Eoin knows damn well she didn’t initiate that kiss and never would have. Whatever show he’s putting on—for the crowd, for Briggs—she did not agree to it.

Briggs is on his sideline, fists clenched, jaw tight. Maeve can’t say anything to him with everyone’s attention on her, and even if Briggs may have changed his mind about her, she hates the idea of him thinking she would ever go for Eoin.

A tidal wave of shame, regret, grief, loneliness, every emotion she’s staved off for the past month, pummels her flat. It’s the final straw. She’s drowning. She can no longer hold herself together. She calls a time-out and runs off the field as fast as she can.