not sure if he can read it off me or not because he says, “I know just the place.” We start walking down the street, dodging the revelers who are wearing their party hats and blowing their horns. Every now and then one of them will yell, “Padraig! They need you!” or “Hope yer playing soon!” or “Get back in the game already, you wanker!”
Finally, I have to ask, “Are you not playing at the moment?”
He winces at my question. “No. I had a concussion about six weeks ago. During the game.”
“Oh. And you’re still not better?”
He rubs his lips together into a hard line and shakes his head. “No.”
“Must have been a bad hit. You guys don’t wear helmets like they do in football, do you?”
“No,” he says, voice trailing off a bit. “Anyway, the team has been doing fine without me. Some say that the last few games they lost were because I wasn’t there, but I doubt that. They just want someone to blame.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be back soon enough,” I tell him hopefully.
But it doesn’t look like that hope reaches him. In fact, he’s starting to put out the vibes that I was getting earlier, the ones that gave me a glimpse of a broken man. Clearly this isn’t something he wants to talk about.
“So where are we going?” I ask, switching the subject.
“It’s not easy to find something quiet in Dublin on New Year’s Eve, but…”
We round the corner and he stops in front of a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. I mean, it’s literally a hole in the wall, with a small door placed deep in the brick and a few rough-hewn windows that only show the dim light from within.
“I figured ye might be hungry,” he says. “And this place has the best Chinese food in town.”
My stomach literally rumbles at his words. I haven’t eaten since the Guinness Brewery, and that feels like a lifetime ago.
Padraig leads me inside.
It’s dark with a red-light glow, lots of small wood booths, and some kind of Asian pop music playing. The place is definitely authentic with almost all the patrons being Asian. It’s also busier than I thought it would be but still quiet, and the moment we enter, the hostess, waitress, and one of the cooks all yell at him in a Cantonese greeting.
“They seem to know you,” I comment as the hostess leads us over to a table in the back corner, smiling at me enthusiastically.
“I come here often,” he says. “It’s quite different from your regular Chinese food but trust me, it’s good. Plus, I’ve never been recognized in here.” He pauses as we both sit down across from each other. “I know that sounds obnoxious but I really prefer to keep to myself.”
“I can tell,” I say. “I think if I had even a morsel of fame I’d be the same way. I don’t know how my sister does it, but she obviously thrives on the attention.”
“Your sister?” he asks, and I realize that I hadn’t fully filled him in.
“She’s an actress. A bit part on a show but she’s really popular online and I know this is just a stepping stone to bigger things. Anyway, she’s recognized often but she loves it.”
He nods at that thoughtfully. “So, if ye didn’t know who I was, why did ye want to buy me a drink?” he asks, his dark brow raised, the one with the scar above it. I want to ask him about where he got the scar. Probably from rugby.
“Honestly?” I ask, wanting to be careful. I should tell him a partial truth, that I just thought he was sexy as hell and I’ve always been attracted to the brooding types. “You were alone. I wondered why a guy like you would be alone on New Year’s. You didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone. You just seemed … a little broken.”
I expect him to flinch at my words because no one ever wants to hear that they look broken to others, but instead, his eyes seem to drink me in, deeper and deeper.
Before he can say anything or I can attempt to bury my comment with inane blabbering, the waitress comes back with two tiny porcelain cups which look too small for tea, then puts down a matching bottle.
Padraig thanks her and gestures to it. “I always start with this. Figured ye might be game enough to give it a try.”