CHAPTER ONE

Sarah Brennan was good at figuring things out. Good at being on time, too. But good at being a university student again? Not so much. There was a decade and a half of rust on her old textbooks and rust on the ability to get herself to the right building and into the right classroom on time, it seemed. The feeling of ineptitude squeezing her insides was unfamiliar—and unwelcome. Suddenly she was that eighteen-year-old freshman on a hockey scholarship all over again, steeped in her own insecurities, faking it until she got comfortable.

The University of Toronto was not Sarah’s alma mater. If it were, she wouldn’t be left staring up at the indistinguishable gray buildings, retracing her steps twice, before arriving at yet another marble corridor lined with identical classroom doors. If finding the right classroom was some kind of IQ test, well, she’d failed miserably. She tried to console herself with the thought that professors were rarely on time anyway, but her galloping heart was not so easily convinced. She crossed her fingers.

Fuck. The door was locked. The door that announced classroom 1112. It was the right classroom, Sarah confirmed by frantically checking the email on her phone. So why the hell was it locked? Placing her ear against the frosted glass, she could hear the professor speaking. Shit. She put her knuckles up to the window, but paused, taken aback by her own cowardice. It surprised her, this sinking feeling in her stomach, the hesitation to knock, the feeling of being a helpless kid. She was a pro hockey player, for fuck’s sake. This was just a class on modern Irish literature. No one was going to bench her or saddle her with a fine or otherwise punish her for being late. There was no need to worry about getting expelled from the course or even a failing grade; she already had a university degree. This was strictly for fun, an interesting distraction from the grind of games, practices, workouts. Something to keep her mind sharp, because if today’s tardiness was any indication, her mind needed a little sharpening.

Sarah tapped lightly after considering—and discarding—the idea of going home and forgetting about the whole thing and withdrawing from the class. But that would truly make her a coward, and she was no coward. The door opened suddenly, pulled by a woman not quite as tall as Sarah and with a hardened expression on what was otherwise a pleasant face. Glasses covered inquisitive blue eyes. Her hair was so dark it almost looked black, but up close, Sarah could see swirls of subtle shades of brown and auburn, all pulled back in a severe ponytail.

“Yes?” asked a voice as sharp as a skate blade.

“I, ah…”

Sarah hadn’t felt this incompetent, this blameworthy, since she was eleven and accidentally let the cat out the back door. Poor Alma ended up being taken in by another family who thought she was a stray that they therefore didn’t have to give back. Sarah’s mother told her she would just have to live with the fact that Alma had a new family.

“I think I’m supposed to be in there.”

“A little late, are we?”

“I’m very sorry. Are you Professor Joyce?”

An obnoxious tilt of the chin, eyes narrowed to slits behind the glasses. “I am. Who’s asking?”

“Sarah. Ah, Sarah Brennan.”

Professor Joyce looked her up and down, pursed her lips in silent judgment, clearly displeased at the interruption. It seemed like an hour before she stepped aside to let Sarah pass, and it was like walking past a cool breeze. Sarah rushed to the nearest empty seat at the back of the room as three dozen or so pairs of eyes swung in her direction. Whatever. Sarah ignored them, fished around in her knapsack for her iPad so she could take notes. She’d made far more embarrassing mistakes on the ice in front of thousands of people; this was nothing but a momentary irritation. Move on, people, nothing to see here.

“Let’s get back to what I was talking about before the interruption.” The professor’s faint Irish accent resembled a blunt instrument intended to pound Sarah a little more before she let her off the hook. Undaunted, Sarah smiled. The professor was actually kind of cute when she was pissed off.

“Some of the…the…ah.”

Sarah’s smile spread wider. Something about getting under the professor’s skin shot a little thrill through her. Oh yeah. She was going to enjoy this class.

“Excuse me, ah, the things I want you all to concentrate on, as we make our way through the reading list, is to be alert to the central role played by cultural nationalism in shaping Irish writing. And vice versa, of course. We will look at how Irish literary culture was both promoted and suppressed, historically. How censorship impeded and inspired Irish writers. We’re going to identify major themes in Irish literature over the last hundred and thirty years or so and how those themes were influenced by historical and political challenges. You will see fairly quickly how Irish writers, in a country subjugated, ignored, and oppressed by the British, broke free of those invisible chains and demanded to be heard. And ultimately, we will discuss the importance of the role of writing in Irish society, its transformation over the twentieth century from a revolutionary tool to something celebrated and respected around the world.”

Sarah took a steadying breath. She had always been good in school, had proved herself as much more than a Division 1 scholarship jock at Boston College by completing her applied mathematics degree summa cum laude, plus tacking on a minor in literature. She’d always been a sucker for reading novels in her spare time—on buses, in taxis, on planes, whenever she had a few minutes. The minor in literature had been for her own pleasure, same as this course. She could do this course, she knew she could, though at the moment she felt woefully out of practice.

The professor spent the next thirty minutes summarizing the history of Ireland from the mid-1800s to present day, before reminding everyone to start reading the first couple of books from the syllabus—the syllabus Sarah hadn’t received because she was late.

“Oh, one more thing.” Professor Joyce looked at Sarah. “Sarah Brennan, please stay after class and see me.”

Sarah stuffed her iPad in her knapsack. If Professor Joyce wanted to wield her power over her some more, like, if this shit was fun for her, well, have at it. Sarah could take it.

“Come with me to my office,” the professor said as she gathered her things, slid them neatly into a leather messenger briefcase that looked like it had a few miles on it. The woman didn’t look at Sarah, but clearly expected her to be right behind her as she strode down the corridor and up a set of stairs, her comfortable heels hitting the floor in perfect rhythm. More doors. Claire Joyce stopped at one marked 2340, opened it with a key from her pocket, and promptly ignored Sarah for another minute while she removed her papers from her case, made room on her desk, adjusted her glasses, draped her tailored suit jacket on the back of her chair, powered up her laptop, and finally sat down.

“Have a seat, please.”

Power tripper. Sarah kept her mouth zipped and sat.

The professor clicked a few buttons on her laptop, peered at the screen. “I haven’t seen you around here before, Sarah Brennan. It says here that you’re a mature student, that you already have a degree from Boston College. In mathematics. And…literature, it seems. Hmm.” A grunt that could be interpreted as approval or dismissal, it was hard to tell. “I’m curious. Why are you here?”

The question sounded innocent enough, but those blue eyes on her were unsettling. Things were going on behind those eyes that Sarah had no chance of deciphering. “I’m just here to take a course. Your course. I thought it would be interesting.”

“I see. Why?”

Sarah flashed her most earnest, winsome smile, the same one she’d used in that deodorant commercial she did three years back, when the professional league she belonged to was getting underway. The smile was her default whenever she felt nervous. And she hated feeling nervous. She dropped the smile. “I, ah, want to keep my mind sharp. I feel like, in my line of work, it’s…it’s a different kind of mental sharpness. Not the book kind. And I want the book kind. I miss the book kind. I mean, I read a lot, but it’s not the same as critical evaluation and analysis. I would like a better understanding of the genres, modes, styles, and cultural history of Irish writing. And…all that.” Sarah closed her mouth to keep from rambling any further.

“I see,” was all the professor said.

You should be a poker player, Sarah thought without admiration. “May I have the course syllabus?”

The professor slid a piece of paper across the desk to Sarah. The reading list: Wilde, Yeats, O’Brien, Joyce (James, not Claire), Williams, Doyle, Keegan, Boyle. Okay, not too bad. She could get through those easily enough in the next four months. Not much else to do on the long bus and plane rides. She folded the piece of paper and stuffed it in her back pocket.

“I don’t like to email my students the syllabus, or, funnily enough, they don’t bother showing up to the first class. Speaking of which, if you plan to make a habit of being late, please don’t bother to come. It’s disruptive to the class.”

“It was an aberration that won’t happen again, I assure you.”

The professor nodded. She seemed to soften a little, perhaps realizing she was being a little hard on her newest student or that she’d made her point as a hard-ass and could let up now. There was almost a smile at the corner of her lips. “Tell me, Sarah Brennan. What is it that you do when you’re not running around trying to find classrooms in strange buildings?”

“When I’m not lost on university campuses, I’m trying not to look lost on the ice.”

A blank stare.

Sarah cleared her throat against her joke that fell so decidedly flat. “I play hockey. For the Toronto team.” Another blank stare, and Sarah wanted to roll her eyes. “In the women’s professional league.”

“Oh.”

Exactly the kind of uninformed response that was all too common—even in her own family—and it drove Sarah nuts. Clearly the professor had no idea that women played professional hockey or that the city had a team and that Sarah was a member of that team. It wasn’t that her ego needed stroking by having a stranger recognize her name or her face. What bugged her was that Professor Joyce’s ignorance was another dismal reminder of how far women’s hockey had yet to go. Three years and still the league was invisible to far too many people.

Briefly, Sarah thought about turning the tables, giving the professor a little lesson on the appeal of hockey and the importance of women’s sports. She decided not to engage because it was probably a waste of her time. “I’ll be seeing you, professor.”

“Right. Next Tuesday, I suppose.”

“Next Tuesday,” Sarah replied without enthusiasm.

She felt the professor’s gaze, less condemning and more curious this time, follow her out the door.