Imaginary Lines (11 page)

I frowned and tried to step back, but misjudged the curb and stumbled. He caught my waist with both hands and mine automatically went to his biceps for balance. I stared at him, breathing hard. Could I do this, as a friend? Nope. Line. There was a line, and it was in the air between us, and there
was
no air between my fingers and his skin. I reluctantly removed my hands and locked them behind my back, trying to remember what we’d been talking about. It was on the tip of my tongue. My mental tongue. Was there a word for that? A part of the brain just out of reach from the rest, locked away by a fog of intoxication—Wow. I should write that down. “Abe. I am a poet.”

“No, just drunk.”

I tried to explain the eloquence of my turn of phrase. “No, these words—they’re doing things that my words never do. They’re dancing—Look, a taxi!”

He shook his head. “It’s going downtown. You need to catch one in the opposite direction.”

The car couldn’t just make a U-turn? “That’s
stupid.
”

He walked me across the street and hailed a cab.

The cab driver was chattering loudly into a hands-free headset, but he paused as Abe placed me in one side of the cab and walked around to the other.

“Abe, I’m fine. You don’t have to come with me. You live in Tribeca, right? That’s the opposite direction.”

He shrugged that off and got into the car with me. For a minute, I watched the lights of the city flashing by. My head was still spinning, but slower now.

“You know what I was thinking, before you got here?”

“Before I got here?” I parroted, confused. “But I got here first.”

“No, I mean—before you got to New York.”

“Oh. What?”

“That I was restless.”

I turned to look fully at him. “How so?”

He wouldn’t look at me. “Just... Restless.”

I tilted my head, inviting him to tell me more.

“Like I’ve been waiting for something but I don’t know what.”

I smiled at him brilliantly. “That’s how I felt, too. Like my life was on hold. Like I was waiting for someone to press start.” I shrugged, content now that it
had
started. “Of course, it turned out I was the one who needed to push start.”

“Because you got the job.”

I smiled. “So maybe it was Tanya who pressed start.”

He lifted his hand and brushed a corkscrew behind my ear. I shivered at the touch, my entire body going on alert. His gaze softened and dropped down to my lips. He leaned forward ever so slightly, but close enough that his breath whispered across my skin.

The cab driver grunted something indistinguishable.

I gasped and pulled back. Abe kept staring at me even as he handed money over to the cabbie. Somehow we’d reached my apartment and I hadn’t even noticed.

I infused my voice with all the brightness of the sun at high noon. “Anyway! Great to see you. I’m sure I’ll see you Sunday or something.” I bolted out the door.

“Tamar—”

His low voice stopped me sure as any irons. I turned back, trying to keep hold of the brightness. “Hmm?”

He hesitated. Words hovered between us, but I never got to find out what they were. “I’ll see you Sunday, then.”

Chapter Nine

In the morning, I headed over the Leopards Stadium to cover their game.

I was excruciatingly aware of the likelihood that I’d end up talking to Abe today. And I shouldn’t have cared.

But I did.

So I dressed in my nicest, darkest jeans, and threw on a striped shirt that made me feel vaguely European—an accomplishment, given that I’d never actually been to Europe.

Last time I’d come to the Stadium, I’d trailed in Tanya’s wake. Now I slipped in through the media entrance with the attitude of an imposter, afraid I’d be carded despite the bright, laminated press pass that dangled in plain sight around my neck.

Tanya had told me I was welcome to meet her up in the press box or check out the sidelines. By welcome, Jin had interpreted on Friday, Tanya meant I was still more of a pain than an asset, and she didn’t particularly care where I ended up. Tanya herself wasn’t a huge fan of sideline reporting, which I wasn’t sure I agreed with. True, nothing the athletes or officials said could be quoted, just paraphrased, per NFL guidelines. And fine, coaches never gave real info when asked at halftime how they were going to play the rest of the game, just that they’d have a strong offense. And defense. And, sure, doctors never gave the up-to-the-minute reports you wanted on injuries.

But I still thought it was worthwhile—the immediacy, the personalities, the lack of glass cutting out the game.

The sidelines were packed—players had to arrive two hours before the game, and even at fifty-three, they seemed vastly outnumbered by the officials, coordinators and staff. A whole crew of people existed only to regulate the players’ uniforms. One poor sap spent the entire day solely in charge of the first football of the game—the kicker’s ball.

Sometimes I thought that was why I loved football so much. The crazy political machinations. It was like I lived in Medici, Italy, except with less poison.

I searched for Abe through the streams of players and officials, but he was nowhere to be seen. He could already be back in the locker room, which was for the best. I didn’t need to see him. I shouldn’t see him. I was supposed to be working.

As kick-off neared, all the players and coaches cleared from the field. I found the guys near a cluster of newscasters—famous anchors like Aurelius Stevenson and Eddie Bruges. The women nearby wore white suits and bright smiles. “They’re all so beautiful.”

“They’re TV. They’re paid to be beautiful.” Carlos nodded discreetly as we walked past the row. “Former cheerleader for the Bears, former Miss Vermont, former model.”

“Hardly seems fair.” At slightly below-average height and with utterly girl-next-door features, I definitely didn’t qualify for their beauty standards. But I’d probably come into this job with a hell of a better sports reporting background than they had.

Well, being bitter never helped anyone.

The Leopards played the Chiefs today. The game opened strong, but it was clearly destined to be a low-scoring one; no one seemed to keep the ball very long. By the fourth quarter, it was 11-7 and the crowd was restless.

And when the sideline started buzzing, it wasn’t about the game.

I couldn’t tell where it started, but within seconds the energy had reached a fever pitch. Someone let out a whistle behind us. Everyone started pulling out phones and whispering to each other.

“Shit, look at this.”

Mduduzi and I both leaned closer to Jin, who’d pulled up an article published two minutes ago by the Coalition of American Doctors.

Statistical Rankings of Professional Helmets.

We huddled against each other to scan the article. Football helmets didn’t receive real ratings, just a pass/fail in accordance to whether they met the national safety standard. Virginia Tech created a five-star rating system some years ago, but even that wasn’t fail-proof.

The article used the statistical data gleaned from the past dozen years to rank helmets worn by amateur, college and pro football players. Including some of the helmets that were currently knocking around the field in front of us. Including some popular helmets that didn’t hold up too well.

“Ouch.” Jin sounded positively gleeful. “That’s gonna hurt.”

I barely paid attention. I was too busy Googling “Abe Krasner helmet” on my phone, but unfortunately all I could find out was where to buy signed mini-helmets. Which wasn’t very useful. I already had one of Abe’s signed mini-helmets. His mom had given it to me three Hanukkahs ago and said it was from Abe.

I found the info. Thank God. He had one of the safer ones.

Carlos’s phone rang, and he lifted it to his ear. Tanya’s voice could faintly be heard on the other side of the line, especially if I concentrated very hard. “Are you reading this?”

“Yup.”

“It doesn’t list any of Loft’s helmets.”

At first that surprised me, since Loft was one of the nation’s top athletic gear companies. They’d swooped up a lot of the endorsements and partnerships in the past few years, and I was used to seeing their patches on the Leopard practice jerseys. Right before I moved out here, the big news in the sports world had been the deal struck for Loft Athletics to sponsor the Leopards’ new training facility.

But on second thought, I wasn’t too surprised, because Loft hadn’t been around for that many years, so it was possible there wasn’t that much data the doctors could gather. And the article did mention it was an inconclusive list.

Still. Interesting.

When the game drew to a close—a win by the Leopards, which would usually have garnered more attention—we all rushed the open locker room with the rest of the press.

Apparently Coach Paglio anticipated the rush, because the setup was a little different than usual. The players must have had their quickest shower-and-dress in history, because they were mostly clothed and stood alongside Coach Paglio and owner Greg Philip, who’d gathered in a power-clump in the center. Paglio cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone prepared for him. “We understand there’s been some news released that many of you want to ask about, but we’d appreciate if the questions stayed on the game. To make it easier, we’ve brought everyone out.”

The Leopards star players stood behind him: Ryan Carter and Malcolm Lindsey of course, and running back Mike O’Connor—and Abe, firm and straight and loyal.

My stomach immediately tied itself in knots at the sight of him. How do you act with a formerly estranged friend that you’ve been in love with for years whom you almost kissed?

But I failed at even making eye contact, because he never once looked in my direction. The butterflies in my stomach slowly folded their wings, and I resolutely pressed my lips together and my anticipation down. Fine. We’d play it professional.

For a moment after Paglio’s announcement we all stared blankly, and then blatantly ignored him. “Coach Paglio,” Eddie Bruges called out, and then everyone started speaking. I fought through the crowd to Paglio’s side. Instead of standing in an orderly crowd, everyone pushed up against the coach and players and demanded answers to their questions, multiple conversations flying at once. I saw the media director looking alarmed on the side as she tried to restore order.

My phone buzzed. Tanya had texted.
Ask about why Loft’s not on the list.

I looked around for the guys, but I’d lost them as we tried to get closer. But I was smaller and shorter than most of the press, and I’d managed to squeeze through to the front of the crowd. I took a deep breath. Here goes. “Coach Paglio! Do you have any idea why Loft Athletics weren’t included in the tests?”

With impressive speed, Couch Paglio’s countenance soured. “No idea.”

Another young woman squeezed up beside me. “Why doesn’t the team regulate the helmets the players wear?”

Paglio didn’t bother looking at her. “Not NFL policy.”

I nodded slowly. “NFL policy dictates the color of the players’ socks. But helmets, which actually affect their safety, have no regulation. Why is that?”

He finally glanced at us, his lips tight. “We believe in our players’ right to decide which helmets they want to use.”

“Even though some brands and technology are much more effective at preventing concussions and injuries?”

Paglio thumped his paper down. “My players’ safety is my priority—” His eyes dropped to my badge. “Ms. Rosenfeld. And you can quote me on that.”

Yeah, if we wanted the boringest quote in the history of quotes. “Is it true that players can’t always obtain the brand of helmet they want to test out? And so they won’t get new ones, since they won’t buy a helmet they haven’t tested in practice?”

“No comment. Next question.”

But now that I’d started, I wasn’t quite done, beyond even what Tanya had told me to ask. Loft Athletics might not be represented on the list, but they were certainly represented on the field this afternoon. “Is it true that players can get Loft Athletics—manufactured helmets quickly because of the Leopards’ new partnership with that company, but it takes multiple weeks to deliver any other brand?”

Coach Paglio stared at me with utter dislike.

Abe stepped up and spoke, soft but strong. “Why don’t I fence this one?”

I shook my head. “The question’s for the coach.”

“I got this,” he said to Paglio, and then stepped into the crowd until he stood right before, leaving Paglio to answer someone else.

I glared at him. “The hell was that? I was asking him a question!”

Abe ran a hand along his arm and glared back at me with exasperation. “You can’t just interrogate Coach like that.”

A stir of resentment swirled through me. “Um, yes, I can. I’m a reporter, it’s my job.”

He leaned closer, fierce opposition on his face. “It’s not your job if you make Coach hate you.”

“He’s not going to hate me just because I ask a few questions.” I didn’t think. “Besides, it’s not up to him. He’s not my boss.”

Abe snorted derisively, which made me rock back on my heels. “Yeah, but he can make it difficult for you to work here.”

Hmph. “Look, I thought my questions were reasonable. It isn’t safe that some of you guys are running around without the best helmets possible. I mean, thank God you wear one of the top models.” I was irrationally irritated by the danger he put himself in.

His brows rose and a smile tugged at his lips. “You know what kind of helmet I wear?”

“Google knows,” I said, with the intent to put him in his place, but that smile was irrepressible. Despite my strange finicky emotions, I felt a smile tugging at my lips too. “And good thing it’s a good helmet, because we don’t need your brain getting any more scrambled than it already is.”

He grinned. “There’s a zombie-and-omelet joke in there somewhere.”

I couldn’t help grinning reluctantly back, though I tried to keep my eyes narrowed. “You’re a zombie joke.”

“Your brains are hard-boiled.”

“I think I resent that. But I’m going to have to think about it harder.” I paused. “I guess it’s better than being deviled.”