Imaginary Lines

by Allison Parr

  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 t
he 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.”

  “You’re the devil, here.”

  “Ha! How did you end up with your helmet, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Rachael insisted I swap brands two years ago.”

  “Rachael?” I was unable to keep some jealousy from crawling into my voice.

  Abe just grinned, his eyes dancing. “Just admit it.”

  I jutted out my chin. “Admit what?”

  He held my gaze, and a flush rose in my cheeks. Fine.

  He took pity on me. “Ryan’s girlfriend. She’s a force of nature.”

  “Ryan Carter’s girlfriend?” I kept forgetting he hung out with all these famous people on a regular basis.

  I kept forgetting he was famous.

  “That’s the one. Hey, you want to go grab dinner?”

  I tilted my head at both the request and the change of subject. “You’re getting to make a habit of this food thing.”

  A flash of uncertainty crossed his face. “You mind?”

  I didn’t. I’d never forgotten how much I enjoyed Abe’s company, but it hadn’t been in the forefront of my mind for ages. But now that it was again... Well, I liked him. “No, let’s. You don’t have other plans?”

  For a moment I thought I glimpsed loneliness, but it vanished with a smile. “Most of the guys get dinner with their family post-games. A couple of us usually hang out. But I’d rather get dinner with you.”

  My eyes flew up to him. His didn’t move. My breath caught, and it took a force of will to smile like I was unaffected. “Then let’s get dinner.”

  We went to a Mediterranean place in Hell’s Kitchen. I ordered a platter complete with tabbouleh and baba ghanoush and olive tapenade. Abe raised his brows at that. “Since when do you like olives? You used to pick them off everything.”

  “Mm, I suppose since that summer I spent working at a vineyard in Sonoma.”

  He put down his fork. “You’re kidding me.”

  I laughed, pleased to have surprised him. “Nope. One of my best friends from college had an uncle who took us on for two months. It was great. My summer of sun, wine, cheese, and Antonio—” I placed my hand to my brow, “—the beautiful Italian boy who biked past every day.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “Nope. Though admittedly, we never got up the courage to talk to Antonio.”

  “So how do you know his name was Antonio?”

  I shrugged and picked up my utensils. “We don’t. Or that he was Italian, actually. So I suppose we made those parts up. Surely a sign of my storytelling talent early on.”

  He grinned and sliced into his steak. “All right, so no Antonio. Best boyfriend?”

  “Oh, are we talking about boys now?” I fluttered my lashes. “How exciting.”

  “Or perhaps no one could live up to the man of your dreams?”

  I gave him an arched look. “The tall, dark, brooding, bespectacled and scruffy man, you mean?”

  He shot me a look right back. “Please. You like the good-natured, all-American, sporty type.”

  I shook my head. “No one worth speaking of. There was Patrick before I moved out here, I guess.”

  Fine, I said that to see if I got a reaction, and I did. He frowned just the slightest bit. “Who’s Patrick?”

  “Another one of the SAT tutors where I was working. Very tall. Cute grin. Played the guitar.”

  Abe snorted. “A musician.”

  I propped my elbow on the table and my chin on my hand. “Musicians are sexy. Didn’t you know?”

  “Football players are sexy. Tough. We’re gladiators.”

  “Except without all the blood. And death. And lions. And with really big padding.” I gestured out past my shoulders. “And shiny pants.”

  He leaned forward. “Admit it. You like the pants.”

  I blushed slightly, because I did like the pants. “And what about you? Any memorable relationships?”

  He knocked his chair back and grinned at me. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist asking.”

  I tossed my napkin at him. “Merely out of politeness!”

  He laughed. “Dozens.”

  “None you bothered bringing home to meet your mother,” I countered.

  “I introduced her to two when she was out here!”

  “Only one was on purpose, though,” I reminded him. “Kelly was an accident.” I exaggerated a wince. “That must have been embarrassing, you and your mom walking into your apartment to find it filled with...Kelly and whipping cream.”

  His wince was real. “That made the rounds of the entire town?”

  “Oh, the entire Bay, I’m afraid. And parts of Oakland.”

  He shook his head. “You have a cruel streak, Miss Rosenfeld.”

  I took a sip of my drink. “What nonsense. I am merely the deliverer of truth.”

  He regarded me with a smile. “You probably think you know everything about me.”

  “Oh, but I do, Abraham Krasner.”

  He shook his head slowly. “You only know what my mom knows.”

  I scoffed. “And what else is there?”

  He reached across the table and lifted my hand in his. Both of our palms faced upward. His dwarfed mine, and I stilled, flutters cascading through me in a way I’d never quite forgotten. His dark eyes held mine and his thumb slowly circled the center of my palm. His callused skin was rough against my sensitive lifelines.

  My breath caught. My blood pulsed tangibly in my wrist. “What are you doing?”

  “There are some things about me even you don’t know about, Tamar Rosenfeld.”

  How was it possible that he was only holding my hand and I was getting turned on? I slowly withdrew my hand and pressed it against my thigh. My eyes were wide and I tried desperately to think of something to say. “Um... Fine. Prove me wrong. Tell me a secret.”

  I would’ve had to have been the least observant reporter ever if I didn’t notice how his eyes dipped to my lips, and then even further. And I’d have to be a liar if I said it didn’t send a curl of satisfaction twining through me.

  But those dark, downward-tilting eyes were back on mine in a heartbeat. “And what do I get out
of it?”

  “What do you want?”

  “One of your secrets, of course.”

  I leaned forward. “Ah, but I have no secrets.”

  “Everyone has secrets.”

  I searched his eyes, but he seemed deadly serious. I straightened in surprise. “All right. We’ll trade.”

  “You go first.”

  “You go first.”

  I toyed with protesting, but I was too curious about what deep, dark secret Abraham had to risk him changing his mind. “Fine.”

  The only problem with going first was that I now had to summon a secret to mind. Honest to God, I wasn’t sure I had any. My job was to be a levelheaded, objective reporter, and as such I could tell that nothing bad had ever happened to me.

  I opened my mouth and hoped something would float out. “I’m afraid I’m destined for mediocrity.”

  That sounded dramatic, even to me, but Abe didn’t call me on it. Instead, he studied me. “Why do you say that?”

  I shrugged. “You know. General malaise of spirit. I hear New Yorkers find ennui fashionable.”

  “Tammy.” He reached out for my hand once more, but this time it was an easy, comforting grip. His gaze didn’t move.

  “It didn’t mean anything. Just—I suppose I’m having my quarter life crisis. But it’s tricky, not being the best of the best—I mean, look at you. You’re amazing.”

  His mouth quirked. “I’m amazing?”

  “Yes. You know that.”

  “I like hearing you say it.”

  I flushed and looked down.

  “Hey. But that’s not important. Why don’t you think you’re the best of the best?”

  I glanced back up. “Because I’m practical. Because that’s what life is, I guess. Because not all of us become superstars. Some of us are just normal.”

  “You want to know a secret, one that I’ve learned from some of my older and theoretically wiser friends?”

  I tilted my head. “Yes, please.”

  “Apparently we all hit that point where we realize we’re not the most talented or brilliant person in the room anymore. And it doesn’t matter. Because just because you’re not right now doesn’t mean you can’t learn and get better and still be at the top of your game. It doesn’t all have to be right now, you know. You have years. You can still be a superstar.”