Imaginary Lines (12 page)

“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.”

“Says the superstar.” I took a deep breath. “Thanks. It’s nice of you to say so. Now you go.”

He sent me one of his breath-stealing smiles. “All right. I don’t know if I want to be a superstar.”

I leaned back in my chair, thinking of what he’d said Friday night. That he’d never finished his degree. That he wasn’t sure he could be anything. “Abe, aren’t you happy?”

He smiled down at his plate. “I have the perfect life. How could I not be happy?”

“Abraham.” Now I leaned close, trying to make him look at me. “Abe?”

He looked away. “It’s stupid. Never mind.”

“Abe, you promised me a secret.”

“It’s a secret because I’m not usually dumb enough to talk to people about it.”

“Hey, I’m not people.” I took his hand.

“I love the game.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I love my teammates. I love the camaraderie. It’s my whole life.”

I waited.

“I don’t know that I want it to be my whole life forever.”

“Then it doesn’t have to be.”

“It’s not that easy. You can’t just...leave this world. It’s all I know. It’s all I’ve ever known. How to be good at football.”

“You don’t have to choose what you’re going to do for the rest of your life when you’re sixteen years old. You’re allowed to change your mind.”

“How?” He looked up at me with dark, endless eyes. “How do I do that? I’m not good at anything else.”

“You’re wrong. You’re smart. You’re clever. You’re dedicated. What do you want to do? You can do anything.”

He shook his head, as though the question overwhelmed him. “I don’t know.”

When I’d been thirteen years old, our parents had taken us up to Point Reyes for a long weekend during the summer. We’d stopped at Stinson Beach, which Abe had delighted in telling me was a Great White breeding ground, and the two of us had splashed around in the water with Charlie, who was soaking wet and the happiest puppy I had ever seen.

That had been the first time I’d ever seen Abe stare at the moon, and I’d asked him if he wanted to be an astronaut. He’d also said
I
don’t know
back then, but he’d sounded contemplative. “You know when we were kids, I asked you if you wanted to go to the moon.”

He looked at me now in surprise. “You did? What did I say?”

“That you weren’t sure, but maybe. And then you asked me right back, and I said that would never happen, because I was scared of heights.” I smiled at the memory. “That was the first time I ever admitted I was afraid, you know. And you just looked at me with utter certainty and said I could do it.”

“You could. Do heights still bother you?”

I shook my head. “Not the point. The point is, I have that same belief. You can be scared or nervous or uncertain, but it won’t stop you. You’re not the kind of person who can be stopped.”

He regarded me for a long minute with a strange expression on his face, and then nodded briefly, like he’d come to a sudden decision. “What are you doing this Friday?”

“Nothing, I guess. Why?”

He caught my hand, his thumb resting in the center of my palm. Energy jolted through me. “Come to dinner with me.”

I stared at him. “Abe, you’re confusing me.”

He ruffled his hair with his free hand. “
You’re
confusing
me
.”

And how was I doing that? I slowly drew my hand away, but he wouldn’t relinquish my gaze. “All right. Friday. I’ll go with you.”

He grinned, and it lit his whole face, and my spirit with it. “Great. You’ll have a ton of fun.” He reached out and enveloped me in a hug, and banked desire rushed through me. For the briefest instant, I allowed myself to relax into the contact, and then I forced myself back.

“I’ll pick you up at work.”

Even as my heart jumped, I tried to calm it down. “You don’t need to do that. I can meet you there.”

He frowned, and his dark eyes probed mine. “Why do you keep telling me I don’t have to do things? I
want
to.”

I tilted my head. “You want to pick me up at the
Sports Today
offices?”

“I’ll be there at six.”

Chapter Ten

On Thursday night, I baked hermit cookies to take to Ryan Carter’s (words I’d never thought I’d utter). They were my grandma’s recipe, packed with cinnamon and cloves and allspice. I left out the raisins and nuts in place of extra chocolate chips, and then formed them in a log and sliced it diagonally.

I was in such a good mood that I whipped up a quadruple batch—enough for the party, my roommates and my coworkers.

At work, the guys fell upon them even though it wasn’t yet nine in the morning. “They have spices,” Carlos reasoned. “Spices are plants. Therefore, this is healthy.”

Sounded logical to me.

That afternoon, I worked on a story on the performance of the new quarterback, Jensen Clay. He’d apparently decided it was a good idea to go out drinking and driving, and had crashed a Lamborghini into a tree. While no one was hurt—not even the dumbass driver—it didn’t make the newest member of the Leopards look like a great addition. The networks and blogs were in a frenzy over his behavior, ousting even news of helmets.

Well, that wasn’t so much of a surprise. The young QB was barely twenty-one, pretty as a boy-band member and with a record of pulling crazy stunts. Made him something of the press’s darling. A blip compared to Carter, sure, but Carter had settled after he started dating someone seriously a few years back, and no longer provided off-field stories.

I wrapped the story, complete with links to a few of the other articles we’d run on him and included some appropriately pithy quotes, and then moved on to my next article. But I couldn’t help glancing at my phone every five seconds, waiting for Abe.

I still started when it dinged.

You ready?

Yeah—you almost here?

I’m downstairs.

Oh, God. My fingers around my cell went numb. For some reason, I’d figured he’d give me a few minutes’ warning. I jumped up and started haphazardly throwing all my things in my bag, while Jin and Mduduzi watched with amusement. “Where’s the fire?” Mduduzi asked.