Imaginary Lines (30 page)

I started freaking out. “Me? Never.”

“They issued the standard. No one’s to talk to you. Or to anyone from Today Media.”

My stomach fell out of my body and left me unanchored to reality. He’d warned me, but it was different actually having it confirmed. “All of Today Media? Not just
Sports Today
?” I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. “But who else would you talk to? It’s sports. It’s football.”

His hand fell away. “It’s not just football. It’s Loft’s parent company—Kravenberg, Inc.”

I almost gagged on my breath. “And what if you do? You get fined?”

He nodded.

“How much?”

He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Not an insignificant amount.”

I couldn’t take the unbearable closeness anymore, and I spun away and walked to the window, where I could brace my hand against the wall for balance. Outside, the whole world was white. “I’m sorry.”

He came up behind me and encircled my waist with his arms. “It’s not your fault.”

Maybe not. But it certainly felt that way.

* * *

The NFL held its silence for two days.

The other news channels were not so merciless. It went straight to the top of the networks. That first evening, every major channel reported on my story. We watched from the safety of the newsroom at anchors in expensive blue suits and the same faux serious expressions they used for typhoons and shootings.

“The NFL has been accused of favoring Loft Athletics.” Aurelius Stevenson looked positively gleeful, though he hid it well. “The popular sports website
Sports Today
first broke this story...”

“Go home,” Tanya said eventually. “Listening to this isn’t helping anyone.”

Abe had to attend an emergency meeting of the Leopards—that I’d caused—so I went back to my apartment. My roommates were all in their rooms by the time I got back, so I climbed into my bed in the quiet dark and nestled low with the blue-white of my laptop shining in my face.

What insidious, awful part of me made me search for “Tamar Rosenfeld” and limit the results to the past twenty-four hours? I was feeding myself poison and I couldn’t stop, unable to look away from the train wreck of my online reputation.

I hadn’t expected people to be so mad at me. Not strangers, not really. But they appeared in droves, and reveled in the word
bitch
like it had just been invented. How dare I besmirch their beloved players? How dare I suggest anything that might threaten the game? How dare I...

I read until I realized that tears had started falling, and then I pressed the laptop closed and stared into the sudden darkness with wide, wet eyes.

In the morning, I straightened my shoulders and headed in to work. Davis, a security guard whom I’d always been on good terms with, scowled as I entered the building. “Thanks for that, Rosenfeld.”

I tried to smile and not let it get to me as I escaped into an elevator. “Any time.”

Yet the elevator ride turned out to be even more excruciating. I rode up with two girls from the women’s magazine and a guy from News. He snorted loudly and crossed his arms. The girls didn’t say anything, but they watched me with wide eyes and nudged each other, as though communication was imperceptible simply because it was nonverbal.

At least the tension disappeared when I stepped into the office, and I gladly collapsed beside Mduduzi. He smiled at me sympathetically. “Rough morning?”

“It’s a lot of pressure, the hatred of New York.”

“Nah, I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

I appreciated his vote of confidence, but it wasn’t winning me a popularity contest anytime soon.

Work continued, as it always did. There were stories to be written and follow-ups to follow. I monkeyed at the keyboard until a derivative of Shakespeare appeared, and I answered emails and fended phone calls.

On Friday, the NFL issued a statement that they were deeply disappointed in my
Sports Today
article, which focused on insane issues, from a reporter who clearly had her facts wrong. Their statement sounded so hurt, so wounded—why would anyone attack them that way? Who did this Tamar Rosenfeld think she was?—that I couldn’t read the entire piece.

I wished Abe hadn’t had to leave for another away game.

The NFL reacted about as we expected, but that didn’t lessen the pain with each word that they said. Gregory Philip himself sat down on one of the morning talk shows.

And after that, it just downpoured. I couldn’t switch channels or turn on a podcast without hearing about my article. About myself.

“Of course, it’s ridiculous. Just some rookie reporter trying to make a name for herself by smearing ours.” On the screen, Coach Paglio dismissed my article with a snort and a shake, just as the entire NFL had been doing for the last week. “Wouldn’t give her any credence at all. You know who this is, right? A twenty-three-year-old kid who grew up with Krasner. No journalistic integrity there, huh?”

Aurelius Stevenson, SNN’s favorite newscaster, leaned forward, good-looking and grave in his navy suit. He nodded along with Paglio’s explanation, but that didn’t stop him from sending out feelers. “Of course, she does have the backing of several doctors saying they were pressured not to include Loft helmets in their tests...”

Coach Paglio waved his hand. “I can’t control what people say, Aurelius.”

“So you’re saying there’s no truth to these allegations?”

“None. None at all.”

“So who is this Tamar Rosenfeld, anyway?” Stephen Jones said at a round-table discussion. “It turns out that she
knows
linebacker Abraham Krasner. They were kids together. Krasner’s taken a bunch of bad falls this season, so not such a surprise she wants to make it out like it’s the equipment’s fault, not his.”

It was only when I opened my hand to press Stop on the show that I realized my nails had been cutting into the heels of my palms. Dark crescents marked the indentations, but I felt nothing.

I had to get out of the apartment. I couldn’t keep torturing myself by watching interviews that smeared me, or listening in the dark to radio shows that should be talking about averages and line-ups and defenses, but that instead focused on the best of my career.

I showered quickly and threw on jeans and my new coat. There were better ways to spend a Saturday than masochistically, but I hadn’t been able to realize that when my roommates had tried to get me out this morning. Now I was the only person here, with nothing to do. I shot Shoshi a quick text, but when she didn’t answer, I shoved on my boots and headed out the door, pausing only for one last text.

I
miss you.

Abe had left for San Diego yesterday, and he wouldn’t be back until late Sunday night. Each day felt like a year, and I couldn’t distract myself enough. Even Netflix failed me.

My feet pounded down the stairs and I gasped in shock as I exited into the cold. Even with gloves, hat and scarf, the icy winds pierced through me, straight to my bones, filling my lungs with frost.

With no real destination, I ended up walking to a café on Broadway. I ordered an absurdly expensive mocha and sat at a corner table, breathing in the warmth again and admiring the leaf floating precariously in the foam. I opened up my laptop and pulled up the stories I was supposed to be working on, but I hadn’t had much luck writing for the past several days. Every time I tried to churn words out, it felt like the milk had dried up and I was trying to make butter with water. The dreck that resulted was barely readable, and Tanya had given me more extensive rewrites in the past four days than since I’d started.

Eventually, I managed to get past the pit in my stomach that kept stilling my fingers, and bang out four acceptable stories, which I shipped off to Tanya with a sign of relief. At least I wasn’t broken.

I
would not
let this break me.

Two twenty-somethings in black lounged at the table beside me, a girl with long, perfect hair an unnatural shade of red, and a guy with several rings through his nose and ears. They shared a tofu-mash thing, and their voices floated my way.

“...I don’t know, maybe...” the guy said.

The girl’s tone carried much more conviction. “Come on, don’t you think it’s a
little
sketchy? She sleeps with the guy so she can find out secrets? I don’t care about football, but I’m pretty sure that’s a violation of journalistic ethics.”

I almost choked on the remnants of my mocha.

“No one’s
positive
they were sleeping together, though, right?”

The girl scoffed. “Please. Of course they were.”

I thumped my drink down on the table and stopped by their table. “Really not any of your business.”

They gaped at me, and I felt slightly better as I stalked toward the exit.

Only of course I then had to stand in the doorway for an awful long time, arranging my coat and scarf and hat, but still.

On Sunday, I couldn’t get in to the Leopards Stadium for the game, so I entered Waxy’s half an hour before the one o’clock kick-off, and immediately realized my mistake. Every person in the bar turned their back to me.

I swallowed.

Roy looked up from behind the bar and scowled. “You think this is a good idea?”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to watch the game.”

Tim turned around. “Yeah? After you practically ruin it for the rest of us?”

Anger boiled up. “What they’re doing is dangerous and illegal—”

“It’s what they’re all doing! You either close it down completely or you ignore it. What good’s getting one team in trouble, huh? Not so fair.”

I threw up my hands. “You know what? Fine. I’m sorry for having moral integrity.”

He scoffed. “Turning on your boyfriend’s team’s not
integrity
, kid. You realize his contract’s up for renewal? You probably cost him that.”

I pressed my lips together. “I didn’t mean to turn on him.”

“Sure thing.”

Fine. Whatever. I didn’t care. “Okay, well...bye.”

I turned to leave, but instead found myself face-to-face with the guys.

To my surprise, it was Jin who brushed the snow off his sleeves and stomped up to me. “Just hold your head up. You did the right thing.”

And he was right. I had to meet Roy as I needed to meet everyone these days—firm in my convictions. I swallowed. Carlos nodded at me. Mduduzi squeezed my shoulder. And I turned around and ordered my rum and Coke.

* * *

Abe came home that day. He was in his apartment when I arrived, and he stopped making dinner as soon as he saw me. He came out of the kitchen, a picture of worry. Like always, his honey-colored curls were messy, but his green sweater made him look a little more put together than usual, even if the worry in his dark eyes made him look less. “What’s wrong?”

I dropped my purse on the floor and shook my head as I walked toward him. “We can’t do this.”

“Do what
?
”

I stopped in front of him, still shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m an idiot. I didn’t realize how bad it would be. How much
hate
there would be from bystanders. God, I can just see it. I can feel it in my stomach. I can’t subject you to that.”

Abe’s hands folded around mine. “I don’t care about any of that.”

“Abraham. It’s horrible. And I don’t see any way—we can’t be together and keep you out of this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I won’t destroy your career. I won’t do it.”

He didn’t say anything, just studied me.

I tried to make it clear. “You have a team. You have your career, and your contract. If you’re with me, you’ll lose all that.”

“I don’t care.”

“
I
care. This is your life.”

“This is my job. And I would do anything for you.”

“Abraham, that’s crazy.”

He shook his head, his jaw set. “No. You know what’s crazy? Letting these rules dictate our lives.”

“You could lose your
career.
”

He set me down and placed both hands on my shoulders. “That is
nothing
compared to losing you.”

Heat flushed through me.

But no. If this was that serious—if the NFL and Kravenberg, Inc. were really taking a stand against me—this could destroy him. He had worked so hard to get where he was. He loved his teammates.

I wouldn’t tear that down. I
wouldn’t.

Yet how could I keep him away?

The idea dawned slow and horrible and certain.

“And what about me?” I made sure to keep my gaze unwaveringly on his. “What will it do to my journalistic career if it looks like I’m sleeping around in order to get information?”

He drew back as though stung. “We’re dating.”

“
We
know that. Not everyone else will. I won’t risk my career, my reputation, for you. We have to be apart.”

He wrapped my hand in his. “I don’t believe you.”

I swallowed and made certain to keep my gaze on his. I refused to blink. “It’s the best for both of us. It saves both of our jobs.”

He snorted. “Do you love me?”

I swallowed and turned away so I didn’t have to look into his face, that face that drew the truth out of me no matter what.

“Go on, Tammy. Answer the goddamn question.”

He was going to make me start crying. My throat already felt constrained and my heart heavy. “Why are you making me say it? What good does this do other than making us miserable?”

He stepped in front of me, placing his hands on my arms and drawing me closer. “Do. You. Love. Me?”

My gaze, locked over his shoulder, was finally drawn to his bright, insistent gaze. “Yes, dammit!”

He was implacable. “And I love you.”

Two tears leaked out and I couldn’t manage to speak for a solid ten seconds. “But your career...” I remembered the excuse of my own reputation. “And mine...”

He brushed a strand of curls behind my ear. “Bull. Tell me you didn’t say you were worried about your career in order to save my own.”

Holy hell. My eyes widened. “Abe...”

“You’re not the only one here who can read the other. You love me and you think we should be separated in order to save my career. Fine. We can consider being quiet as we figure it out. But we’re still in a relationship, Tamar Rosenfeld, and we will be until you look me in the eye and say you no longer love me.”