Imaginary Lines (8 page)

“I hope you never did that with me.”

“I never needed to.”

A silence stretched between us, a silence that shimmered, and he stepped forward. My heartbeat sped up. How odd, to feel like Abraham really saw me, now, after all these years. And to wonder if maybe, just maybe...

My phone beeped. Tanya, wanting me at her side, pronto. I raised it apologetically. “I should get going.”

We stood there in silence, and then he smiled at me with such brightness that my breath quickened. “So I guess I’ll see you around.”

Oh boy, I was in trouble. My mouth curved up in a smile I couldn’t contain. “Guess you will.”

Chapter Seven

Four days later, we returned to the Stadium for the fifth game of the regular season.

Emotion ruled football. That was why clubs juggled coaches and players each year, why the teams that lost had their pick of the best players in the next year’s draft. The organization was designed to keep the playing field “even” but that wasn’t about promoting a better game—some even said it took away from the best possible play. It was about capturing the emotion of people across the country and keeping them enthused, keeping them invested, in the belief that their team could win on any given Sunday.

Some games fans wait for all season. The Leopards versus Ann Arbor Bisons match always sold out weeks in advance; the rivalry between those two teams was thick enough to taste. People anticipated it all year round, and to some, it was the only game that really counted. The Leopards could lose the Super Bowl as long as they beat the Bisons.

Abe played defense. He was good
—
the kind of good you hardly even recognized until the ball disappeared from the offense and it took a confused heartbeat to realize Abe had it. Abe got into the offense’s heads without people even realizing mind games were in his repertoire. He just acted so straightforward and chill off the field; so certain, so steady, that it was hard for anyone—even the opposing team—not to believe whatever Abraham believed. And if that was that Abe would block the offense, then Abe would block the offense.

For Abe the words that came up time and again were driven. Versatile. Clever.

It was even stranger now, watching Abe run around on the field. I’d seen him play in high school and college, but I’d never attended any of his pro games. He looked like a god; he
was
a god to thousands of young kids all over the country. And a role model to some, because with less than ten Jews in the NFL—well, kind of a big deal.

He’d improved in his four years with the Leopards, and he’d already been named Rookie of the Year in his first. A lot of people talked about how lots of game strategy was moving away from center linebackers, but Abraham made strategists reconsider that.

I didn’t see him when we went down to the locker room after the game, and instead ended up interviewing several of the other guys on their predictions on next week’s game and opinion on this one. I’d just wrapped up my last question and was headed out when I heard my name in that familiar, warm baritone. “Hey, Tamar!”

I stilled slowly, and then turned to see Abe half-bouncing on his toes from leftover adrenaline. His hair was still wet from a fast post-game shower, and he’d slung a casual sports jacket on over his dark jeans. He grinned at me, practically radiating exuberance. “Good game, huh?”

I couldn’t help but smile back. “It was...tolerable.”

He groaned and shook his head. “You’re trying to break my heart, aren’t you?”

“I’m keeping you grounded.”

“Too late, I’m flying.” He swooped me up in his arms and took us in an impromptu turn around the room.

When he stopped I nearly died from laughter, and had to bend up to subdue to cramps in my stomach. “What was that, a jig or a waltz?”

He frowned at me. “God, Tammy, don’t you know anything? It was a waltz.”

I managed to right myself. “How silly of me. But then, I never made it to advanced dance classes.”

“Ah, now it all makes sense. Where for me, those classes were second only to football.”

“So that’s why your mom was always making you go to English—extra help.”

“Hey, you don’t get to talk. Pretty sure I spent a year of Fridays helping you with your science homework.”

My phone pinged again, just as it had last time I was here. I glanced at it, and made a face when I saw Tanya’s name “Sorry. Duty calls.”

Abraham looked put out. “Why don’t you just interview
me
?”

A smile broke over my face. “I’m going to take you up on that, one of these days. See you.”

I’d barely gone two feet when his familiar tones called me back. “Hey, Tamar.”

I turned back.

His previous levity had been replaced by a bright earnestness. “Let’s get drinks tomorrow.”

Drinks. With Abraham Krasner. I tilted my head. “On a Monday night?”

He shrugged. “My Monday’s your Friday.”

True enough; most NFL teams had Tuesdays off. “Yeah, but it’s still my Monday.”

“Come on. I’ll take you to a beatnik-themed bar.”

He knew I had a weakness for literary themes, though he’d always been the one who went gaga over Kerouac, not me. Still—”You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“What?”

“You know, take care of the girl-next-door in the big-bad-city. Be nice to me because of our moms. That’s why you’re showing me around, right?”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Maybe I just want to take you out for drinks.”

I couldn’t help myself; I laughed. “Okay, Abe.”

After another long moment, he relented. “Does that mean you’ll meet me tomorrow?”

A smile tugged at my lips. It was fun, having the upper hand with him. “Seven o’clock. I’ll meet you there.”

He raised his brows. “I haven’t told you the bar’s name yet.”

True. “That
does
spoil my dramatic exit.”

He laughed, and when I left, we were both smiling.

* * *

I was the first one at the bar, which gave me the chance to look around. The walls were papier-mâchéd with old pages, and the black tabletops had quotes in white scrawled across them. The lighting fixtures were old and brass, the music low and relaxing. I would have expected the patrons to be cooler-than-thou, but I would have been wrong; it was an easy mix of old and young, bright-eyed and exhausted souls. I grabbed a rum and Coke and sat in a corner booth where I could watch everyone.

I saw Abe as soon as he walked in. It was impossible not to, since he was taller and broader than most of the guys, and his hair refused to ever lie perfectly flat. Everyone made way for him, not just because of his size, but because of the confidence he walked with, like he would carve a straight path out of stone, let alone human bodies.

It helped, of course, that he was famous and good-looking.

I reached up my arm and waved. It could have been my imagination that his face brightened on seeing me, but I didn’t really think so.

No one bothered him as he came toward me, save one or two familiar pats on the back and handshakes, which Abe returned with broad, easy grins and laughing words. It was clear he was a regular here, and adored out of uniform as much as in.

He stopped at the table before me, instead of dropping into the chair I had quickly cleared of my jacket for him. I tilted my head. “What?”

He ran his gaze over my short black dress with pairs of military-style buttons going up the center. “I’m not sure my memory’s caught up to time yet.”

“I
think
that’s the compliment.”

His mouth lifted in a wry half smile. “Oh, it’s a compliment, all right.”

Unexpected heat rushed my cheeks. I hoped he couldn’t see it in the dimness. “Um. Thanks, then.”

A guy in black and an apron stopped at the table. I didn’t think that in places like this, waiters usually came to the tables, but it didn’t surprise me that Abe created an exception. The guy landed his hand on Abe’s shoulder. “Abester! What can I get you? On the house, for yesterday.”

I raised my brows in what was meant to by mockingly reprimanding, but I couldn’t keep the smile from teasing at my lips. “I see. Is that why you brought me here?”

For the first time, the guy glanced at me. He returned my smile. “Oh, shit, man, didn’t mean to unimpress your date. We actually charge him twice as much for everything. Very fancy establishment we’re running here.”

Abe laughed and sent the guy off with our drink orders and a pizza request. When he turned back to me, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Guys here are great, though. I take everyone here.”

I leaned forward. “So I’m not special then?”

He matched my posture, eyes bright. “Digging for compliments?”

I’d half-forgotten he had a mind like a steel trap. “Always.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t as funny as usual. It was—serene, if that made sense. His dark eyes crinkled down at the corners, like they always had when he was happy. “You’re special.”

There was too much sincerity in his voice, and I didn’t understand it, and it made me uncomfortable. I strove for levity to mask my nerves. “So are you, Mr. Rookie of the Year.”

He leaned back with a grin, looking like he’d accomplished whatever he’d meant to. Mercifully, he glanced around the room and changed the subject. “It really is a great place, though. The guys and women who work here all come from shelters; they learn to cook, to manage, to bartend. It really gets a lot of them back on their feet.”

Aha. It all made sense now. “And let me guess. You’re involved.”

He looked back at me with a flash of surprise.

But it was obvious, really. “You fund it, you sponsor it, you volunteer your time here to help. I’m right, aren’t I?”

He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t look like he wanted to admit it either. “So?”

The server came back with our drinks, chatted with Abe a few more minutes about yesterday’s game as I pulled on my standard rum and Coke and then left. Abe looked back at me.

I picked up my thread. “I know you, Abraham Krasner.”

He straightened slowly. “What does that mean?”

I shook my head. “You take care of people. It’s what you do. It’s why you asked me here tonight. It’s why you’re part of this. You’re a protector.”

He scowled at me. “Why do you make that sound like a bad thing?”

I felt loose and rhyme-y from the effects of my first drink, and my shrug had a little more bounce than usual. “It’s not. It’s just very...reassuring to know some things don’t change.”

He didn’t look away. “Some things do.”

“Do you remember when we first met? Your bar mitzvah. You danced with me when I didn’t know anyone. Second time we met? You made sure I felt comfortable at your house when my parents brought me over for dinner. All of middle and high school? You never let anything bad happen to me. You’re a good person, Abraham Krasner.” Suddenly it seemed imperative that he knew that. “A really good person.”

His eyes were dark, his mouth a flat line. “I broke your heart when you were nineteen.”

Now it was my time to straighten, shocked sober. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to bring up.”

“It wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”

I placed my hands in my lap. “I don’t really want to talk about that right now.”

“I feel like I handled it badly—”

“Abe! It’s fine. It’s all fine. I was a teenager. You were—you were you. It’s all fine.” I finished off my drink for succor. “I moved on. You moved on. We both literally
moved—
ironically,” I muttered, “to the same city.”

The server came with our pizza.

For a moment, we sat there in charged silence, both pulling slices onto our paper plates. Abe fiddled with his beer for a moment, and then shot me a fast smile. “Is that why you didn’t wear red?”

I stilled. My hands were slow to follow and my glass banged across the table with an uneven crash. The noise reverberated through my eardrums. “Why did you say that?”

The color in his cheeks heightened and he looked unsure of what to do with his gaze. “You always used to wear red—I think because I’d said that one time...”

I picked up my water, taking a long swallow and feeling it travel through my body. I could lie or be honest. “Yes. That’s why I didn’t wear red.”

A smile lingered on his lips. “I know you too, you know.”

I frowned in disbelief. “Do you.”

“You were always the watcher. You were always running around in this great gaggle of girls—which was pretty terrifying, by the way—but out of all of them, you always watched. And you listened. Which is why you’re a reporter now, I suppose.”

I shrugged. “I guess you can only watch and listen for so long before you need to speak.”

We ate in silence a minute, but now it was comfortable. Abe polished off his first slice, and then met my eyes. I’d forgotten how good he was at always looking me in the eyes when he spoke. “I’m glad you moved to New York.”

“And why’s that?”

“You feel like home.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest, born of nostalgia and truth and familiarity. “You feel like home, too.”

“Friends, then?”

I smiled back. “Yes. Friends.”

* * *

By the end of my third week at
Sports Today
, I realized I was dreaming about my job. About stupid things, like that I actually pressed Reply when I mean to hit Forward, and about getting emails from readers asking why all the articles had gone downhill lately. I resented the imposition on my unconscious; the last time I remembered dreaming about a job was from my stint as a barista in high school. I’d spent a month having nightmares about mile-long lines where every order was a venti-non-fat-triple-shot-raspberry-white-chocolate-mocha-no-whip.

Which sounded pretty good about now, actually.

I’d learned other things so far, too. Like that New Yorkers called New York—Manhattan, in particular—the City. I tried telling the editorial guys that we called San Francisco the City back home, and they regarded me with something akin to amused pity.

New Yorkers spent a lot of time regarding outsiders with amused pity.

I learned exactly where to stand and board my train at my station in order to be let out directly in front of my exit on 23rd Street. I learned how to sweep my Metrocard without making the stupid reader say
Please swipe again.