Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

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.

I learned that lunch, which I had once believed to be an inalienable right, was eaten at one’s desk. Occasionally people would pop out en masse to frequent fast-casual chains or food trucks, but more often than not meals were assembled from the kitchen’s inexhaustible supplies.

I learned how to differentiate between the types I saw in the elevator at work. The finance people wore suits, the general news pencil skirts and khakis, the women’s magazine sundresses or jeans. Tanya was right—no one took sports that seriously, and while they’d smile at us in the elevator they didn’t seem to believe we had real news to impart. It was aggravating. I hoped we schooled them all in the company softball league.

If that was still a thing. Did companies actually have softball leagues?

But I’d also learned that just as lunches weren’t an inalienable right, neither were weekends off. Which was why it was once more Sunday, and I was seated at a rough wooden table deep in Brooklyn.

For the sixth game, the Leopards were off playing Cleveland and I joined the guys at a dive bar they’d claimed as their own. Carlos opened his arms as though to embrace the entire bar when I entered. “Welcome to Waxy’s.”

Waxy’s was a long, narrow dive bar with three TVs, a bartender with a menacing air and a handwritten sign that said CASH ONLY. Pendants celebrating half of New York sports teams hung above the bar.

“Hey, Ray.” Carlos grinned widely at the barkeep, who did not reciprocate. “Four PBRs.”

Keeping it classy.

Carlos brought the drinks over to our table, narrowly avoiding disaster. He pushed them over to me, Jin and Mduduzi.

The game streamed on all three screens, and everyone inside focused on the game. The guys and I all brought our computers, but Jin and I both took notes by hand. We were the favorites for the evening, but by halftime it was still 17-0, Cleveland in the lead. Carter had recovered from last week, but he threw three interceptions. When the cameras panned over faces, they were set and slightly depressed. Coach Paglio screamed so much we could see the spittle flying from his mouth.