Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

And then the opposing wide out came out of nowhere and tackled him, throwing both of them through the air to land with a resounding clap against the turf.

All the breath left my body.

The referee whistled.

Out on the field, two separate teams stopped battling each other and immediately clustered around the fallen; from the sidelines, team doctors and officials started running out toward the knot of people.

I’d left my seat before I even realized my body was moving, pushing past the other reporters and out the door. I rushed down the stairs and out onto the sidelines, arms and heart pumping as I dashed onto the field.

It was only after security stopped me and Mduduzi pulled me back that I realized the other reporters had also run down, many armed with cameras, all trying to see past the screen of medical professionals and players that circled Abe. Mduduzi turned me in his arms, bending down so his face would be on level with mine. “Tamar. Listen to me. Calm down.”

But I couldn’t calm down. I wrenched away from him and pressed back against security, trying to catch the attention of someone, anyone, who could get me closer. “Hey! Hey!”

Several of the players glanced at me with disinterest, but most were too well trained to ever look at a reporter. Despair flooded through me. Abe was hurt, and I had no way of getting to him, helping him.

One of the players striding by with dark red hair stopped. Mike O’Connor. “Tamar?”

I appealed to him with everything I had. “Let me see Abe.”

He frowned and glanced behind him, and then nodded at the guards. “Let her in.”

They listened, and I dashed through. They closed ranks behind me as the other reporters shouted questions.

But I was too late. Abe had already been strapped to a board and loaded into the ambulance. My mouth tasted bitter. The NFL was the only sports organization that required an ambulance to be present at all of their games, and while half of me was relieved there was one so close by, more of me was angry it had been necessary.

The Leopards owner, Greg Philip, still stood there, looking hardly perturbed but for the frown on his face. I couldn’t stand it. Swiping away the wetness on my cheek with the back of my hand, I stormed up to him. “This is game is supposed to be war without death.”

Mike had caught one of my arms and Dylan another, and they pulled me back as Philip stared me down like a bug he’d like to squash. I might have yelled more, but the fight drained away when Mike wrapped his arms around me. “Come on,” he said softly. “We can cut through here to the players’ parking lot.”

He stuck me in a taxi, and the ride to the hospital was the longest of my life. When I finally arrived, I dashed through the emergency wing. I hadn’t been to a hospital in years; hadn’t even been to the doctor’s in an embarrassingly long time, now that I didn’t have my mother around to bug me to get my checkups. I didn’t like these places outside of TV shows. I didn’t like the sterile environment, but moreover, I didn’t like the sharp needles, the knives, the idea of people ripping open bodies. The idea of bodies not working.

I ran up to the first desk I could see. “My boyfriend was just brought here. Abraham Krasner. From the Leopards game.”

Her gaze dipped, and she shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

For the first time, I realized my press badge still hung around my neck, and my stomach swooped to my feet. “No—that’s not—” I tore the pass off and shoved it in my purse, but it was too late.

My phone buzzed, and with shaking hands, I pulled it out of my pocket. Oh, God, what if it was Sharon? Did she know? She had to know, she had to have seen. I’d need to call her.

But it was Rachael. We’re on the fourth floor, room 4D.

Thank God.

I tore up the stairs, too impatient to wait for an elevator, and turned myself in circles so many times that I almost started crying. But then I found it, guarded by security. “Family only.”

“I am family,” I said, and it was only after I brushed by that I registered that wasn’t technically true.

I entered a small room, where Rachael Hamilton waited along with three members of Leopards management. She was white as a sheet. Carter was probably still on the field. “Where is he?”

She nodded down the hall. “He says he’s fine.”

I laughed a little hysterically. “That didn’t look fine.”

“Lars—he’s one of the team doctors—says that it’s his knee. And a concussion, probably.”

“Does he need surgery?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”