Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

The lights flickered. A level voice came on through the loudspeakers: “The conference will be starting in two minutes.”

The journalists’ burble of conversation continued straight up until the two-minute mark, and then vanished in a splash of silence.

Gregory Philip strode out on stage, followed by Coach Paglio and the Leopards’ general manager.

And Abraham.

That cut straight through me. I’d known he wouldn’t be able to make any public stand with me, but it hurt to see him visibly on Philip’s side. I was sure he’d been pressured, though, that he’d been forced to preserve his career, but it still hurt.

While I saw him right away, he didn’t find me until a murmur circulated the room, and the people closest to me stepped away as everyone else pushed closer for a better look. Abe had only to follow the direction of the stir, and then his gaze connected with mine.

Philip stepped up to the microphone.

His speech was short and sweet. It lay out in no uncertain terms that the Leopards and Loft Athletics would be going forward with their training facility, and that there was no truth to any of the statements put forward in the article by one Tamar Rosenfeld. They were, of course, conducting an interior investigation into all athletic gear, but so far nothing negative had been found.

“And I believe that is all we have to say.” Gregory Philip stepped back, smiling that smooth and oily smile of his.

Behind him, Abraham raised his head, solemn and unmoving. “That is not all.”

Every player—like every team, every season—has a narrative. Abe’s centered on his amiability. Everyone liked Abe. Easygoing Ave. Good-natured Abe. Never one to get riled up or crash a car or flip a reporter off. Never all over the whole kill-your-enemies-before-they-take-your-women pregame diatribe. He was levelheaded. Well-adjusted. Likeable.

That made people underestimate him.

The attention of the room shifted, fluttering like a startled bird and resettling on Abraham. It was impossible to gainsay, even though the commissioner clearly wanted to. The lights could have plunged us into darkness and chaotic noise could have drowned out his words, but the press still would have followed Abe to find out what his uncensored words were.

I would have followed Abe anywhere, anyways, and I could only hope now that he would not do the same for me.

He stepped closer to the microphone. There was no doubt in his posture, no uncertainty in what he was about to say, and no possibility that the truth of his words would be doubted by those who heard them. His rich and steady voice rolled through the room. “I stand by Tamar Rosenfeld.”

Shock rippled through the room like an earthquake’s aftershocks—an unexpected, off-balancing rumble. Philip turned and stared at Abe. I could see it in the owner’s face. He expected Abe to bend. To stop. Because he was easygoing Abe. Good-natured Abe. He didn’t rock the boat.

Except they had gotten it all wrong, just like I had. Abe was no reed, no obstacle that could be pushed aside or avoided. He was the river itself, flexible, moveable, and ultimately able to carve paths through stone.

“What’s that?” Gregory Philip said.

Abraham smiled. His smile said he was a river. That you could try to deter him or reroute him, but if it took a thousand years he would still carve the path he wanted, through stone if necessary. “She reported the truth when people preferred not to hear it; she has stood by her convictions when people slurred her. We may not be happy with the results and ramifications of the truth, but that does not mean we can pretend it doesn’t exist. She has done what we have asked for in the press; she reported on the shortcuts taken by corporations for monetary gain, which is illegal and immoral. We seem to expect, sometimes, that the press will just ignore some of the choices we make when we don’t think they’re particularly harmful, but we don’t get to pick and choose what they cover for our own benefit.

“I stand by her, and I am proud of her, and I am disappointed in myself for not speaking up sooner.”

He stepped off the platform and down the steps. The crowd parted before him like helpless magnets pushed away. His path was clear and direct, and only I didn’t move, as it led straight to me.

His hand wrapped around mine as he reached my side. “Come on, let’s go.”

And now the startled path widened enough for both of us, and we walked out of the conference room and into the city lights.

We’d walked for at least three minutes through the falling snow before I spoke. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did. But more importantly, I wanted to.” He stopped walking and pinned me with that intense, brilliant gaze. “I love you, Tamar. I want you to be happy, I want you with me, and I want us. Everything else can come and go. Would I be sad to see football go? Yes. But it’s not the most important thing.”

High and mixed emotions shot through me. “I don’t deserve you.”

He stared. “You don’t deserve me? I don’t deserve you.” He took my face in his hands. “Tamar, you are the most incredible, amazing person I have ever met. You are brilliant, you are funny, you are wonderful. It is my privilege and my pleasure to be allowed to love you.”

I couldn’t stop grinning, but there were tears of happiness in the corners of my eyes too. “Now you’re just being silly.”

He hauled me toward him and our lips met in a searing blaze of need and desire.

I had no idea how we reached his apartment without being arrested for public indecency, but soon we had slammed the door behind us. I melted under his touch, utterly powerless to resist him. My coat fell away, puddling on the floor as Abe drew me closer. His heat blazed away the last of the cold until I was warm as a furnace. Our hands moved over each other with the familiarity of bone-deep knowledge and heart-whole desire. I pressed my lips against his, trying to convey everything in me, and he answered with a groan. It made my body shake, that sound of his undoing.