Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

“Tammy.” He reached out for my hand once more, but this time it was an easy, comforting grip. His gaze didn’t move.

“It didn’t mean anything. Just—I suppose I’m having my quarter life crisis. But it’s tricky, not being the best of the best—I mean, look at you. You’re amazing.”

His mouth quirked. “I’m amazing?”

“Yes. You know that.”

“I like hearing you say it.”

I flushed and looked down.

“Hey. But that’s not important. Why don’t you think you’re the best of the best?”

I glanced back up. “Because I’m practical. Because that’s what life is, I guess. Because not all of us become superstars. Some of us are just normal.”

“You want to know a secret, one that I’ve learned from some of my older and theoretically wiser friends?”

I tilted my head. “Yes, please.”

“Apparently we all hit that point where we realize we’re not the most talented or brilliant person in the room anymore. And it doesn’t matter. Because just because you’re not right now doesn’t mean you can’t learn and get better and still be at the top of your game. It doesn’t all have to be right now, you know. You have years. You can still be a superstar.”

“Says the superstar.” I took a deep breath. “Thanks. It’s nice of you to say so. Now you go.”

He sent me one of his breath-stealing smiles. “All right. I don’t know if I want to be a superstar.”

I leaned back in my chair, thinking of what he’d said Friday night. That he’d never finished his degree. That he wasn’t sure he could be anything. “Abe, aren’t you happy?”

He smiled down at his plate. “I have the perfect life. How could I not be happy?”

“Abraham.” Now I leaned close, trying to make him look at me. “Abe?”

He looked away. “It’s stupid. Never mind.”

“Abe, you promised me a secret.”

“It’s a secret because I’m not usually dumb enough to talk to people about it.”

“Hey, I’m not people.” I took his hand.

“I love the game.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I love my teammates. I love the camaraderie. It’s my whole life.”

I waited.

“I don’t know that I want it to be my whole life forever.”

“Then it doesn’t have to be.”

“It’s not that easy. You can’t just...leave this world. It’s all I know. It’s all I’ve ever known. How to be good at football.”

“You don’t have to choose what you’re going to do for the rest of your life when you’re sixteen years old. You’re allowed to change your mind.”

“How?” He looked up at me with dark, endless eyes. “How do I do that? I’m not good at anything else.”

“You’re wrong. You’re smart. You’re clever. You’re dedicated. What do you want to do? You can do anything.”