Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

I raised my head to the sky. The lopsided sliver of moon smiled down at us. “You’re something, all right.”

“Talented?”

“Not quite...”

“Gorgeous?”

“Nope.”

“Clever?”

“Not that either, I’m afraid.”

We needled each other all the way to the subway. I couldn’t stop grinning.

And I’d never admit it, but he was spot-on with all his descriptors.

Chapter Eleven

Ryan Carter lived on the Upper West Side, so we caught the 1 train (I giggled every time the conductor said this is the number one train because I felt like he was validating our collective awesomeness) and took it up to Lincoln Center. Carter’s apartment was only a few blocks off, and the day was nice, and the company was good. I almost could have walked forever.

Carter, to my utter non-surprise, lived in an absolutely gorgeous building made of sandstone and marble, with an elevator that whisked us straight up to his apartment while I was still trying to brace myself. Abe didn’t even knock on the door, but just pushed it open. I hesitated outside, trying to work up my nerve.

Abe raised a brow and came back for me. “What is it?”

I stood at the doorway, unable to push myself to take those last few steps—into the home of quarterback Ryan Carter, into the presence of so many fabled presences. “It’s just—it’s a little overwhelming.”

He took my hand. “Don’t worry. They’re all great.” He tugged me through.

A wash of people spread out throughout the room, filling the apartment to the brim with muscled football players and their partners, and I recognized so many of them. But even more were anonymous, the trademark of this game, where the faces changed but the brand stayed the same.

Sometimes I wondered what we were loyal to.

But here, clearly, they were loyal to each other. One of the oddest and most impressive traits about the New York Leopards was their unusual closeness. On most teams, the offense was encouraged to form strong bonds with each other outside the game, as was the defense, but it wasn’t unusual for rivalries to spring up in the same team between the opposing sides. Yet here were members of both, mingling and laughing. People sometimes made fun of the Leopards for being so clean all the time, but part of me thought that they couldn’t actually help being so likeable.

Abe steered me through the crowd easily, until we’d reached the entrance to the kitchen. A girl stood there, and Abe stopped right behind her. “Hey, Rach.”

From the back the young woman Abe addressed looked immaculate; a small black dress wrapped around her body with a flare I could never pull off and pearls dangled from her ears. But her hair, wrapped in a chignon, looked similar to mine, if somewhat sleeker. She was taller than me, but then again she wore heels.

She also kept dropping cherry tomatoes from a vegetable plate on the ground.

“Dammit,” she muttered without any real fury when the red fruit slipped from her fingers a second time. “Why am I incapable of picking one of these up?”

“Becaus

e you’re a waking klutzy-girl stereotype,” Abe offered, reaching behind her and scooping up a tomato from the plate.

She swatted his hand away, but even as she did she was turning with a ready smile. “I am not. I’m just not trained to catch things.”

“Most people don’t need to be trained to catch things.” Abe nodded at me. “This is Tamar. Tamar, this is Rachael Hamilton—she lives here.”

For a moment my brain blanked. I was aware Ryan Carter had a girlfriend; it had swept through the sports world—or at least the female half—when he went off the market. But she’d never spent much time in the tabloids with him, just the occasional mention. She was a pretty, ordinary-looking girl with soft bright eyes. She might not have been quite as girl-next-door-y as I was—perhaps a little more striking—but she was Ryan Carter’s girlfriend.

How surreal.

She stared at me for a long moment, her lips parted slightly as though in deep thought.

Then I held out the bag of hermits. “Thanks for having me. I brought cookies.”