Imaginary Lines

by Allison Parr

  At halftime, we were leading 17-11, but by the fourth quarter they’d tied the score. We could barely breathe for worry. When Abe intercepted a drive, I let out a breath of relief, and smiled triumphantly as he cradled the ball and ran parallel to the ten-yard line.

  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.”

  The next two hours were the worst of my life. I talked to Sharon in calm, reassuring tones, and my mother too, because I was sure they were bound to compare notes, but that was the only thing calm about me.

  When they finally let me in to see him, I almost burst into tears just at the relief of seeing him alive. He smiled at me from the bed, as though he should be the one comforting me. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

  I sat down in the plastic visitor’s chair and took his hand, very carefully, not wanting to jostle him. “You have a concussion.”

  He attempted a lighthearted tone. “So what happened? Did we win?”

  That was too much. My throat closed up and I had to look away so I didn’t cry. With my face hidden, I squeezed my eyes very tightly and swallowed back tears, and then took a deep breath, smoothed myself out and looked back at him. “I don’t know.”

  “Will you check? I don’t have my phone.”

  I nodded and looked it up. “Yes,” I said, and my voice cracked. “21-17.”

  He let out a deep sigh of relief. “Good.”

  The door opened behind me, and Ryan swept into the room, followed by Rachael. He sat down on the other side of the bed, and scanned Abe. “How is it?”

  Abe approximated a shrug. “No big deal. Tamar tells me we won.”

  Ryan let out a smile and some of the tense worry seemed to seep out of him. “Yeah.” He detailed the rest of the game. “What do you think? Will you be back for the next one?”

  “Yeah, as soon as they let me out.”

  They joked back and forth, and hearing how steady he sounded, my terror was finally able to drain away. For a minute it left me exhausted and empty, but then another emotion came to the forefront, slowly uncurling from deep inside.

  Fury.

  It curdled in my stomach like the conception of a storm. This wasn’t acceptable. No one should get repeatedly injured, no matter their career. No one should deal with concussions and bad pile-ups and nasty locker-room aggression, and no one should get away with not owning up to their mistakes.

  Rachael hadn’t taken her gaze off me in a long while. “Tamar? Are you okay?”

  I flicked my eyes up to meet hers. “Fine.”

  But now Abe focused on me, and the clear worry on his face made it obvious he’d recognized the anger on mine. “Tammy?”

  I couldn’t keep in the vitriol I felt toward the organization anymore. “No. This isn’t okay. You’re not a piece of meat, and you can’t be treated like one. Someone has to do something.”

  “Tammy, it’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. How many concussions have you had in your life? So many they don’t even bother you anymore. But I remember you being fifteen and throwing up on the sidelines.” I clamped my mouth shut and shook my head, too upset to go down this road.

  Later, when the doctors had kicked us out of the room, Rachael sat down next to me, a look of determination on her face. “So I don’t think it’s fine either.”

  I lifted my head up. “What’s that?”

  Ryan shot her a look, and she lifted challenging brows back at him. He raised his eyes the ceili
ng. “God forbid you let it go.”

  Rachael’s jaw worked, and she turned to me, the words bursting out of her. “Loft helmets are crap, and everyone knows it but no one will say it.”

  I stared at her, and then replayed everything I’d ever known about Loft. “It’s true that no one ever says anything about Loft Athletics...”

  Rachael rolled her eyes. “Not a shock.”

  “Rachael...” Ryan’s tone made it clear this was an ongoing argument. She spun at him. “God forbid I care about your well-being.”

  He scowled. “I changed my helmet, didn’t I?”

  “Not every Leopard did.”

  “It’s their choice.”

  “Well, it’s uninformed and made under pressure.”

  I leaned forward to gain her attention again. “You think there’s a reason no one talks about Loft?”

  Rachael nodded decisively. “I think Loft’s parent company is powerful, and no one wants to piss them off because then it’ll send ripples through the organization that would take a lot of energy to straighten out.”

  “They’re fine.”

  She glared at him. “Really? The helmets that aren’t being included in national testing, the weight machines you all use, the pads? It’s an acknowledged truth that their stuff is crappy but cheap, and everyone keeps using it because the League and Loft have a partnership.”

  Ryan shook his head. “And what do you want to do? Take on Loft Athletics? And all of Kalendburg, Inc.?”

  Her brown-green eyes blazed into mine. She didn’t have to speak.

  Ryan shoved his hand through his golden hair. “Leave her out of it.”

  “I don’t know if a statement from me is helpful, but I’m happy to give it.”

  “Do you have any proof that the Leopards are consciously not reporting on Loft?”

  She frowned. “I know the Doctors Coalition left them off because they were pressured by the board. I think I could put you in touch with someone who would vouch for that.”

  I held her gaze for a long while, and then I nodded. “I’d like that.”

  She exchanged a long gaze with her boyfriend, and he finally nodded and left the room. Tacit agreement? I wasn’t sure.

  I took out my laptop and started to take notes.

  Forty-five minutes later, my pocket buzzed. I dug my phone out and saw Tanya’s name illuminated across the screen, so I excused myself from the waiting room.

  Out in the hall, I leaned against the wall and pressed the cell against my ear. “Hi.”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “I’m at Beth Israel.”

  “Because I want—wait, what?”

  I sighed and slid down to the floor. I couldn’t be bothered anymore about the sanitation. “Beth Israel Hospital. My friend’s hurt.” It seemed cheap to mention it was Abe.

  But I didn’t need to. “It doesn’t happen to be Krasner, does it?”

  In the darkened window across the way, I could see my brows draw together in a frown. “It does.”

  “Good, that’s why I’m calling you.”

  Unexpected gratitude filled me, that Tanya would bother alerting me to Abe’s health. “Thanks.”

  She continued without a pause. “I want you to write an article about concussions.”

  I closed my eyes. This was too much to handle right now. Abraham had just been seriously injured, and she wanted me to write a news update? “Tanya, I just—can’t someone else?”

  “No.” Her voice was implacable. “It has to be you.”

  I didn’t understand. I was at the hospital. Anyone else could write an update on Abe’s injury as well as I could, and honestly, I’d rather be sitting at his side. “Why?”

  “Because this is how I’m using you.”

  My eyes shot open. My reflection stared at me in wary alarm. “Tanya—I thought you wanted me to write a news piece reporting on Abe’s injury?”

  I knew before she answered that I was wrong, and her determined, stubborn tone confirmed it. “No. I want you to dig into this.”

  I spoke slowly. “You don’t like in-depth personal pieces on concussions.”

  “And yet that was the first article you pitched to me.”

  Prickles spread over my skin. “You don’t just want me to write about Abe. You want me to write about Loft.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “You know I can’t write an unbiased report about Abe when I’m in a relationship with him.”

  “I don’t want a news report. I want the readers to think it’s their boyfriend who’s losing his brain cells.”

  I was silent.

  Slyness crept into her voice. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re not dying to write about what he’s going through right now. About how hurt he is. About how instead of eating breakfast in bed you’re wiping his face of sweat after he pukes for the fourth time in an hour.”

  “You want me to write a feature.”

  “Tamar.” Her voice turns coddling, persuasive. “This number of injuries isn’t okay. And this is your job, isn’t it? Don’t you want to be an investigative reporter?”

  From behind me, I heard some noise, and I twisted my body even as my gut twisted. Was he all right? “Okay. Fine.” What were my choices, after all? This was why I was still employed. This was why Tanya had kept me around, so I could write this article. “I’ll do it.”

  “I want it on my desk on Wednesday.”

  Wednesday! Was she crazy? “That’s impossible.”

  “Jin and Mduduzi can cover your usual stories. I mean it, Rosenfeld. This is the right stuff.”

  “Fine.” My words were clipped. “You’ll have it.”

  When I reentered the room, Rachael and Ryan had left. Abe lay there, tossing and turning. I took one of the wipes from the bedside table and, just as Tanya had predicted, wiped his brow. I wrapped his hand in mine, and his fingers tightened.

  And then his eyes blinked open and caught on mine. “Tammy.”

  I tried to smile. “Hi, Abe.”

  He traced my face with his gaze, thorough and steady, and then he broke into a wide grin. “Glad you’re here,” he murmured, before he drifted back to sleep.

  I stayed there another hour, worry building up and spreading through me, until it filled my body like a tightly coiled spring.

  And then I withdrew my hand, opened my laptop, and in the cold blue light of the hospital, began to write.

  * * *

  I spent the next few days at Abe’s side, drifting in and out of sleep, working on the article, bringing him food. His parents flew out, even though he told them time and again that it was no big deal. Sharon kept hugging me. I made sure they ate too, and made sure my mom was updated.

  And I kept writing.

  * * *

  On Tuesday night, the doctors told Abe he could go home the next day. “Thank God,” he groaned. “I can’t deal with this any longer.” He caught me looking at him. “All right, what is it?”

  I sat down gingerly. “So. Loft.”

  A hint of wariness entered his gaze. “I don’t wear a Loft helmet.”

  “I know. But a lot of your teammates do. And you do wear some of their padding. And they’re not such a great company, but that’s kept low-key because of their money.”

  “That’s an open secret. So what?”

  My hands curled into fists. “So I’m mad, Abraham. I’m mad you’re playing a dangerous game without the best possible defenses. And my boss asked me to write a story.”

  He closed him eyes briefly, before fixing me with an intense gaze. “ “Tell me it’s not going to be that bad.”

  “I can tell you it’s factual.” I handed him a sheaf of paper.

  He stared down at it. “When are you guys publishing this?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Soon.”

  “There will be fallout.”

  I tried to smile. “Tanya lives for fallout.”

  “For you, I mean.”

  “Read it and let me know wha
t you think.” I couldn’t bear to sit there and watch him read, so I stood up abruptly. “I’m going to head out, but you’ll be discharged in the morning? I’ll come and see you before heading to work.”

  He nodded, and I went over to kiss him. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

  Maybe if I kept saying that I’d actually believe it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My roommates left early the next day, so I had the apartment to myself for the morning before I headed over to the hospital. When the buzzer sounded, I was so surprised I almost ignored it, expecting a neighbor who’d locked themselves out. “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  Abraham’s voice was curt and unexpected. “Oh. Okay. Hi.” I buzzed him in. When I opened the door, he swept past me and into the living room. I followed, confused. “Are you okay? You were discharged? Why did you come here—why didn’t you call me?”

  He slapped the papers down on the table. “This is bad.”

  I winced. “Ah.”

  His brows had drawn together and his expression had darkened into a heavy storm. “You told me it was factual.”

  “It is.”

  “Fact is that this happens in every goddamn team in the League—”

  Outrage at Gregory Philip surged all over again, and made my voice hoarse. “They’re using unsafe equipment! You can’t want to protect them.”

  “They’re my team.”

  “These are your lives.”

  “And what about your life?”

  “What?” I stared at him, utterly confused. “What are you talking about?”

  He waved an arm explosively. “I’m talking about this article. Damn it, Tamar! What are you trying to do?”

  “Um, expose shady dealings? Why are you so mad? You knew what I was writing about.”

  “I didn’t realize how far you were taking it.”

  I wasn’t aware I was taking it anywhere unexpected. Loft and the Leopards were conspiring to keep Loft’s bad ratings out of the public eye in order to keep their deal for the athletics facility from falling through; seemed like the expected thing was to expose that. “So what?”