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I smiled at him brilliantly. “That’s how I felt, too. Like my life was on hold. Like I was waiting for someone to press start.” I shrugged, content now that it had started. “Of course, it turned out I was the one who needed to push start.”
?
?Because you got the job.”
I smiled. “So maybe it was Tanya who pressed start.”
He lifted his hand and brushed a corkscrew behind my ear. I shivered at the touch, my entire body going on alert. His gaze softened and dropped down to my lips. He leaned forward ever so slightly, but close enough that his breath whispered across my skin.
The cab driver grunted something indistinguishable.
I gasped and pulled back. Abe kept staring at me even as he handed money over to the cabbie. Somehow we’d reached my apartment and I hadn’t even noticed.
I infused my voice with all the brightness of the sun at high noon. “Anyway! Great to see you. I’m sure I’ll see you Sunday or something.” I bolted out the door.
“Tamar—”
His low voice stopped me sure as any irons. I turned back, trying to keep hold of the brightness. “Hmm?”
He hesitated. Words hovered between us, but I never got to find out what they were. “I’ll see you Sunday, then.”
Chapter Nine
In the morning, I headed over the Leopards Stadium to cover their game.
I was excruciatingly aware of the likelihood that I’d end up talking to Abe today. And I shouldn’t have cared.
But I did.
So I dressed in my nicest, darkest jeans, and threw on a striped shirt that made me feel vaguely European—an accomplishment, given that I’d never actually been to Europe.
Last time I’d come to the Stadium, I’d trailed in Tanya’s wake. Now I slipped in through the media entrance with the attitude of an imposter, afraid I’d be carded despite the bright, laminated press pass that dangled in plain sight around my neck.
Tanya had told me I was welcome to meet her up in the press box or check out the sidelines. By welcome, Jin had interpreted on Friday, Tanya meant I was still more of a pain than an asset, and she didn’t particularly care where I ended up. Tanya herself wasn’t a huge fan of sideline reporting, which I wasn’t sure I agreed with. True, nothing the athletes or officials said could be quoted, just paraphrased, per NFL guidelines. And fine, coaches never gave real info when asked at halftime how they were going to play the rest of the game, just that they’d have a strong offense. And defense. And, sure, doctors never gave the up-to-the-minute reports you wanted on injuries.
But I still thought it was worthwhile—the immediacy, the personalities, the lack of glass cutting out the game.
The sidelines were packed—players had to arrive two hours before the game, and even at fifty-three, they seemed vastly outnumbered by the officials, coordinators and staff. A whole crew of people existed only to regulate the players’ uniforms. One poor sap spent the entire day solely in charge of the first football of the game—the kicker’s ball.
Sometimes I thought that was why I loved football so much. The crazy political machinations. It was like I lived in Medici, Italy, except with less poison.
I searched for Abe through the streams of players and officials, but he was nowhere to be seen. He could already be back in the locker room, which was for the best. I didn’t need to see him. I shouldn’t see him. I was supposed to be working.
As kick-off neared, all the players and coaches cleared from the field. I found the guys near a cluster of newscasters—famous anchors like Aurelius Stevenson and Eddie Bruges. The women nearby wore white suits and bright smiles. “They’re all so beautiful.”
“They’re TV. They’re paid to be beautiful.” Carlos nodded discreetly as we walked past the row. “Former cheerleader for the Bears, former Miss Vermont, former model.”
“Hardly seems fair.” At slightly below-average height and with utterly girl-next-door features, I definitely didn’t qualify for their beauty standards. But I’d probably come into this job with a hell of a better sports reporting background than they had.
Well, being bitter never helped anyone.
The Leopards played the Chiefs today. The game opened strong, but it was clearly destined to be a low-scoring one; no one seemed to keep the ball very long. By the fourth quarter, it was 11-7 and the crowd was restless.
And when the sideline started buzzing, it wasn’t about the game.
I couldn’t tell where it started, but within seconds the energy had reached a fever pitch. Someone let out a whistle behind us. Everyone started pulling out phones and whispering to each other.
“Shit, look at this.”
