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“What’s wrong?”
The words burst out of her in an explosion that seemed to have been bottled far too long. “I don’t know! They act like such boys sometimes, like they’re just roughhousing in the backyard, and it’s no big deal, like it’s always no big deal, because it’s part of the goddamn fucking game...” She broke off and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m ranting and I barely know you. Tamar, right?”
“Yeah.”
Realization crossed her face and she slowly turned around and spoke with finality. “And you’re a reporter.”
I shook my head quickly. “I wasn’t asking because—”
“I believe you,” she said, but too quickly, like she’d only said it to be polite. She pulled up a half smile. “I just...overworry, I guess. That’s what you do about people you love.”
I thought of Abe, and then was irritated I had. “If there’s something illegal...”
“No, no. No. No...no. So! You know Abe. Abe knows your dad. How does that work?”
Despite my painful curiosity, humor bubbled up in me. “That wasn’t a very good transition.”
She made a face, but I was glad to see it was one with more color than the expressions she’d worn earlier. “I know. I’m not very smooth.”
I decided to give her a pass, given that she hadn’t been the one who invited a reporter into her home. “Abe and I grew up together. Our moms are best friends.”
True surprise lit her face. “Really?”
Too much surprise. “He never mentioned me?”
“No.”
My stomach twisted in a cold, hard knot. “Oh.”
Sympathy flooded her features, and I distantly noted that both she and Abe showed their emotions easily. Maybe that was why they were friends.
Why hadn’t Abe told his friends about me?
Why was I enough of an idiot to think he would have?
“Tamar.”
I looked up.
She seemed to have difficulty wrangling her words “Abe—talks about a lot. A lot of...outward things. Or to other people about their lives. He doesn’t always...talk about what’s important to him.”
I’d never heard it put into words like that, but it was an interesting observation. I wasn’t positive I agreed, though, because Abe had talked plenty of times about his family or his worries about his grandma’s health or when he’d been stressed out about football scholarships or getting drafted.
She looked at me intently. “He’s always been special. Better than the others.” She smiled to herself, small and secret. “Galahad, perhaps.”
I smiled despite myself. “Not that pure.”
She laughed, but sobered quickly. “No, but he’s always wanted more. He’s always wanted friends outside the team, and he’s always been so aware of how everyone interacts. He’s a good friend.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Anyway.” She turned back to the mirror and frowned, and then seemed to give up. “We should head back.”
I trailed her back into the living room. I spied Abe sitting on a couch at the far end of my room and made my way over to him. He smiled when he caught sight of me and kicked the teammate beside him off the couch so that I could sit beside him.
If I stayed very still, I could see the effects of the game on the people gathered around us. A crooked pinkie. Curved fingers. A bruise creeping out from under more than one player’s sleeve. A scar beneath the hairline. They called football war without death but it was not without damage, and these men, laughing and joking, were the casualties that kept living.
I knew that football was filled with disposables: a cast of thousands with only three or four names above the fold. Abe lucked out by landing in this golden circle with Carter and Lindsey, but he’d always moved in extraordinary ways.
