"Hey, you're just on the defense today." I pursed my lips. "Oh, and every day, actually."

He grinned at me, but then picked up an old thread. "So is that what you think of me? That I'm some wealthy, aimless jock?"

Wasn't that his role in life now? I thought he'd stepped into it proudly, but now, watching the tenseness in his shoulders, I wondered if I'd been wrong and he wanted more than that. I tried to cover up my assumption with levity. "What does it matter, what I think?"

"It matters very much." He cleared his throat. "You're part of my roots."

"I've always dreamed of being compared to a root. Much more-poetic-than a flower." Now I reddened slightly. I'd almost said romantic, but apparently I wasn't at that point of flippancy.

God, it had been four years since we saw each other. How was that possible?

Maybe we were both thinking that, because we were both just staring at each other again. I'd forgotten how happy his eyes were, how much I liked looking at him. Which was silly. But it wasn't really my fault he was so aesthetically pleasing.

I cleared my throat.. "So how do you like the big league?"

Apparently he failed to realize that my throat clearing was a distancing mechanism, because he reached out and slowly brushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. "I have a feeling it's about to get a lot more interesting."

The bolt of lightning that cut through me was unexpected, though it shouldn't have been. Abraham had always been my type; he had invented my type. Still, it seemed relentlessly unfair that my body still went haywire for him when my mind and heart had written him off completely.

I leaned forward and plucked a fry from the table, holding it up like a teacher's pointer. "How have you been for the past four years? You went from the boy-next-door, the small town hero, to a vaunted celebrity known to millions."

Amusement flashed across his face. "You asking as the girl-next-door, or the sports reporter?"

"I haven't even started yet." I devoured the fry. "But if you're offering an exclusive..."

He laughed. "I don't do press." He leaned forward and shot me an intimate, unshakeable smile. "Though maybe I could make an exception."

That was it. No way was that in my head. He was flirting with me. "Abraham."

He widened his eyes innocently. "Tamar."

I shook my head. "Thanks for asking me to meet up."

I grinned the entire subway ride home. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun. Abraham Krasner. It wasn't like I'd forgotten how much I liked him, but I hadn't viscerally recalled the warmth that filled me around him and how he made me laugh.

Actually, I hadn't spent so much time thinking about Abraham Krasner since we cut our losses four years ago. Yet here we were, in the same city, and all of a sudden old daydreams were floating back up when I closed my eyes. Which was silly, because I'd made the mistake of headlong infatuation once, and I had no intention of going there again.

No, I wanted stability. I had a job, an apartment. I had straightened out my life. I knew where I'd be a year from now, and I certainly hadn't been able to say that since graduation. I had my own health care, for God's sake.

Well, I would when I signed up for it. I didn't have to pick my enrollment for another week and a half.

But I was ready for a real, serious relationship. The kind where we fell in love and went away on weekends and eventually moved in together. And there was no way in hell I was going to let my heart get wrapped up in Abraham Krasner all over again, after all the time it had taken me to get over him. I wanted to like someone who actually wanted me back.

I entered my apartment and fell into my desk chair. Where was it? I found my airplane list of goals beneath a pile of edits. Yes, there was magic in this city.

I had one last item to add to the list-an item, I suspected, that precluded completing several of the other items. I wrote it in broad, bold strokes of blue.

9) Get over Abraham Krasner.

Chapter Five.

On Monday, I headed to the Flatiron District in the low East 20s of Manhattan for my first day at Sports Today.

I didn't expect to be so nervous, but I woke up filled with butterflies hatched overnight. My hands fumbled as I pulled on the outfit I'd assembled the night before. Now it seemed too daring, the royal blue of my dress too loud, the hem perhaps too high. I considered dumping all of it for all black, and then got a grip and went to work on my hair.

I loved my hair, but it was a pain in the ass; thick and wild and unruly. I used to mess it with tons of product to keep the curls in line, but now I'd given up on that. Instead, I usually wrung it with a cotton cloth and let it air-dry, which worked great in California, but the humidity here turned my hair into a baby-eating monster.

So instead of dealing with the uncertain combination of hair and humidity, I tucked it into a sleek roll and wrapped it into a well-behaved prisoner of pins and elastics. Then I slipped on my Payless pumps and headed out the door.

Sports Today was part of a whole family of papers and websites that made up Today Media. The organization had started out as a monthly magazine fifty-odd years ago, but was one of the first to jump from the print ship to the digital bandwagon when magazines started tanking. Back then, Today Media had been only three magazines, but now they'd broken out into six different specific brands. Each maintained an extensive website and released an expensive, shiny magazine every quarter, which collected their best online stories as well as including special in-depth features and interviews.

Today Media owned a very large and intimidating building bordering Madison Square Park and when I reached it, I paused for a moment and stared up. It was giant and glossy and terrifying and beautiful.

Someone clipped my shoulder as they passed me on the sidewalk and shot me a dirty look.

I took a deep breath and went inside.

The lobby was shiny and sleek and filled with professionals in black and white and gray. I started toward the elevator bank, and then a large woman sped into my purview. "Hey. Hey!"

I stopped, terrified that I had somehow messed up before I even started. "Hello?"

She nodded at a black box on the wall I'd barely noticed. "You have to sign in." When I looked at her blankly, she asked, "Are you an employee?"

"This is my first day. I-I don't have an ID yet."

She waved me over to the front desk. "You'll have to sign in there."

Taking a deep breath and trying to calm my heart, I headed over to the desk and presented my driver's license, which a second security woman studied for an unduly long time before handing it back. "Who are you here to see?"

"Tanya Jones. Sports Today."

The security woman made a call, nodded and then typed furiously on her computer. A moment later she handed me a sticker printed with my name and Sports Today. "You'll have to wear this until you have an employee ID."

I nodded, plastered the pass against my cardigan and then walked a little nervously past the first guard. At least the people now waiting for the elevator hadn't seen her accost me. We all loaded inside and pressed various buttons. The seven was already lit, so I faced forward like everyone else and looked at the little screen in the corner that announced it was 77 degrees out and 8:53 in the morning. My little mess-up had put me back three minutes from my planned arrival time.

The elevator let me out into an open lobby. I faced a guy not much older than me, who sat behind a long desk. To the left, windows let in orange autumn light, while behind him blocky red letters printed SPORTS TODAY on a black wall.

"Hi," I said when the guy looked up. He wore the collar of his sweater-vest almost as high as Regency gentlemen. "My name's Tamar Rosenfeld? I'm new. I'm here to see Tanya Jones?"

Dammit, I hated using upspeak. It meant I felt uncomfortable or nervous.

"Yeah, all right."

Yeah, all right? I swallowed. "Okay. I'll just stand here."

He looked at me funny for a second, and then turned back to his computer.

Cool.

After a few excruciatingly awkward minutes, a guy rounded the corner. He was tall and skinny as a beanstalk, and his black hair rose in uncombed tufts in all directions. "Hi. Tamar?"

"That's me." I shook his extended hand.

"Carlos Fernandez, assistant editor. Come on, I'll show you your desk."

He brought me past the wall and into the open floor of the newsroom. I paused for one overwhelmed second to let it sink in. During the interview, I'd only seen meeting rooms on another floor, so this was my first real look. Desks and computers and people filled the entire space, messily organized into streamlined chaos. Tables, maybe three and a half feet long each, were pushed together in clumps of four or five. Half the people wore brightly colored headphones; others laughed with their neighbors. Computers covered every surface; small laptops and extra monitors and tablets. Large screens were mounted to the walls, interspersed with enlarged photos from some of Sports Today's covers.

"Hey! Hey, everyone!"

Every occupant swiveled to stare like they'd been primed for the invitation, even those with headphones. Carlos gestured widely at me. "This is Tamar. She's joining editorial, covering football."

The room chorused a welcome back at me, which was slightly terrifying. I raised a hand. "Hi."

Near fifty people worked here, which was absolutely massive compared to the small weekly newspaper I'd worked at before. Editorial numbered over a dozen, and covered not just different sports but different teams. I'd probably be spending most of my time with them, and in my interview I'd learned that we also had several columnists who didn't work in the office.

The art department, marketing and programming were also large, though not as much as combined editorial. Carlos gave me a quick rundown of their names as we walked around the room, though they quickly blended together, as did the many faces. Everyone, despite race and sex, seemed oddly similar; youngish-Tanya and the arts director were the oldest, in their late thirties-very well dressed, and exuded this cosmopolitan vibe that I was certain didn't extend to me. They all seemed cool. How did one become cool? A baffling concept.

"And we sit over here." I followed Carlos across the room to a clump of four tables grouped near the wall of windows, and the spectacular sight of sky and-actually, all the other buildings kind of blocked out the best view of the city, but it was still imposing and impressive.

Carlos was gesturing at a wheelie office-chair. "All right, this is you. These are your neighbors, Jin and Mduduzi. Both mostly cover the Leopards, though you'll all pitch in with the Jets and the Giants from time to time. Tanya and I will also occasionally be at games, especially when you're starting out."

The two guys looked up. I made the snap judgment that Jin was the Asian American with muscles I didn't usually associate with journalists, and Mduduzi was the tall African American in a crisp button-up and fashionable glasses. They were both a couple of years older than me, and both looked more attractive than I'd expected my coworkers to be. I wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

They both nodded and said hello.

Carlos tapped a beautiful, shiny, brand-new laptop on the empty desk across from Jin's table. "This is yours. You're lucky-they rolled out the new model right before we ordered it. Supposed to have great battery power."

I tried not to salivate. I'd bought my last computer-okay, the only computer I'd ever owned myself-six years ago, right before college. It still worked, but it was a little tired sometimes. Poor baby.

"Come on," Carlos said. "Let's find Tanya."

He led me to a corner office and my nerves came back in full force. Tanya Jones was the thirty-nine-year-old editor of Sports Today. She graduated from the Columbia J-school and got her start at one of the popular blogging platforms before landing a writer position here six years ago, and she took over the editor-in-chief position last year. I'd met her last month, and until she'd offered me the job, I hadn't the slightest idea if she liked me or not.

Come to think of it, I still didn't know if she liked me. Maybe I was the only viable candidate able to start so quickly.

Carlos showed me into her corner office. Tanya had the largest office on the floor. Her ultimate boss, Stuart Kingsley, the CEO of Today Media and its six separate magazines, worked on the twelfth floor, and while I'd seen pictures, I'd never met him.

Tanya stood and came over to shake my hand. She was tall and strong-boned and casually dressed. "Good to see you again. You're the only new hire this week, so we're going to do a seat-of-our-pants orientation. You don't mind, do you?"

"Um. No."

"Good." She led me out of her office and back onto the open floor. Carlos kept pace. "Let's start with coffee. Do you have a mug?"

"I don't."

"Then you need a mug." We entered a brightly colored kitchenette. Boxes of snacks and candies lined the counters. I saw a bowl filled with dark chocolate squares and wondered if it was too early to snag one.

She pulled out a ceramic mug for me and filled it and her thermos with fresh coffee. She kept moving before I had a chance to doctor mine. I tried to keep pace without letting the liquid burn my hand, while Tanya managed to authoritatively gesture with hers. "You'll have noticed. We have more than our fair share of testosterone in the office. Don't let that bother you. If they bother you, report them to HR. I'm not interested in people who don't treat everyone like humans." We passed by the desk of a guy my age. "Right, Billy?"

He looked up with puppy-dog adoration. "Tanya, I love you, I would never betray your trust."

She hmphed and we kept going, past the desks and along a wall of conference rooms. "Two things to remember. First, deadline's not flexible. Second, you're not Lois Lane."

Carlos leaned close to me. "She's Lois Lane. Doesn't want you to steal her thunder."

"I heard that."

He just grinned. "Also, I'd add a third rule-fact-check your stories to death."

That made sense, but the gravity he used unnerved me. "What if I miss something?"

Tanya didn't break stride. "We'll feed you to the wolves." She paused for emphasis. "The wolves are the commentators on our website."

"Don't read the comments," Carlos said helpfully.

I looked back and forth between them. "Why not?"

"Because internet commentators are the scum of humanity and they will tear you apart."

"Our readers," Tanya said forcefully, "are a wonderful community that we encourage and respect. However. They will tear you apart."

People don't tend to tear you apart when you work at a little weekly newspaper in the town you grew up in.

After she wrapped up the widest scope of my position, Tanya leaned back in her chair and studied me intently. "We're doing things a little differently this year."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "Part of what I liked about you during your interview was that you'd written an article about a topic that's often considered taboo, and you didn't back down. That's what I want to do this year. Do you know the reputation of sports journalism?"

I nodded. There used to be an unspoken law not to rock the boat. Sports journalists were dependent on their contacts-coaches and players-to get scoops, and if they ruined relations, they could be kicked out of the press box and the story.

Sports Today had proved itself ready to rock the boat a little bit, and given my brief impression of Tanya, I could only assume she wouldn't mind sinking it in a blaze of fire. "I know it."

"Good. Well, this is the year people start taking us seriously. We get a good story, we're keeping it. In the past, if drugs or rape or murder turned up, they were almost uniformly handed off to the news beat. But we are the news, and if anything happens this season, I want you on it like glue."

"Um..."

She scowled. "What, you have a question? You can ask a question."

This woman terrified me. "Won't that jeopardize our relationship with the teams?"