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They weren’t flying off the shelves, though. Our best sellers so far were the baker’s dozen, the breakfast sandwich supreme with scrambled eggs, avocados, red onions, and special secret sauce…oh, and our gourmet smoked lox and caviar was a big hit. In fact, in the two weeks we’d been open, business had been fantastic.

Haverton liked bagels.

Not that I was surprised. Amber and I had done our research. A college-slash-beach town practically required a bagel shop, and it was criminal that the residents had gone without for so long. Of course, I knew that to some degree,Iwas the novelty.

The name alone was a nod to the football team. Haverton Hawks were also known as the Great Hawks and the school itself, Great H. As an alumni and former player, I had no qualms with advertising my personal connection to the town. My jerseys from college and every pro team I’d played on had been framed and lovingly hung on the brick wall. It was a statement: I’m one of you. I belong.

Of course, if the bagels sucked, the novelty would wear off fast. But we’d hired a talented crew and with my grandfather’s recipe book and Amber’s marketing and culinary skills, we were in fine shape. Much to our neighbor’s chagrin.

I still couldn’t believe he was selling pizza bagels. Did I mention that Mateo Cavaretti was a dick?

“Mr. Vilmer, will you sign my shirt, please?”

I stepped away from the counter and smiled at the kid who might have been around ten or eleven. “Sure. Got a pen?”

His dad happened to have a marker on hand. I didn’t recognize him, but apparently, we’d had a statistics class together in college. He wanted to talk football, though, so I obliged for a minute or so before moving on to greet the other customers in line.

I was the resident celebrity here, and I knew it was important to use whatever we had to get people in the door, but I wasn’t naturally gregarious. I preferred being behind the counter, ringing up sales. However, the busier we were, the more distracting my presence was at the register.

Customers wanted a sporty side scoop with their bagels. What was Tom Brady like? Which QB currently had the best arm? Who was my favorite teammate? Where had I liked playing the best? I never minded answering questions, but being the focus of attention got old. I found myself dipping out of the shop for a breather, which inevitably led me to Boardwalk Pizza.

I didn’t always go inside. No, I was more of a lurker.

Other than Mateo, they were a nice group. Vanni was a goofball, Jimmy was a cool dude who was a little full of himself, and Sal was reserved but always friendly. If Mateo wasn’t at the counter, I’d say hello with a bag of free bagels and cream cheese on hand, order a slice, and shoot the shit for a minute or two.

Sometimes a growly Mateo would make an appearance and that was awkward, but whatever. I wasn’t going anywhere, so he might as well get used to seeing me around.

Besides if there was a pizza-bagel war happening, I needed to know the rules.

I’d assumed his initial strategy would be to ignore me until he had a competitive product and I’d been right. Vanni had spilled the beans to Amber and me about the new kettle they’d purchased. He’d said it was bound to be a write-off, but a week later, Boardwalk Pizza featured their first ever pizza bagel…a basic marinara, cheese, and pepperoni number.

I’d wanted to buy one, but Mateo was at the counter that day.

Our conversation had gone something like this:

Me, tapping the glass: “I’ll take one of those.”

Mateo, shaking his head, a feral gleam in his eye. “I’m not selling you a pizza bagel. Sorry, champ.”

“How mature of you. I’ll pay double.”

“No.”

“Triple.”

Mateo had turned away and returned with a slice of their pizza of the day. “Take it and beat it. Next in line, please.”

Fucker.

Vanni had brought me a pizza bagel over an hour later. On the house. “Sorry about that. Teo’s a hothead. We can use an expert opinion, but I gotta tell you, I think these are okay. Not as good as yours, but still decent.”

I’d agreed. So had Amber, who’d laughed at the idea of our pizza-bagel war.

“It seems more like two jocks pissing on each other’s cleats for funsies. Guys are so weird.” She’d snorted.

True. But you know what? Mateo had started it, so when he’d slipped in the door to clandestinely check outourbusiness, I’d given him a taste of his own medicine.

“Your money is no good here,” I’d said in greeting, a phony grin pasted to my mug. “Anything you want is on the house.”