Page 4

A Hard Bargain

Daniel

Three Months Later

The breeze feels wonderful on my skin as I weave through the streets on my bike.

I have a cup of coffee in one hand, a bag of pastries in the other, and a smile on my face.

New York in the springtime never fails to make me feel alive.

I don’t know if it’s because the trees along the avenues no longer appear skeletal or if it’s the exploding colors in the flowerbeds in the parks.

But something about it all has my heart singing for all to hear.

I dodge a taxicab trying to pull out of its spot on the side of the road, only to nearly get sideswiped by a sightseeing tour bus.

The driver shouts at me through the closed door, and I give him the middle finger in return.

A couple of people who are seated atop the bus aim their phone cameras at me.

Whether it’s because they recognize me or because they can use this moment as part of a scavenger hunt—take a picture of a true New Yorker—I couldn’t tell you.

But I flip them off too, for shits and giggles, before getting off the busy street.

Charlie and I live in a townhouse, purchased by my parents because, as they put it, “Real estate is a better investment than four years of rent.” Although it was a thoughtful gesture, and I’m eternally grateful to have a roof over my head, I can’t shake the feeling that they did it as a power flex.

Locking my bike to the railing outside home sweet home, I gaze up at the brownstone.

It has character, I’ll give it that. A chipped facade and a wrought-iron fence on the outside.

Modern amenities, including stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, and a gas fireplace on the inside.

The décor is an eclectic mix of my stuff and Charlie’s—a balance of tasteful and tacky that somehow works.

Speaking of Charlie, I find him in the kitchen, shirtless and barefoot, and making what appears to be an enormous protein shake. Kicking off my flip-flops, I sit down on the barstool. “Dude, you really need all that?”

He shrugs. “Trying to bulk up. I kind of let myself go over the winter.”

I snort. Charlie’s idea of “letting himself go” is laughable. Yes, he’s gained a few pounds, but it’s muscle, not fat. His once lean frame has filled out, turning him into more of a power hitter than a pitcher. The guy is ripped.

I eye his torso, noting the way his abs form a tight, defined wall and how his pecs have grown more pronounced. His arms are thicker now, too—almost as big as mine. Almost.

“Bro, you could audition for the next Marvel movie.”

He flashes me that dopey, infectious smile of his that could disarm even the grumpiest of grandpas. “Yeah? Think I could pull off Thor in a remake?”

“Eh.” I wiggle my hand. “Maybe Captain America…before the serum.” I dodge the tea towel he chucks at me and set the bag of pastries on the island countertop.

Charlie stares at the bag with longing before reluctantly returning to shaking his shake. Scoffing, I open the bag, set a couple of baked goods on a paper plate, and place them in the center for him to take. No one ever said I was good at subtlety.

“You’re going to crush it this season,” I tell him earnestly. “I don’t know why you’re in your head over this season. I know you’re good. The new coach knows you’re good. You know you’re good. What gives?”

“What gives is that I don’t want to be ‘good.’ I want to be great. No, I want to be amazing. I want scouts to see me and say, ‘We want him now .’” Charlie takes a swig of his shake and leaves behind a white mustache of powdery residue. “Have you seen some of the freshmen? They’re fucking solid.”

I roll my eyes. It’s been the same dance since tryouts.

“Coach Bryant isn’t an idiot, Charlie. He knows you’re our best chance at ending the season on top again.

You’ve got it all—a killer arm for pitches, strength to send balls flying out of the stadium, and legs that can get you around the bases faster than Barry Allen. ”

Unable to take his pouting seriously with that ridiculous white mustache on his upper lip, I gesture for him to wipe it off. Sighing, he complies.

“I just really want this.” He rests his elbow on the island and his chin in his palm. “All my life, all I’ve ever dreamed of was becoming a Major League Baseball player. I don’t know how to be anything other than that.”

“I know. You will be. I promise.”

Charlie scoffs. “You can’t promise that. Nobody knows what will happen. Only him.” He points at the ceiling. God.

I study my best friend as I drink my coffee.

There’s doubt in his eyes, worry on his face.

Baseball has always been more important and special to him than it has to me.

While I love the game, love playing with the team, and all the hijinks that come with party nights and letting loose, it’s not my future.

Mine’s been pretty much set since the day I was born.

After college, I’ll be working on Wall Street, where my father’s business is.

And it won’t be on the ground floor as a grunt.

I’ll be in a cushy management position, despite my lack of experience.

Nepotism is the name of the game for the wealthy.

Even though I’m grateful for the opportunity, I don’t know if I want to spend the rest of my life working in an office.

There’s something indescribable about being on the diamond while the fans scream your name that you can’t replicate sitting behind a desk.

“Don’t mind me, Danny Boy. I’m just in my head today.”

“I get it, man. Just make sure to get out of your head before practice tomorrow. Coach Bryant will kill you otherwise.”

“Roger that.”

Pushing off the counter, I toss my empty coffee cup into the trash can and head down the hallway to shower before class.

“Wait,” Charlie calls after me. He runs a hand through his messy brown hair, causing it to stand up even more than usual. I think he’s about to say something more about his inner turmoil, but then he glances down at the pastries with a smile on his face. “Are all these for me?”

I know that if I say yes, he’ll eat everything, including the bag, and then I’ll have to hear him moan about how bloated he feels. So, I shake my head and say, “Everything but the croissant.”

Whoever created wooden chairs must have had a grudge against someone. My back is killing me, and my ass is screaming for a fluffy pillow. It doesn’t help matters that Professor Hargrove is giving a monotonous reproduction of every fucking word in the textbook open on his desk.

It’s a talent, really, how he can drain the life out of even the most exciting historical events. Today’s topic? The Bay of Pigs Invasion.

A yawn threatens to escape my lips as I glance around the lecture hall. It’s a tiered setup designed to accommodate up to two hundred students. Today, it’s three-quarters empty.

My gaze drifts to the front row, where Olivia sits prim and proper, back straight and pen poised over her notebook.

She’s the only one genuinely interested in what Hargrove has to say.

Her dark hair, usually pulled back in a high ponytail, hangs loosely down her back.

Her clothing, which always reminds me of “Old Hollywood,” now resembles something more hipster-like.

She’s beautiful, but she’s not the Olivia I fell in love with. She’s the Olivia that someone else would fall for. And while that thought should terrify me, strangely, it doesn’t. I’m not sure how to feel about that.

Our relationship has always been rocky, something Charlie loves to remind me of, though I’ve never been able to pinpoint why.

I like being the one she reaches out to when life gets too heavy.

The one who can make her laugh, the one who gets to hold her hand.

The one who can kiss her until we’re breathless, fuck her till we’re boneless.

But I haven’t been able to do any of that lately. Not since last year, if I’m being fully honest with myself. Deep down, I know why.

I kissed two guys and liked it. Loved it, really, and want to do it again.

Ever since that night, I’ve been unable to be intimate with Olivia. I know that I need to tell her why. Keeping secrets never ends well for anyone. But I’m not ready to discuss my sexuality crisis.

Not to her. Not to Charlie.

I force myself to tune back into the lecture, knowing that if I don’t, I’ll be completely lost and fail the midterm.

“The invasion was launched on April 17, 1961,” Hargrove says. “1,400 Cuban exiles landed at the Bay of Pigs on the southern coast of Cuba. The operation was a complete failure. Can anyone tell me why?”

Nobody raises their hand. The only sounds are the scratching of pens on paper and the ticking of the clock above the door to freedom. Suddenly, Olivia’s hand shoots up, and I smile. I’m not surprised she knows the answer.

But Hargrove doesn’t call on her. Instead, his eyes land on me.

“Mr. Hollingsworth, care to enlighten us with the answer?”

I sit up in my seat, run a hand through my hair, and clear my throat.

“Uh, well…” Think faster, dipshit. “First, the Cuban exiles were poorly trained and equipped. They were also greatly outnumbered by Castro’s forces.

But the biggest issue was that the US failed to provide the necessary air support.

The exiles were left stranded on the beach, and most were either killed or captured within a few days. ”

A rare smile appears on Hargrove’s face. It’s gone before I can take a picture. “Excellent, Mr. Hollingsworth. It seems you’ve been paying attention this semester, after all.”

A flush of pride washes over me at the compliment. My eyes lock on Olivia’s. She’s smiling too.

Perhaps there’s still a chance for us.

By the time class ends, I feel as if I’ve spent a year inside a torture chamber. My body creaks in all the wrong places as I slide out of my seat. My head throbs incessantly, and I scrounge through my messenger bag for some Advil.

“You look like shit.”