Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

555-4439: I do. I’m actually not far from there, but no one is coming to my house. I don’t need to be assaulted or murdered for a baseball card.

Yup. Definitely a young woman. Men don’t worry about being assaulted and murdered when they’re selling shit on the internet. Most of them should, but most of them do not.

Me: Totally get that. I’m willing to meet you somewhere neutral, like the library or a gas station.

555-4439: A gas station? Um, no. That’s shady too. You know the price on this card is firm, right?

Me: Yes ma’am. I mean sir.

Randi ignores my attempt to get more info about the person I’m texting with.

555-4439: How do you plan on paying? I could probably do CashPal or QuickPay.

Me: Would cash work?

555-4439: I mean…yes. Are you serious? You’re going to pay with cash? Is that smart? What if I rob you blind and keep the card?

I laugh, causing Wallace to look over at me with a scowl. “Oh, sorry, Your HindAss, am I interrupting your show? In my living room…in my house…while you drink my beer?”

“Yeah,” the jackass says. “Yeah, you are disturbing me. Pipe it down with the giggles—it’s weird.”

I was not giggling, but whatever.

Me: You know what they say: Cash is king, baby.

555-4439: Right, but what if I jump you and leave you lying there?

Me: That’s really dramatic. Besides, I can outrun you.

555-4439: Pfft, how do you know?

Me: Trust me. I can outrun you.

He—or she—has no idea she’s talking to a guy who can run all the bases on a field, from home plate and back, in under seventeen seconds flat.

555-4439: You sound pretty confident for someone I’ve never met. For all you know, I’m an Olympic sprinter.

Me: Are you?

555-4439: No.

555-4439: Why’d you have to go and ask that? You took the wind out of my sails.

I resist the urge to banter back—it’s tempting, so, so tempting—but I need to get back on track, i.e. discussing the card.

Me: Where have you been keeping the card and where’d you get it?

555-4439: It’s in a plexiglass box, always has been. I’ve never taken it out, not even to clean it.

Clean it! Hell no. Bad idea.

Me: Yeah don’t do that. Don’t ever clean a baseball card.

555-4439: The card was my grandfathers. I have his entire collection in a safe deposit box.

Safe deposit box? Who even uses those anymore?

No one, that’s who.

Me: What are you doing with the other cards? How many are there?

I’m interested to know which players she has and what she wants for them—before she lists them one by one on the damn internet.

555-4439: Quite a few legends. Maybe a dozen total that are worth anything, the rest aren’t players anyone cares about.

I’ll be the judge of that—I care about each and every one of them. I would be willing to give her a price for the collection as a whole, if she’s willing to entertain it.

I get why she’s selling them one at a time—in this day and age, no one would be willing to give her what the collection is probably worth. Six figures at least.

I have cash to spare and I’m itching to spend it on history. If the rest of the cards are in as excellent condition as the Hank Archer seems to be, I want to see them. In person, close up.

Me: Have you figured out a price for the entire collection?

555-4439: Don’t be ridiculous—you can’t afford it.

I love how cocky and sure she sounds, giving me the set-down. Does she honestly believe a man who can shell out $25,000 for a scrap of cardboard in a clear box can’t afford to pay more?

I can pay more.

I can pay lots more.

However, the art of negotiation has taught me not to show my cards (pun intended) and despite haggling for this purchase without my agent, I feel capable.

Me: I’m definitely interested to know which players you have in the collection as a whole before you sell them off individually.

555-4439: I’ll have to check. I had them appraised—as I mention in the ad—but don’t have the list memorized. I feel like…

The message comes through, sentence unfinished, and I stare, waiting.

555-4439: I don’t know, don’t quote me on this, but I think there is a Dwight Powers?

Powers. P-A-U-E-R-S.

Dwight Pauers—she spelled his name wrong.

My heart races.

555-4439: And a Toby Jenkins? Or is it Lenny? I don’t remember.

Me: Leroy Jenkins?

555-4439: Yes! That’s it.

Holy shit. It’s starting to sound like she has the entire World Series winning team from 1928 in her hands.

Sweat beads on my forehead and I wipe it with the back of my hand.

Me: Cool. I’d love to see those. Can I send you a deposit so you’ll hold them?

555-4439: Are you still buying the Hank Archer first?

Me: Yes.

555-4439: What day works for you? You want to look it over and all that first, I totally get that. I am free Wednesday through Friday after two. Then Sunday at nine.