by Ney, Sara
Hard Pass
Sara Ney
Copyright
Hard Pass
Copyright © 2020 by Sara Ney
Editing by Caitlyn Nelson (Editing by C Marie) & Jennifer Van Wyk (JaVa Editing)
Proofreading by Julia Griffis
Cover Design by Okay Creations
Formatting by Casey Formatting
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places , and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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Contents
Prologue
1. Noah
2. Miranda
3. Noah
4. Noah
5. Miranda
6. Noah
7. Noah
8. Miranda
9. Noah
10. Miranda
11. Noah
12. Miranda
13. Noah
14. Miranda
15. Miranda
16. Noah
17. Miranda
18. Noah
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sara Ney
Prologue
Miranda
Please forgive me, Grandpa, for I am about to sin.
I’m so sorry.
Reading over my post again, I squeeze my eyes shut, peering at the computer screen through one narrowly cracked lid. I can’t do this; it feels so wrong.
You have no choice, Miranda, not if you want to start your own business.
It pains me to be selling this baseball card, truly. Hurts my heart, my brain and the memories of my grandfather, I hold so dear. Memories of us at the ballpark, which he’d take me to every spring for Opening Day, so he could cheer on his favorite team. I’d get a hot dog and a soda, he’d get a beer and peanuts, and that’s how we’d spend the summer.
Year after year.
Then, when I was a teenager and discovered boys, the ballpark became ground zero for my hormonal fantasizing. Instead of watching the game, I would watch teenage boys. Giggle if the players were close enough to the chain-link fence for me to ogle. I’d get embarrassed when Grandpa insisted we try to get autographed baseballs and eventually stopped bringing my glove to the park.
I was delusional enough to think one of the cute, athletic players would take one look at me and fall head over heels in love.
Foolish girl…
Over the years, Gramps shared with me the baseball card collection he’d been amassing since he was young. Back in the day, when boys hoarded them. Back when owning a rare card made you a child king. Back when players were gods and legends and their cards were worth something.
Do they even make them anymore?
Grandpa had all the greats: Hank Archer. Blaze Bosbee. Aaron Simpson, The Great Baseman.
Six years ago, when I was a junior in high school, he got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He was hospitalized a year after that, and everything went…devastatingly downhill from there.
Losing him broke me. It’s not that I don’t have a father of my own who loves and cherishes me, but there’s something about a grandfather’s love that’s entirely different; a precious and unique kind of affection. Every moment spent with Gramps was magic. I wanted to learn it all from him.
Losing him was a curse.
And also a blessing, because I am broke.
Okay, okay, maybe not broke in the traditional sense of the word—I do have some money in savings, a chunk of change in my checking account. My kind of broke is the “I want to start my own business and don’t have the startup capital” type.
I am at an impasse. I have inherited my grandfather’s cherished baseball card collection and it’s worth a small fortune.
A fortune I need part of if I’m going to invest in myself.
I hear my mom’s words repeating on a loop through my head as I crank out the copy for the advertisement I’m placing online. “Grandpa left those baseball cards to you for a reason, Randi Jane. He knew they were valuable and he didn’t have anything else of value to leave you. You were his only granddaughter and he loved you—he wanted you to be taken care of the way Dad and I can’t do. Those cards aren’t doing you any good collecting dust in the closet, baby girl. Sell them and follow your dreams. No regrets.”
No regrets.
Well…
A few regrets.
I am racked with guilt before I’ve even actually submitted my ad, stomach a knotted fist that won’t quit clenching.
I want to puke.
The plan is simple: sell them off one at a time to maximize profits rather than selling them as a lot and allowing someone to lowball me for the bundle. Another reason I don’t want to sell them in bulk? The astronomical price. I cannot wrap my brain around the cards’ total value, so I cannot wrap my brain around selling them for the six figures they would almost certainly fetch.
No fucking way.
Selling them may be intimidating, but that’s what I have to do if I’m going to follow my dreams, start my own business, and become a boss ass bitch. Well, a boss anyway, no one has ever accused me of being a bitch and I’d like to keep it that way. I need a small studio space, one or two employees, office furniture, and computers. That all takes money, money, and money I do not have.
I adjust the computer glasses perched on the bridge of my nose and bite my lip in concentration, furrow my brow. Whoever buys this card will have to have a lot of faith in the company I used to authenticate it. Most of the time, when a collection is this valuable, it gets put up for auction.
But I can’t wait around for the next sale at the auction house—three entire months from now is an eternity. I don’t want to put my goals on hold for another 9 days. I’ve waited long enough.
FOR SALE: Major League Baseball card from 1928. Hank “The Tank” Archer. Most home runs in MLB history, career spanned 22 seasons. Mint condition, independently appraised. $25,000 FIRM. Text Randi at 555-4439, serious inquiries only. Act fast and don’t end up in a bidding war.
Twenty-five grand. I let out a low whistle, reading and rereading what I’ve written, eyes continuing to flit back to that dollar amount.
Twenty. Five. Grand.
That is absolutely insane to me. Who can afford that?
The card is worth shit tons more than I’m asking, but since I’m not selling it through a reputable auction house, I feel forced to lower the asking price, swallowing my pride and more than a few dollars. A Babe Ruth card went for six figures a few years ago, so I know this card could command serious dough.
Still.
Twenty-five grand is more money than I make at work in three months, and I need cash like, yesterday. The money in the bank is a safety net I cannot relinquish—what if the business fails? What if it takes longer then I hope to turn a profit? What if, what if, what if…
I have other baseball cards and the total of what they’ll go for is more than enough to get me on my feet.
I r
ub my hands, finally getting excited, and hit POST.
1
Noah
“Holy shit, Buzz—come look at this. Someone is selling a Hank Archer card from 1928 on ListIt.”
My teammate, Buzz Wallace, looks over from his spot on the couch, yelling “It’s fake!” over his shoulder before going back to whatever nonsense he’s watching on my TV as we wait for my other guests to arrive. “What are you doing shopping for shit, anyway? Guys will be here in like 20!”
Yeah, everyone is arriving soon, but that didn’t stop Wallace from getting here way too early to use the sauna to relieve his sore muscles then claiming his spot on the sofa by sprawling out. Right now he’s watching some reality show about couples meeting blindly in pods then getting married. Or not.
“Just come look at it.”
“It’s as fake as Beth’s titties.” He cackles, eyes glued to the television.
Jesus, he’s such an asshole. Wallace is a great teammate, but the kind of dude who likes to gossip and overshare personal shit, like the fact that his ex-girlfriend had a boob job—one he paid for—as well as how they felt, how big they were.
He doesn’t know when to shut up and doesn’t understand that all that shit is none of my damn business.
My eyes go back to the computer screen, and I scroll through photos of the Archer card, zooming in to see it better. There are 12 pictures—the max ListIt allows you to upload—and I scrutinize each and every one.
Mint condition.
My dick tingles a little at the sight of it, if I’m being honest. I’ve been salivating over this baseball card since I bought my first one at 11 years old when I spent my entire five-dollar allowance on a pack of trading cards adding an Archer to my dream list. I’ve wanted to own one since I picked up a bat and began to love the game—except there aren’t many of them around, because back in the day? No one knew they’d be worth anything. Moms cleaning out their teenagers’ rooms tossed them, given away, or recycled. Not to mention they weren’t mass-producing them in the 1920’s. Baseball might have been America’s pastime, but it wasn’t the money machine it is today.
It’s my passion.
My career.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’m famous.
Shit, that sounded vain, and that wasn’t my intention—I’m just stating the facts. I would never brag about something like that; it’s not my style. Never has been. No matter how much money I rake in from playing ball or how long I’ve been in the league, I’ll never be an asshole about it. Even though the fact is, as a teenager, I had college baseball scouts parked on the bleachers during my games, watching me. As a sophomore, 15 universities wanted to sign me early. Fifteen. ONE. FIVE.
I wasn’t ready to commit, so I waited. Signed to a smaller Division 1 school. Not as many students, but a great program, on the East Coast, not far from home. I had my pick of the best; everyone wanted me.
It was overwhelming.
All I wanted was to play baseball, not be the poster child for douchebag athletes.
So I went where it felt familiar, kept my nose to the glove and the ball in my hand, and when the big leagues came knocking, I answered their call.
Hesitantly, but surely.
Who wouldn’t? I live for baseball. Nothing else has been there for me, if you don’t count my folks.
Turning a blind eye to everything, but the game, I became famous—and became infamous for being reclusive, too. I’m on the field to do a job with no interest in what comes with it: the fans, the gold digging women, the paparazzi.
Not even the paycheck.
That’s just a perk.
One I’m willing to blow a chunk of to own this Archer card.
I stare at the computer, memories from my childhood rising as a lump in my throat, want and need and determination, which I gulp down as I click through the photographs.
Being scouted as a high school student then getting drafted to the pros as a senior in college has made me hermit-like; everyone wants a piece of me. I just want a piece of history.
“You’re not going to come look at this?” I call to Buzz one more time before clicking the Contact Seller button located at the bottom of the page.
“Can’t. Scratching my balls.”
Sounds about right.
I crack my knuckles and stare at the air, conjuring up the words I want to use in my text. Then, without any more hesitation, I click open the text box on my laptop, type in a phone number, and—
To 555-4439: Hey. I’m interested in your Hank Archer baseball card. Is it still available?
My heart is racing. What if it’s already been sold?
I wait.
Stand up and go to the sink, wash my hands though they’re not dirty. I pace from the pantry to the windows, looking out into my massive backyard. Stare at the pool, its cascading waterfall, the fake boulders and slide made of molded concrete.
It’s a tropical oasis in the middle of the Midwest and it cost me a small fortune. An embarrassingly large house for a man with no wife, no kids, and no family.
My own parents rarely come to visit and I have zero siblings.
I glance away, lump still lodged in my throat, this one from loneliness.
Nothing makes me feel more pathetic than being alone in this stupid house—the one my mother helped me pick out, convinced I would soon be settling down with a nice girl.
Wallace doesn’t count because he’s a cling-on and the worst fucking company, only comes to my house to mooch from the refrigerator, despite his paycheck being almost as fat as mine.
80 million dollars for three years.
Not too shabby for a 24 year old.
Sighing, I glance back at him. Pretty boy “Buzz” Wallace, the shiniest new toy on the Chicago Steam. Women love him, throw themselves at him. New girlfriend every damn month and every one falls madly in love with him the first time he burps at them across the dinner table.
Fucking caveman.
No class.
Me? I’m my mother’s son: polite. Mannered. Affectionate. Hardworking and driven with a fantastic career, great benefits and retirement plan. Homeowner. Responsible.
The list goes on and fucking on, and the ironic part is nice girls don’t want to date a dude with a face like mine.
“Hard pass.”
That’s what the last girl I slept with said when she got her first sober glimpse of me. She laughed, walked out of my house—and I never saw her again. It doesn’t matter that I’m a rich, professional athlete; what mattered was my face.
Beauty might only be skin deep for some, but I know better.
“Did the dude message you back yet?” Wallace wants to know after I’ve ignored him for too long.
“Not yet.” I don’t know for sure if it’s a dude selling the card. The name is Randy, but spelled with an i, and I’m almost positive that’s not the way a man would spell it. Then again, I’ve never met a female who went by the name Randi, so who knows. Hell, it’s probably some old lady selling her dead husband’s prized collection, which would explain why the card isn’t through-the-roof expensive like it could be—should be.
I can easily afford it at twenty-five grand.
To me, that is a steal. Chump change.
Have I mentioned the fact that I’m loaded?
My phone and the computer ding with a new notification.
I casually saunter toward them where they sit on the counter, forcing myself to slow my pace though my heart beats as wildly as it does when I’m on the field and a batter is about to take his first swing. Uncertainty and anticipation flood through my veins like a tidal wave.
From 555-4439: Hey there, yes the card is still available. I will not ship it—are you local enough for a pick up?
Me: Cool, relieved it’s available—that is great news for me. I guess local depends on where you live?
555-4439: I’m in DuPage County. What about you?
Me: That doesn’t narrow it down—DuPage is huge. I’m in Chicago, in the suburbs.
555-4439: Actually in Chicago? Or are you one of those people who SAYS they live in Chicago but really they’re an hour north and just like to brag that they live in the city?
Yup, okay. There is no way this is an old lady—she’s way too sassy. Unless the name Randi in the ad was a typo and the name is actually Randall. Or Ray. Or…
Me: I’m 8 miles from downtown, an hour if the traffic is horrible. I’m in Barrington Heights. You know where that is?
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.
