"Race? Why do you always sell at Sheepshead? It's so far away…" Tumbler leaned over Skittery to try and see Racetrack's face over the dinner table. Skittery pulled him back to sit up straight and eat while Racetrack tried to think of a good response.
"I like the ponies," he said eventually, shrugging and grinning at the kid.
"Really? That's a stupid reason…" Tumbler muttered, casting a look up at Skittery, who grinned back.
"The kid's right, Race. Selling there for the ponies has to be the stupidest reason for choosing a spot I've ever heard."
"And who asked you?" Racetrack demanded, scowling. "I know how to sell to gamblers. Okay? Now lay off. I like Sheepshead."
Racetrack Higgins had been selling at Sheepshead Races for as long as anyone could remember. Even Jack, who had been a newsie for as long as Race, couldn't recall a time when Race hadn't made the daily trek up to Sheepshead in Brooklyn. It was how he got his name, after all.
As for who first called him "Racetrack" or how he actually started selling there, well, Race either didn't remember or didn't care enough to tell you, thank you very much. His past was his own affair and you'd best mind to keep your nose out of it or you might not have one, if you get his drift. So selling at Sheepshead was a habit and a comfortable routine and Race didn't care to change it. Besides, selling in Brooklyn meant he got to see Spot Conlon.
Race didn't know what to call their relationship. More than acquaintances, definitely, but not quite friends. They certainly wouldn't drop everything to help the other, which was how Race defined friendship, but they enjoyed each other's company. They argued a lot, but it didn't hurt their relationship. It was just what they did, argue and snark at each other.
Well, argue and have sex, if you were being perfectly honest about it.
Their relationship hadn't started like that, of course. Spot had only been leader of Brooklyn for three years, after all, and Race had been selling at Sheepshead for nearly ten. Before Spot, Race didn't have a reason to meet with the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. They had never cared much about Sheepshead. They had enough to worry about with trying to keep their position to worry about one little Manhattan newsie selling at the racetracks.
But Spot was different. Spot wasn't worried about usurpers, so he could focus his attention on the outskirts of Brooklyn, on keeping the territory purely for Brooklyn newsies. And this Racetrack Higgins concerned him. Not just because he was in Spot's territory, but because he had been there for so long, undisturbed.
Both boys were thirteen. Race had been a newsie since he could read, Spot for nearly as long. Spot had just gotten control of Brooklyn and was getting used to his power. So he sent for Race. And Race had come. Not willingly, of course, Spot's boys had a hand in getting him before the King of Brooklyn.
"Racetrack Higgins…." Spot paced, idly fingering his cane, his prized possession.
Race glared up at him. "Whadda you want? I'm losing valuable selling time."
"See, that's the thing. What are you doing selling on my territory?" Spot stopped pacing and faced Race, raising an eyebrow.
"Why do you care? No one's ever cared before, I've been selling there for six or seven years now." Race crossed his arms, scowling irritably. Who was this upstart kid interrogating him? "Who are you, anyway?"
"I'm Spot Conlon, the new leader of Brooklyn. And I care because it's my territory, and you're just some Manhattan newsie invading our turf!"
Race smirked. "I've been selling there forever. Why do you think they call me Racetrack?"
"But it's my territory, and you're not Brooklyn."
"No, I ain't. But do you see anyone jumping to start selling there? No one's ever challenged me selling there. No one cares."
"I care. You should go back to Manhattan."
Race sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I like selling at Sheepshead. I don't want to move in on anyone's spot down in Manhattan. Can we make a deal?"
"Like what?" Spot narrowed his eyes at Race.
"Like, oh, I dunno…. I'll play you for it in poker? I win, I get to keep selling at Sheepshead. You win, I go back to Manhattan."
"Sure." Spot shrugged, grinning. He was good at poker. This would be a breeze. He'd get this Racetrack kid out of Brooklyn and out of his hair.
"How the hell did you win? I was smoking you two hands ago!" Spot groaned, leaning back in his chair.
Race merely smirked, not saying anything. He had won fair and square and had his selling spot back. Life was good.
"So. You win. You can sell at Sheepshead…." Spot shrugged, then waved a hand in dismissal. Race, still smirking, swept off his hat in a mocking bow and sauntered down the dock, grabbing his papers from one of Spot's goons before making his way back to Sheepshead to finish selling for the day.
Spot pulled his cap off his head and ran his fingers through his hair, gazing after Race thoughtfully. He was something, that Manhattan boy. And that something intrigued Spot Conlon.
They hadn't met again for a year, where Race continued to sell at Sheepshead and Spot had focused on securing his position as Brooklyn's leader. But a year after their first meeting, one of Spot's newsies had come to Spot, to see if he could sell at Sheepshead. Spot had said nothing definite, but had taken an afternoon to head over to Sheepshead to talk with Race.
The two boys stood under the stands, Race with his arms crossed over his chest and his face set in a defiant glare, Spot with his thumbs hooked in his suspenders and his mouth in an amused smirk.
"What do you want?" Race finally asked, breaking the silence. "Because I need to get back out there before the races end."
"One of my boys wants to sell here. A year ago, you had no competition, so I was fine with letting you sell here. But I gotta protect my boy's interests."
"Fuck that. I won that poker game, you said I could keep selling here with no interference. I ain't giving up Sheepshead."
"I'm not asking."
"I'm not one of your boys, Conlon. You can't order me around!"
"But you're in my territory."
"Sheepshead is barely in Brooklyn. Stop giving me this shit. Why the hell do you care so much about me selling here? Let the kid sell here for a week. He'll see that the gamblers don' buy from you unless they know you. I've been selling here for seven years, they know me and they aren't going to buy from some new kid." Race finished this speech by moving to prop his hands on his hips, sneering up at Spot, who despite their similar ages already had four inches on him.
Then Spot laughed shortly and closed the space between them, hesitating for half a minute before grabbing Race's chin and kissing him.
Race froze for a moment, shocked enough to stand still and let Spot kiss him for a moment before he came to his senses and shoved the blonde boy away.
"What the fuck was that?" Race backed up several paces, his arms crossed over his chest again and his eyes darting around, terrified someone had seen them.
Spot merely shrugged and turned to leave. "Nothing. Dime is going to start selling here tomorrow. Don't try and intimidate him." With that, the King of Brooklyn left the area under the stands, headed back to his court at the docks.
Race remained where he was, staring after Spot in confusion. What did he mean, nothing? Like hell that kiss was nothing! Who the hell did Spot Conlon think he was, just kissing him like that? They didn't even know each other. And hell, it wasn't natural, to kiss another boy like you would a girl.
That was what Race thought. So why did he find himself half hoping Spot might try that again? It was… kinda nice? No. Race shook his head. He was not thinking that was about Spot Conlon. After a few deep breaths, Race hoisted his papers over his shoulder and emerged from under the stands, returning to selling to try and keep those thoughts out of his mind.
Dime tried to sell papes at Sheepshead for a week and a half before giving up. Race had been right. Gamblers buy from people they trust and it takes a while to develop a good selling relationship. And Dime didn't have that kind of patience. So Race was back to being the sole newsie at the Sheepshead Races. But he was hardly surprised when three months later, Spot showed up again, unaccompanied by his usual bodyguards. He beckoned Race to follow him under the stands again, and after a moment of hesitation, Race followed.
"What do you want, Spot?" Race asked, almost as soon as he was under the stands and set his papes down on a ledge.
Spot hung back for a moment, thumbs hooked in his suspenders, before he finally looked up at Race and smirked. "You."
Race was nearly fifteen, Spot a few months over fourteen. Spot had gained another two inches on Race, who either grew very slowly or had stopped altogether. When Spot closed the distance between them, Race found himself very uncomfortable with having to look up at Spot. He took a step or two back, not sure what to do.
Spot chuckled, looking Race up and down. "And, Race, what I want, I usually get. One way or another."
Race frowned. "Why do you even think I'm…. I'm that way?"
Spot shrugged. "You didn't push me away instantly." He closed the distance between them again and grabbed Race's shoulder, kissing him fiercely. This time, Race didn't pull away or resist. After a moment, he tentatively wrapped his arms around Spot's waist. In response, Spot moved to bury one hand in Race's hair, the other still gripping his shoulder as if Race would suddenly try to pull away.
But Race didn't pull away. Still cautious and unsure, he followed Spot's lead, opening his mouth to allow Spot in when the younger boy's tongue teased Race's lips. He gradually moved from stiffly holding Spot's waist to burying his hands in his dirty blonde hair and running a hand down his back.
When Spot left him, evidently pleased with how things had turned out, Race didn't know what to think. This was going against everything he had known about the world. Boys shouldn't kiss other boys. That was what he had been taught in church, back when he still went to church. But what he had done with Spot had felt nice. It felt natural.
So when Spot started coming to Sheepshead once a week to fool around with Race under the stands, Race went along with it, both boys gradually becoming more daring. When Spot grabbed at Race's crotch once, grinning wickedly, Race had practically moaned with pleasure. And when it advanced beyond that, Race hadn't freaked out and pulled away.
They didn't see each other often beyond these hurried, secretive encounters. They hardly spoke when they did see each other, preferring to let their bodies do the talking. Race was occasionally invited to Brooklyn, for a poker game, to prove to the Brooklyn boys that Race and Spot were friendly, that the Manhattan boy wasn't encroaching on their territory. They argued and snarked at the poker games, both clearly enjoying having someone to spar with. The Brooklyn boys apparently suspected nothing, just that Spot was on friendly terms with Racetrack and didn't think he posed any threat to Brooklyn.
Spot didn't come down to Manhattan, so Race could avoid any questions from the other Manhattan newsies about their relationship. That was perfectly fine by Race. The fewer questions he had to answer, for himself or others, the better.
But in those weekly encounters under the stands, all of Race's doubts and questions about his choices flew out of his head. For those brief times with Spot, everything seemed right. He had Spot. He had Sheepshead. He really had it good.