Page 5 of The Trade

“Yes, Father.”

“I’m serious, Lil. I don’t like you living alone, especially near all those drunk losers at your school.”

“You think living with another girl is going to protect me?”

“I think there’s safety in numbers, no matter what. Your roommate would be around if you don’t come home.”

“Can’t you just come stay with me after the season ends?” I ask the question even though I know the answer. It just doesn’t make sense for Mica to live with me near Dayton. For many reasons, one being that his football team, the Bobcats, is constantly on the road traveling.

“You know how busy my schedule is, even in the off-season,” he says, “I’d barely have time to be there.”

“You’ll still visit, though, right?”

I swear, every year, I spend less and less time with my brother. If he’s not busy playing the game, he’s training. If he’s not training, he’s in the gym. All other gaps and crevices are filled by his avid social calendar or, should I say, his endless string of one-night stands.

Yes. It’s gross to think of my brother in that way, but it’s just the honest truth. I doubt he’ll ever settle down with one woman. He’s not exactly a sleazeball, but he’s no patron saint when it comes to his football groupies.

Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him seriously date anyone since high school ... and that was nearly ten years ago.

“You know I will, as much as I can,” he promises.

“Okay.”

“Just at least start the roommate search, okay? That’s all I ask.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” He lets out a hearty laugh. “You know, you’re stubborn as hell.”

“You’re the stubborn one.”

Because if it were up to me, I wouldn’t even bother with all this roommate bullshit. I’m fine on my own. In fact, I prefer it. I’d never have to worry about leaving a dish in the sink, or bringing a date home, or cleaning nail polish off this damn carpet.

It’s simple, uncomplicated, and quiet—just how I happen to like things.

“I swear it will be good for you. Trust me,” he adds. “But hey, Lili, I really gotta get going. Practice starts in ten.”

“Okay.” I blow out a sigh. “Bye, Ace. Love you.”

“Love you,” he murmurs back.

I end the call, quickly scrolling over to my Instagram feed. I may have agreed to officially start the roommate search, but that doesn’t mean I have to put in any actual effort. Swiping open a new story, I type out a quick message:looking for female roommate to share two-bedroom apartment—preferably Dayton U student

I’m certain Mica will catch sight of my post, and I can only hope he’s appeased by my half-hearted effort. With that little task checked off my list, I turn my attention to my reflection in the mirror, fluffing my wayward curls. I make a mental note to give myself a break once in a while, take a deep breath, and recite my daily affirmations. Then I sweep my laptop into my bag and take one last look around my apartment before I make my way to campus.

As I push through the hive of students, the crisp morning air brings a welcome flush to my cheeks. The Hayworth Building, my daily destination and the home of the university newsroom, stands tall, grand yet familiar, amidst the flurry of activity.

Stepping inside, the hum of a newsroom in full swing greets me—a symphony of keyboards clacking, people chatting, and the subtle rustle of newsprint. It’s a chaotic melody, but one I’ve come to find comfort in.

With a nod to some of the other reporters, I maneuver through the disorganization toward my small haven in the corner. It’s cluttered, personalized with scribbled notes and discarded coffee cups. It’s a far cry from glamorous, but it’s my chaos, my home within these four dingy walls.

It’s not long before my editor, Garrett, ambles over to my desk. His disheveled hair, five-o’clock shadow, and the hint of an almost smile give him a boy-next-door charm, a stark contrast to the authority he attempts to carry in our newsroom.

“Jade,” he says, punctuated by a casual salute. “I have a fresh piece for you. Student Union, meeting tonight, budget cuts. I want you there.”

While the topic isn’t exactly the Super Bowl of news, I accept it, knowing every story, no matter how small, has its own merit. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past three years. It’s the only way I’ve been able to survive Garrett’s misogynistic attitude.

For some reason, the man doesn’t think I have enough experience to be a sports reporter. Yet, Jeremy, Liam, and Dante were apparently born with the right credentials ... as if their ability to write a quality article is quantified by the tiny male appendages between their legs.

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