Kings Racetrack- A Sprace fanfic

3- Good eye, Racer

Spot never understood why he made that deal with Race. He knew the Manhattan boy had stepped foot in Brooklyn before. He'd heard reports from his boys. Spot wasn't one for impulsive decisions. All of his plans were thought out amongst him and his most trusted. Those being Hotshot and York. Spot needed to speak with him about not disturbing anyone unless they genuinely pick a fight. York was known to search for a good segue into combat. Hotshot, well he does most the talking. Sometimes that could be a pain. But who was Spot without his boys..

Spot leaned his weight on the closed bedroom door behind him. He dragged a hand down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. His upper lip protested at the past tension. Spot cursed under his breath as he bit his bottom lip to distract. He didn't look back as he made his way down the stairs to the main house areas. By this time his boys would be coming home from the docks. That would distract Spot from the stupidest thing he's ever done. Some boys began to file into the main room. Spot was greeted with silent nods and grunts.

He sat himself at a smaller table that was secluded from the rest of the room. Most boys talked amongst themselves. But Spot caught himself listening in on a conversation to the left of him. Bart and Myron seemed to be bickering about if the docks water was too cold to swim in or not.

Just fascinating..

Spot pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. As time ticked on Spot began to lose hope of any sort of activity until Hotshot walked through the doorway.

"Shot." Spot announced, his usual tone slipping as Hotshot made begrudging eye contact. Hotshot finished his conversation with a younger one of the Brooklyn boys and approached Spot.

"Finally ready to talk now, Boss?" She crossed his arms, staring blankly at Spot. Spot gestured for him to sit, she obliged reluctantly. Spot rested his elbows on the table and opened his mouth to speak.

"I shouldn't have thrown you's out like that." Spot fidgeted with his thumbs. Hotshot laughed dryly. "Ya think Boss?" Spot sighed.

"I didn't want Kelly's lot to know about Midtown because.."

"Blah blah, your reputation. I get it." Hotshot rolled his eyes. Spot's eyebrows furrowed, pointing a finger in Hotshot's face. "Not jus' mine, Shot. Brooklyn's reputation." He added, Hotshot blinked.

"What's wrong with a soft side? I's say not everyone in Brooklyn is up for a fight like you and York. What's the problem with a bit of friendliness?" Hotshot tilted her head to the side, resting his face in her hands. Spot thought about it for a moment, he shook his head

"We's in one of the largest cities in the whole world. Nobody gonna believe we's softened up." Spot was expressionless, Hotshot always managed to read his mind anyways. Hotshot breathed a sigh through her nose.

"Speakin' of softenin' up.. since when does Spot Conlon take in a Manhattan boy into his room to fix up?" Hotshot raised an eyebrow, Spot scoffed.

"Didn't he says anything to you? York roughed him up and he was passing out on me. I don't need one of Kelly's boys dying on our soil." Spot explained and Hotshot squinted. Spot shook his head.

"Never mind that. What did Midtown say." Hotshot laughed, Spot deadpanned.

...

*June 1899*

Race was in Brooklyn again, Spot began to notice the other had formed a schedule. He'd come to the Sheepshead when the headline was especially selling well. His papers would be sold in under two hours. He at first had Myron keep an eye on Race. That soon came to an end when Myron began to scare off customers. He also noticed Myron began to talk fondly of Race like he was a friend. Great, next he watched Bart make conversation with Race. He almost made York watch next. Spot didn't want another concussion on his hands. That meant he only had one option left—