Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

brOCK

As we drive from Teterboro Airport to the bookstore, I stare out the window at the flashes of red and green Christmas lights and decorations along the street, anything but thinking too much about the warmth of Presley’s head resting on my shoulder and how it shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is. Things have been back and forth with us since I picked her up, moments like this where it’s like our friendship never changed and then other times when we’re overthinking everything we do. When she told me about her aunt and the ring, it was natural to reach out for her. It wasn’t until after, when our conversation slowed—probably sleepiness on my part—that I thought about it more closely and wondered if I had given her mixed signals about my real feelings. She’d definitely be confused if she knew that I liked the way she was leaning into me, almost like she’s letting me take care of her. To be fair, Presley did start out with her head leaned back against the head rest when she first fell asleep and slowly her head shifted until it rested against my shoulder.

Our five-hour flight was uneventful, and the private jet Eli arranged for us was nice. But neither of us really slept. Presley claimed the caffeine was keeping her awake. I’m sure thoughts about what to do with the ring kept her up as well. We brainstormed some things, but Presley’s mostly thought of everything, and it always circles back to how to get it to the police or the Westcotts without anyone knowing it was ever in Presley’s or her aunt’s possession. I suggested her mailing it, but she’s sure that fingerprints or something will lead them back to her. We’re both stumped.

So when that conversation died, Presley took out book fifteen, which she’s already halfway done with. I have no idea how she got through the last four books in such a short amount of time. I listened to two on audiobooks at ridiculously fast speeds and still only got through book thirteen before I grabbed a couple hours of sleep last night. The last few in the series are crazy long. I’m eager to see how long book sixteen will be. Thornridge has a lot of plotlines to wrap up, and if Lyra is revealed as the Obsidian Queen, he’ll need to do a lot of explaining. The press releases have given away nothing, not the blurb or even the cover. Everything will be a surprise to fans when they show up today, and the internet is freaking out over it. The release even made headlines on some of the bigger news sites the last couple days. It’s the most hype TOK has ever gotten, and I’m sure the publicists behind it all planned everything in hopes this would play out exactly like it is.

Presley gives a little sigh, reminding me that her cheek is squished against my arm. I want to snap a picture of how cute she looks with her lips pushed out a little bit, but I’d have to move to get my phone from my pocket and that would wake her up.

She’d be so much more comfortable if I could put my arm around her and pull her against me, but selfish as it is to be Presley’s friend, I can’t go further and do things like that to toy with her. Taking her hand this morning was too far. I mean these actions innocently, and she’d understand that, but it wouldn’t help our situation.

The thing is, despite Presley not being my typical type, she is beautiful. Her thick brown hair is braided over her shoulder, and her long lashes rest against her cheeks. The fact that we’re just friends isn’t because she’s not attractive to me—she is.

It’s that I would know, right? There would be something.

I stare down at her, paying close attention to everything I feel. I can admit that Lincoln’s not wrong that, when seen from the outside, Presley and I make sense romantically. We talk a lot, text, and share the details of our lives. We’re comfortable with each other, and our close friendship makes the hand holding and hugs and her sleeping on my shoulder natural. Plus I love spending time with her. I’m grateful to be here with her, and I’m glad she pushed for us to do this together and made it happen. I’m also grateful to have found someone who shares the books that were so important to me growing up along with loving the sport that I love. Plus, she was amazing when everything went down with the Devils. She was understanding and thoughtful, and even though I could tell she was concerned and wanted more information from me, she never pushed.

There’s warmth in my chest as I think about how kind she is to me, but it’s not that spark of fire I’d expect if I wanted more of a relationship. Not the zing that should be here. Would I like kissing her?

I picture it—as an experiment. Me, pushing that stray hair that’s fallen from her braid away from her cheek. Her eyes expectant, like they were the night she told me she liked me, as she tilts her chin up toward me. I would lean in closer, touch my lips to hers while she smiles with anticipation?—

The Escalade stops at the curb in front of the bookstore, The Sorcery Shop, ending the imaginary moment abruptly. I straighten when I realize I’ve leaned toward Presley. See, that proves it. No butterflies or anything.

Not that I actually pictured kissing her, but I got close. I would have felt something.

The bookstore is tiny, and according to the internet, the owner is one of the biggest TOK fans out there. She started most of the Reddit threads, and she’s a regular contributor to the Facebook fan page and the website forum. The door is on the right side of the shop, and a big window is on the left. There’s a sign announcing the release of Veil of the Queen and the exclusive sale here at this store until Christmas. There are window drawings of Christmas trees surrounded by impressive TOK character depictions, all of them wearing Santa hats and elf shoes as they hang lights and decorate the trees.

I nudge Presley softly. “We’re here.”

“Mmmm,” she murmurs, blinking a few times and then opening her eyes. Then they get wider, probably as she realizes she’s leaning against me. She quickly straightens, still blinking sleep away. “Sorry about that,” she says, gesturing toward my shoulder.

I wave her off, hoping that by acting normal, she’ll feel normal too. “Like you said, I am taking up most of this seat. You didn’t have a choice.”

One side of her lips ticks up in a sleepy smile, and something swoops through my stomach.

What was that?

I quickly catalog what I ate this morning—a big breakfast burrito I made for myself last night to bring on the plane. (One for Presley too, of course.) All stuff I normally eat. Not that I really think that swoop had something to do with what I ate.

It’s nerves for today, right?

Yeah.

She looks over at the bookstore, and her eyebrows jump. “Are you even going to fit in there?”

I chuckle. “Better chance at us being in the top twenty-five if no one else can fit in.”

She pushes open her door, grabs her bag from the floor in front of her, and gets out. By the time I unfold myself from the vehicle, she’s on the sidewalk in front of the store, stretching out and studying the storefront, her smile growing with every piece of the window art she takes in.

The crisp December air has a bite to it that’s a little surprising since we came from California. But the day is sunny and looks like it will be beautiful. Plus I like the chill. It reminds me of home and the mountains around Little River. The air here definitely doesn’t smell as clean, although there’s a bakery down the street, and the scent of fresh bread drifts in the air. It’s going to be a good day. I can feel it.

Presley gives a quiet squeal and claps her hands. “This is really happening!” Then she grabs my arm and tugs me toward the store. As she reaches the door, her cheeks go pink, and she drops my arm. Before she can say sorry again, I lean past her and open the door for her.

Both of our mouths drop at the noise level inside. There are at least fifty people in the store and it’s over an hour before the sale officially begins.

Presley goes in first, taking in the scene with a look of awe. Maybe the estimate that there are around a hundred fans of this series is vastly under counted. There’s always the chance that there are people out there reading the books and not getting involved with the forums and the fan page.

Then Presley’s face falls as she takes in the number of people. “This is my fault,” she says in a whisper-moan. “I thought for sure an hour would be plenty of time! There aren’t that many fans.”

I put an arm on her shoulder and shuffle her along the window to where I think the end of the line is.

“It’s the bandwagon fans’ fault,” I correct her, scanning the crowd. Those nearest the front of the line look like hardcore fans. There’s a lot of TOK merch being shown off—t-shirts, hoodies, bags, and other stuff with book art and quotes. Several people are reading books from the series as they wait. Plus I do recognize some of them from Facebook and the rare picture on the website forum. (You wouldn’t be surprised at the number of profile pictures that are swords or the crest of Eldraeth.) But the people further back in the line lack any of these indicators. “I bet half these people don’t even know about the TOK books,” I say. “They just want in on the next big book thing.”

A woman with long, sleek brown hair and no TOK merch on her person that I can see whips around to glare at me. And then the angry expression falls off her face just as quickly and is replaced with a flirty smile.

I ignore her and maneuver past a few more people. Sometimes being 6’7” and almost three hundred pounds helps you out. Sometimes it makes crowd situations awkward.

We finally find a spot in the back corner near an entire shelf dedicated to Sarah J. Maas. The swoop I previously noted in my stomach turns to a twist of discomfort when I see that Presley’s eyes are shining a little as she surveys the bookstore, and not in a good way. She’s pressing her lips together tightly, and then she turns away from me and sniffs into her hoodie like I won’t notice.

I want to meet Thornridge, but Presley wants it so much more. My eyes find the woman with the dark hair again, and I notice at least a dozen more women like her, their outfits, hairstyles, and makeup, all screaming influencer rather than hard-core fantasy book lover. Several of them have phone stands set up and are taking carefully posed selfies—which would be fine, but none of them feature any of the TOK books. Not like the people here I can see are real TOK fans. Maybe it’s the memory of Jett getting burned by an influencer like some of these women that makes me judge them so harshly, but I clench my jaw. Most of them won’t get tickets to see Thornridge, so there’s that. It doesn’t make me feel better for Presley.

I shift so that I’m standing right in front of her, although she has her head turned like the display for a book called A Court of Thorns and Roses is fascinating to her.

“Pres?” I say softly.

She turns and looks at me. No tears have fallen yet, but her expression is utterly dejected. I hate hate hate that she feels this way .

She draws in a breath. “I thought I could ask him about Aunt Shannon. About how she got the book.” She shrugs, like this is a small thing. That’s the thing about Presley. Sure, she’s not afraid to share stories about her aunt and shed tears over her when she talks to me, but she will also put on a smile and pretend like her grief is no big deal to make sure I’m not inconvenienced. I don’t want her making herself small like that. Definitely not for me. I’m strong enough to hold her up when the grief makes her want to fall apart. Even over small things like finding out how her aunt got this book.

So you know what? I will burn this bookstore down to get her in the room with Thornridge if I have to. “Wait here,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

She furrows her eyebrows, but I move away before she can question me. With my height, I have the advantage of seeing that Sapphira Ranier, the bookstore owner, is standing near the front of the line in an animated conversation with a guy I recognize who runs the Facebook fan page and another woman. With so many people crowded around in this tiny place, getting to the front isn’t easy.

“Excuse me,” I say in my most polite voice when I reach Ms. Ranier.

She whirls and almost falls backward when she has to crank her head up to meet my eyes. “Wait,” she says, pointing at me. “You look familiar.”

The reason pretty much no one knows about how much I love TOK is because my TOK world very rarely crosses into my football world. Actually, meeting Presley was the first time it’s happened, so the idea that Ms. Ranier might know who I am makes me raise my eyebrows. Although, she’s probably just seen a meme somewhere. When I was a kid, dreaming of pro-football fame, having my face known because of memes was not what I pictured.

“Brock Hunter.” I hold out my hand.

“Brock Bennet Hunter!” she repeats, adding in my middle name, and her eyes brighten as she pumps my hand. “I recognize the name from the fan page.” She grins widely. “You’re very tall.”

“Uh, thanks.” My chest warms the slightest bit at her enthusiasm, and at not being recognized for throwing my helmet.

The crowd around us starts murmuring, and a few of the women I would’ve tagged as influencers have their phones out, either filming me or taking pictures. That’s fine. That’s what I need right now when I go into full celebrity mode. “I play football for the LA Rays … the, uh, pro-football team?” I continue when Ms. Ranier’s gaze goes blank.

“Oh,” she says. “A football player that loves TOK. I never would have thought. If I didn’t know better, I’d have tagged you as a bandwagon fan, to be honest. We seem to have quite a few joining us today.” I’ve only ever heard the term bandwagon fan used negatively, but Ms. Ranier says it cheerfully as she beams at the people crowding her bookstore.

“No. Not a bandwagon fan. I actually started reading TOK in middle school, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve re-read it.” These are not normally stats I announce to strangers, but this is a special situation. Also, I’ve never been embarrassed about my love of this book series; it’s just not usually something other people care about.

“Really?” Ms. Ranier beams at me. “I love that. I’m so glad you’re here, Brock!”

Her announcing my name seems to have confirmed my identity for the handful of people who know who I am. Several shouts of, “Brock, can I get a picture?” or “Brock! Over here! Can you sign my book?” start chorusing through the room. Ms. Ranier’s eyes widen again.

Perfect. Usually when people are clamoring for me to talk to them or answer them or whatever, it’s not a good thing for me, but this is all playing right into my hands. At least the fact that more people than usual know my name right now, thanks to the Devils letting me go, is helping me right now. Silver lining, I guess.

“Ms. Ranier, can I talk to you for a minute?” I gesture to the one place in this store that isn’t occupied—a small office that’s the size of a broom closet. Fitting for a fantasy bookstore, if you ask me.

“Oh, call me Sapphira,” she says. “What can I help you with?” She has to raise her voice over the din that’s gotten louder as people still call for me and news seems to spread about who I am, probably along with explanations about why anyone should care.

“Please?” I gesture to the closet office again, and she finally nods and leads the way.

Here’s the problem. I don’t fit.

She steps inside first, and when I try to follow her, I basically put us in what Lyra might tell Kael is a compromising situation. So instead, I step back and hover in the doorway, hoping my voice doesn’t carry. Or that the conversations will keep happening around the room to cover what I’m about to ask. I glance over my shoulder at Presley, and she’s watching us with her head tilted in curiosity.

“What are you doing?” she mouths at me.

I give her a thumbs up and turn to Sapphira. “Listen, I will participate in whatever social media videos or commercials or whatever for TOK stuff you want if you can get me and my friend, Presley, into the gathering with Thornridge.”

She immediately shakes her head. “I’m not in charge of that, Mr. Hunter?—”

I flash my most charming smile. “You can call me Brock.” Yeah, I have a reputation for putting my foot in my mouth with the media from time to time, but all those times I didn’t say what I was thinking? That takes some major acting chops too. I’m telling you. And I will pull out every stop necessary to get this for Presley.

Sapphira lets out half of a breathy laugh before she cuts it off. “ Brock … I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. I don’t even have the tickets.”

“Who has them?” I ask.

Sapphira pauses and then motions for me to step out of the doorway. She leans out, her hand on my arm, and I don’t say anything about her familiarity. Sapphira Ranier is probably about fifteen years older than me, but I’ll flirt with everyone in this room to get those tickets for Presley.

“Alexis?” she calls out. A woman at the sales counter looks up from an iPad. Sapphira waves her over.

“Brock,” Sapphira says when Alexis reaches us. “This is Alexis Sterling, Mr. Thornridge’s agent.”

“Brock Hunter.” I stick out my hand.

“He plays for the LA Rays,” Sapphira says, but she ends it like a question, and I have to stop myself from laughing.

“The football team?” Alexis asks, shaking my hand and then dropping it. She’s probably in her mid-fifties, but her look is very New York City power agent. Sleek, silver-gray hair cut in a short bob and impeccable makeup. I nod.

She taps a finger against her chin. “I’ve heard your name in the news.”

I keep calm and try not to let my frustration show. “I just got traded to the Rays, so it’s been around.”

“I see. What can I do for you?” she asks.

“Tell her what you told me,” Sapphira says encouragingly, so I repeat my request that Presley and I get to see Thornridge.

Alexis glances over her shoulder at the people still gathering. Twenty more people have squeezed into the shop since I arrived. “I have been pitching TOK to Hollywood,” she muses. “Response hasn’t been what I want, but if we can get even more buzz with someone like you talking about it?—”

“I know Sophie Edwards and Layla Delaford,” I break in. Again, I’ll name drop every person in LA I can claim any kind of acquaintance with. “And Nick Cane,” I add, remembering that Lincoln’s dad is best friends with a TV network executive in LA .

Alexis’s expression doesn’t change from contemplative, but something flits through her eyes. She reminds me of my agent, with her cool, calm expression no matter the situation. She never even batted an eye when the Devils let me go, just went to work.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Alexis says. Then she turns and walks away.

That’s not the answer I wanted, but there’s also no way she’s going to turn down my connections if she really is fishing for Hollywood on this. I make my way back to Presley. It’s much harder than when I left since the store is filling up steadily. This has to be breaking the fire code.

“What was that?” Presley asks when I return to her side.

“Me playing the part of the diva most people think I am anyway.”

She cocks her head to one side at the word diva, but then grabs my arm. “Did you get us in to see Thornridge?”

I grin at her. “I think so.”

“Brock!” she whisper-shouts and shakes my arm. “That’s not fair.”

I lean toward her. “I don’t care.”

Her cheeks turn pink, and that’s when I remember myself. Still, I don’t want to ruin the ease we’ve had so I wait a beat before I step back and then pretend not to notice how long it takes her to remove her hand from my arm.

“Brock?” a voice calls to us from somewhere behind me. I turn to see the dark-haired woman I noted when we first walked in, pushing her way through the crowd toward us. “Hi, Brock!” She waves around a copy of The Obsidian Kingdom , the first book. It’s pristine, and I’d bet money she bought it today.

She scowls at someone near her who presses against her and then she takes the final step toward us. She holds out the book. “Would you mind signing my book for me?” She holds a Sharpie in her other hand.

Gideon Thornridge would certainly hate this if he knew, but a glance at the front of the store shows Alexis’s eyes on me. I need to show her my worth if she’s going to help me get Presley in to see Thornridge.

“Sure,” I say with a grin. I hold the book on top of a book shelf, pick a page that contains an important scene, and sign my name big across it. Hopefully if this woman gets a ticket, Thornridge won’t notice my signature there.

“Thanks.” She smiles widely at me. Her gaze turns to Presley, and the woman says, “Is this your girlfriend?”

“No,” Presley says immediately and adds a fake, “Ha, ha, ha. No, definitely not his girlfriend.”

Something pricks in my stomach, like her quick denial hurt my feelings. Which is stupid because I know exactly why she said something so quickly—she said she liked me last week, and I turned her down. Then she begged me to be friends again and promised it wouldn’t be weird. She’s making sure I know she’s not going to harbor some unrequited crush.

Only, I don’t like it.

Today is such a weird day. Maybe there was something in that burrito. I need to get a personal chef.

“I’m Presley.” She gives the woman a small wave. “Brock and I are friends. We bonded over the TOK books.”

“Oh, yeah?” the woman says. “So you’re a booktoker too?”

That seems like it might be a shot at me and what I said when we came in the store. Still, I keep a smile on my face. It would not do for me to get let go from another team because I got into it with a woman in a bookstore over a fantasy series that’s so obscure not even Hermione Granger’s read it.

“Uh, no,” Presley says. “TOK is what fans call The Obsidian Kingdom series. T-O-K.”

The woman flushes, and I want to high-five Presley. She said it so sweetly, but she took this woman fully down a notch and labeled her as exactly what she didn’t like me saying about her.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m Bella Reese.” She turns back to me. “It’s so great to meet you.”

I’m not sure what else to say .

She steps closer, waving her book around. “So you’re a big fan?” She seems to have forgotten that Presley exists, turning fully to face me. Probably because of Presley’s burn, even if she didn’t mean it to be.

“Yeah.” I nod toward Presley. “We both read it as kids. How about you?”

She doesn’t acknowledge that I try to keep Presley in the conversation. “I love anything romantasy, so when I heard about it, I had to read it right away.”

Romantasy? What does that mean? “Cool.”

Bella puts a hand on my arm. “What did you think of ACOTAR?”

“ACOTAR?” I look at Presley.

“ A Court of Thorns and Roses .” She jabs a thumb behind her to the display.

“Ahh.” I shrug at Bella. “Haven’t read it.”

She squeezes my arm, where she’s still holding on. “You have to. You’ll love it.”

“Hey, Brock Hunter?” a voice says from behind Bella. Her eyebrows furrow at the interruption to our conversation. A hand appears with a notebook. Then a skinny kid who’s probably sixteen or seventeen squeezes between Bella and someone with their back to us.

“Can I get your autograph?” the teen asks.

Bella scowls at him but shifts out of the way. Or tries to. The line in here has gotten bigger, if it’s possible, and we’re backed into the spaces between the bookshelves. Which are also packed in here tightly. The kid’s wearing a New York Empire shirt so at least he’s a football fan.

“Sure,” I say, taking the notebook. He holds out a pen to me and I grab it. “You like TOK?” I ask. I can’t help but be curious about how much my worlds are intersecting right now.

He nods vigorously. “Yeah. Love it. My dad read it to us for bedtime stories when we were little, but I’ve read them all myself now. ”

My smile stretches. “Oh, yeah?” I glance down at Presley to see that she’s staring at the kid with big emoji eyes. She’s smitten, and it’s adorable. “What’s your favorite?” I ask him.

“ Curse of the Obsidian Flame , book three.” He answers automatically, and if there was ever any doubt about him being an actual TOK fan, it’s completely gone.

“Oooo!” Presley says from beside me. “That’s the one where Lyra and Kael kiss for the first time. It’s my favorite too.”

For the second time, Presley has made another fan go completely red. The boy scrubs the back of his neck. “That’s not why,” he says quickly.

Presley pinches her lips together. “Of course not.”

The boy waves at me with the notebook. “Thanks, bro.” Then he holds out three fingers and presses them against his heart in the Eldraeth sign of brotherhood. I grin, giving the gesture back before he melts into the crowd.

“Oh, my goodness. He’s the cutest,” Presley breathes from beside me. She’s in heaven, surrounded by fans of her favorite series, and after signing the notebook for that kid, so am I.

She tugs on my arm, standing on her tiptoes, indicating she wants to tell me something. I tilt my head toward her.

“Bella wants your number,” she whispers.

I glance to where Bella is standing with an elbow on top of a bookshelf, looking bored. She meets my gaze and instantly brightens.

“Why didn’t she ask?” I whisper back.

Presley huffs out a breath that sounds like a laugh. “She was flirting. Obviously.”

Now I’m careful not to look at Bella again. “Flirting?” I ask skeptically. “She just talked about books.”

Presley raises an eyebrow. “Chat with me after you’ve read A Court of Thorns and Roses , and we’ll visit her intentions again.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She smirks.

My phone dings, and I pull it out to see a text from Lincoln .

Lincoln: Hope you don’t mind being outed.

He attaches a screenshot of a social media post. It’s a picture of me talking to Sapphira and Alexis and is accompanied by a caption that says: New Rays Left Tackle, Brock Hunter, is a fan of The Obsidian Kingdom series! No way! Girlfriend just sent this to me from where she’s at some signing for the series. I’m tagged in the post, so I log in to Instagram to check it out. My heart sinks when I notice dozens of comments talking about how they’re near enough to check this out. There are also plenty of comments saying how much they love that a football player isn’t shy about reading some weird fantasy novel or showing up to be a super fan. But it also explains why there are a lot more people in this bookstore than Sapphira and Alexis probably planned. And as I look around, I notice that there are far more people here with t-shirts from various teams across the league—mostly New York Empire merch but a few Devils t-shirts and even a Rays one.

Presley suddenly slams into my side, and someone nearby says, “Oh, sorry.” But people still push in. I’ve been zoned out while I look at the Instagram photo, but people are calling out my name, plenty who can’t get near me because we’re packed like sardines in here.

I quickly slip an arm around Presley. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she chirps from where her face is now pressed into my ribs. She giggles.

“This is insane, Pres,” I mutter.

She laughs again. “Says the guy who attracted half the people here. At least. Maybe most.”

I huff in annoyance. This was supposed to be a day for me and Presley to celebrate our favorite book series finally getting completed. It’s not turning out how I thought. “I’m a left tackle. This makes no sense. The only time people care about me is when I throw a tantrum and it makes a good meme.”

“You’re also a pro-football player, and I think that people who aren’t around them all the time think that’s cool. I wouldn’t know.” She winks at me in a dorky way, making me laugh.

“Brock!” a woman shouts, pushing through the crowd and earning a lot of scowls and swear words, which she doesn’t seem to care about. “Can you sign my jersey?”

It’s my old one, from the Devils, and she points to her chest with one hand while waving a Sharpie at me with the other. She elbows someone aside to get closer, and it starts a domino effect. Before I can blink, Presley gets shoved to the floor with a cry of surprise.

I react instantly, scooping an arm under her back and hauling her up into my arms. No way is she getting trampled in this madness. I hold her close against me, my heart pumping fast with fear at how close she came to getting seriously hurt. Despite that scare, people are still jostling around me.

Instinct takes over. I swing Presley’s legs up into my arms. “Make a path,” I demand, and like Moses parting the Red Sea, it’s done.