Chapter 15

Stephanie

My father takes the cup. “So you’re a hockey player.”

Sebastian nods. “I am.”

“How long have you been playing?”

“I was drafted five years ago,” Sebastian tells him.

“How old are you?” I start to get a little uncomfortable. I know how my dad gets; he is a lawyer after all.

“Twenty-seven.”

“So you finished college before you went into the AHL?” my father asks. Sebastian nods. “And what was your major?”

“I majored in sports management.” Sebastian’s voice is relaxed and calm, but I’m feeling anything but. I know where my dad is going with this. I’ve seen him cross examine many a witness and bring them to tears.

“And what can you do with a sports’ management degree?” my father asks.

“There’s a lot of things I can do with it when the time comes. Right now, I just want to play hockey.”

“And how long will you be able to play? How many years does the average professional player play?” my father continues his line of questioning.

“Why don’t we go take a walk?” I suggest, cutting into the conversation. “Dad, Sebastian doesn’t need to be grilled this early in the morning.” I try to say it lightly, but I don’t think it comes across that way.

My father faces me, and I know what’s coming. It’s always what comes. However, it doesn’t come from him. It comes from my mother behind me. “He’s just trying to find out what his plan for the future is,” my mother says, coming into the kitchen dressed to the nines and looking like she’s headed into court and not the living room on a Wednesday morning. “One of you needs to have a job that’s dependable with reliable income. It’s certainly not going to be your job.”

I take a steady breath. “Mom,” I say quietly.

Sebastian looks between my mom and me, a confused look on his face. I will him just to stay silent. But he’s Sebastian; I don’t think he’s capable of staying silent. “I don’t think you can get a more dependable job than being a teacher,” he offers up.

My mother raises her carefully waxed eyebrows. “Yes, her job is so dependable she’s sitting in our living room on a school day instead of in her classroom.” I meet Sebastian’s eyes and give him a look, hoping he gets what I’m trying to tell him—just drop it. He either doesn’t get my look, or he ignores it. “Why aren’t you teaching today again?” my mother asks, turning towards me.

“Like I said,” I jump in quickly before Sebastian has a chance to open his mouth. “I was asked to take a few days off; the school is trying to deal with some things,” I hedge.

“What kind of things?” my father asks, his focus intense.

“They’re just dealing with some negative press right now, but nothing that won’t clear up in a few days,” I say, trying to smooth over the situation. “Anyway—”

“Is it legal? Do you need representation?” My father asks.

“No,” I say ruefully. “It’s fine. It will all blow over in a few days.” Desperate to change the subject, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I published my latest book.”

No less than three heads turn my way, and I silently curse myself. Of all the things I could have said, that was not what I intended to just blurt out. “That’s great,” my mother says stiffly. “What number is that now?”

I swallow. “Six.”

“Have you had a publisher pick them up yet?” my mother asks.

“No,” I say quietly.

“Any growth on your social media platforms?” my father asks.

I feel my anxiety starting to build. “No, but I’m growing my email list.”

My father nods. “That’s good.”

“Keep growing those social media channels. No publisher will look in your direction unless you have a large following; they want to know you can move a lot of books. Being a teacher certainly isn’t enough.”

My mother’s words are like a scrape against an old wound. “I know. I’m working on it.”

“You’re an author?” Sebastian asks. He seems to miss the memo that this isn’t something that’s celebrated in my family, kind of like my teaching job. “That’s amazing! Do you write under your own name?” He already has his phone out and open. When I don’t answer, his eyes meet mine. The brightness in them encourage me to answer.

“I write under my pen name. S. Winston.”

I watch him type it into his phone. His eyes light up, and I assume he’s found my books. “This is amazing, Stephanie,” he says with all the sincerity in the world. “I’m going to order one just so you can sign it. I”ve never met a real-live author.” His eyes meet mine, and I roll my eyes at him. “What?” he asks. “Being an author of not one but six books is no small thing.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s nothing compared to being a professional athlete,” I mumble. He frowns but looks back at his phone. A minute later, he puts his phone in his back pocket. “Done. They should be to my house by Friday.”

“They?” I question.

“Yep. I ordered four of each of them.”

My eyebrows hit my hairline. “What? Why would you do that?”

He looks confused. “Why would I order your books?”

“Why would you order four of each of them?”

“Because I want a copy of each of them. And then as soon as I tell my family, my mom’s going to want them, and so will Tina and Kristen. So instead of them trying to steal my books, I just got them their own.”

I stare at him, openmouthed. “You didn’t need to do that.”

He winks at me. “I wanted to.”

A knock sounds at the door, interrupting our moment. “That must be the food,” my mother says, walking out of the kitchen. When she comes back in, she’s carrying a large brown bag. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, Sebastian; so I took the liberty of ordering you what Stephanie normally gets.”

“If it’s food, I’ll eat it,” he says with a grin. “Thank you. Let me know how much I owe you.”

“Nonsense. You’re a guest in our home,” my father says.

“Thank you,” Sebastian says, looking way too happy at the prospect of breakfast. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s going to hate it. My mother pulls out clear, plastic containers and passes one to each of us. Sebastian takes his, looking at it curiously.

“Stephanie, don’t leave before we have a chance to say goodbye,” my mother says and walks away. My father nods at both of us and leaves the room.

I walk over to the silverware drawer to get us silverware. When I turn around, Sebastian is still staring at his container. He opens the container and looks up and meets my eyes. “Is this food? Is it edible?” I can’t hold back the laugh. “What is it?”

“It’s all vegan. It’s turnip causa,” I tell him.

He scrunches up his face. “Is that food?”

I hold back a laugh. “Yes.”

“What’s the brown stuff on top?”

“That’s mushroom caviar.” I swear he gags.

He holds up the toast. “This is toast right?”

“That is sprouted rice bread with spiced chickpeas and sprouts and toasted pumpkin seeds.”

He stares at it some more. “And you actually eat this stuff?” His eyes meet mine. I shrug. “Are you vegan?” At his look of horror, I laugh.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why do you eat this...crap?”

“I only do when I’m with my parents.”

He walks over and takes the container out of my hand. “What are you doing?” He drops them in the trash and then pushes them down and covers them up. “Sebastian,” I hiss. “Those were like twenty-dollar meals.”

He pulls out a fifty and leaves it on the counter. “Come on.” He surprises me by taking my hand.

“What are we doing?” I ask as he pulls me to the door.

“Getting real food; I’m starving.”

I let him lead me to his car. “Want to drive?” He dangles the keys from his fingers. It tempts me for a moment.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

He watches me a beat before walking over to the passenger door and opening it for me. I climb inside his sleek Corvette. He starts it up and turns on the heat. Neither of us says anything as he pulls out. “Anything in particular you’re hungry for?” he asks.

“I’m game for anything. Do you need directions?”

“I saw a bunch of stuff on my way in this morning. Is it good if we just drive that way?”

“It’s your car, Sebastian. You can go wherever you want to go.”

He glances over at me but doesn’t say anything. A few minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot of a coffee shop. “Want a coffee?”

“Yes,” I answer before he’s even finished asking.

“There’s my girl; I wondered where’d you disappeared to.”

I climb out of the car, trying not to focus on his words too much. When we get inside, he turns to me. “What do you want?”

“I can get it,” I say, stepping past him.

He puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. “I know, but I want to. What do you want?”

I make the mistake of looking up at him. He’s staring down at me, and I can see the sincerity in his eyes. It throws me; I’m not used to him being serious. I look away from him and glance at the board. “What can I get for you?” the kid behind the counter asks with a smile.

“Can I get an iced coffee with marshmallow syrup and whipped cream?”

“That sounds like dessert,” Sebastian says, stepping close behind me.

The kid at the counter looks up at Sebastian and does a double-take. “No way. You’re Sebastian Hart!”

Sebastian chuckles. “I am. Can I get a dark roast black please?”

“Can I get your autograph?” the kid asks. He’s clearly starstruck.

Sebastian nods. “Sure.” He pulls out a marker. “Do you have something you want me to sign?” I take a step or two back, to get out of the way.

“I have something I wouldn’t mind him signing,” I hear someone mutter behind me. I turn and see two gorgeous women waiting to order. They move forward in tandem.

“Sebastian Hart. One of Green Thunder’s best,” one of the women says. They close in on Sebastian, and I turn away. I don’t have the stomach for it this morning. A few more people join the circle, and I look at my watch.

Isn”t it a little early for a fan mob? I drop into a chair and stare out the window. I should have ordered a larger coffee. “Excuse me, I need to get this coffee to my girl,” I hear Sebastian say loudly. I don’t look over. An iced coffee is placed in front of me a moment later. He comes back a minute later balancing several food items before sliding into the seat across from me.

“Did you buy the entire menu?” I ask.

“I was hungry,” he says as he opens a container of what looks like oatmeal. “Eat whatever you want; I got plenty.”

“Did you escape your fans?” I ask dryly as I take a blueberry muffin out of the wrapper.

“Barely,” he says with a shudder.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, those gorgeous women hanging all over you are such a bother.” I put my straw in my coffee and take a long drink, resisting the urge to close my eyes and sigh. He doesn’t say anything, and I finally look up.

He’s sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, smirking. “You’re jealous.”

I scoff. “I am not jealous.”

“You totally are.”

I shake my head and take another sip of my iced coffee. “You’re full of it.”

“You didn’t like those women,” he says.

I breathe in through my nose. “What women?”

“The ones you pointed out that were hanging all over me. Those were your words,” he points out as he finishes his oatmeal. At his words, my irritation grows again at those women; but I keep my mouth shut.

He grins and takes a sip of his coffee before he leans across the table, as close to me as he can get with the table in between us. “I like you jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” I whisper-yell at him.

He grins. “Whatever you say, Doll.”