Page 40 of Presley's Christmas Catch
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 knowabout 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 calledA Court of Thorns and Rosesis 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 middlename, 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 theDevils 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.
