Page 18 of Sportsball is for Lovers

seven

. . .

Sadie

When I stepinto the hotel lobby, a sense of peace washes over me. I’m home.

Even though, you know, a grubby hotel in suburban Denver isn’t exactly home.

There’s a banner welcoming readers and writers to the 7th Annual Book-a-holics Convention. Kira, the daughter of one of the event organizers, is sitting behind a small table with a bunch of packets spread on the table in front of her.

“Sylvie!” Kira looks up and grins at me. She’s about nineteen and an absolute delight. “I’m so glad you made it!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I tell her sincerely. “How’s your mom? Is she scrambling yet?”

Kira laughs. “You know her. If she’s not frantic, it’s only a matter of time.”

Rosemary, one half of the event organization team, is a little prone to panic. How she makes a living as an event organizer, I’ve never been able to understand. The constant stress and anxiety would drive me nuts.

When Rose isn’t planning events, she’s making a decent career as an independent author. In her spare time, she designs covers and formats books for other authors, as well as knits and crochets small dragons and dinosaurs. She is supremely talented.

I’ve known her for about eight years. She was one of the first friends I made on the author circuit, and her events are a mainstay in my schedule every year. Her other half of the business, Andie, lives a few hours from me in New Hampshire, and we get together for weekly coffee dates online and monthly writing group sessions in person.

Kira hands over my packet and gives me a rough run-down of the itinerary. Most of these events run the same: Friday afternoon starts with a happy hour in the hotel bar, a meet and greet with readers, and usually most of the authors head back to the bar.

On Saturday morning, we get into the ballroom about two hours before the event starts to set everything up, and sometimes, it takes the full two hours just to get your wagon or dolly full of books into the elevator. Then there’s an admittance for early readers, a break for lunch, and then the full signing event. In the evening, there’s a party. It’s almost like being at a bar mitzvah party for adults; there’s a DJ, a well-stocked bar, and a bunch of socially awkward introverts sitting by themselves reading a book or playing on their phones.

After we check in and grab our room keys, Yoni and I head up to our shared hotel room. I could totally spring for a second room for him, but he doesn’t mind sharing, and honestly, after paying his salary, his admission to the event, his airfare, and his meals, all on top of my travel expenses… I’m lucky to break even on the event. Hell, usually I lose money on these types of weekends.

But it’s not about the money. It’s the experience. I love getting to connect with readers, and having a chance to see my online friends in real life is always amazing. I’ve fostered so many great relationships in the last eight years since I impulsively published a book online.

Now, it’s a career.

Not a financially viable one, but a career nonetheless.

Upstairs, we both unpack: I take out my outfits, steam them, and hang them in the closet, and he unloads the boxes of books and supplies into neatly organized piles. When we’re done, we both crash onto our separate double beds.

“You good?” Yoni turns his head, looking over at me.

“I’m good,” I tell him. “Take your nap. I’m going to go visit with Rose, see if she and Andie need any help.”

He yawns. “Mmkay.”

With a laugh, I force myself upright and freshen up before heading back downstairs. In the event center, Rose is directing a slew of volunteers, and Andie is methodically picking at the nonexistent split ends of her hair.

Suddenly, I’m tackled from behind, and arms wrap around my waist.

“Hey, boo,” LuAnn says into my ear, then laughs.

Turning in the circle of her arms, I hug her back. “You’re a real person!” I touch her face, and she grins back at me.

Lu is my critique partner, my best friend, and an all around awesome person. She’s a mid-forties aromantic lesbian who writes some of the dirtiest male/male smut I’ve ever seen. Sure, she also writes sapphic fiction and heteronormative romance, but her money-maker is the guy-on-guy action.

Unfortunately—and this is the single worst thing about her—she has the audacity to live in North Dakota, which means I don’t get to see her in person often enough for either of our liking.

We met in an online publishing forum about five years ago and struck up an instant friendship. We write in separate sub-genres, she’s fifteen years older than me, we’re in entirely different stages of our lives and author careers… It doesn’t matter; she’s my bestie, my ride or die.

“How was your flight?” she asks, slinging her arm around me.