Page 27 of Sportsball is for Lovers

Jared holds a cup out to me and swallows. “Do you, ah, need any help?”

He looks like he’s afraid I might actually say yes.

What happened to the sexy, strong Soft Dom I met?

As I glance around the table, the boxes of books neatly organized and the banners hung, I can’t see anything that needs to be done.

“No, thanks,” I say easily. “We’re pretty much set.”

His gaze narrows on the stack of books on the edge of the table.

“These are your books?”

“Yep.” Brightly, I pop the word. “I write queer sports romance novels. I’ve done baseball, hockey, and I’m moving into basketball next.”

His eyebrow goes up. “You write about sports?”

“People go feral for it.” His jaw clenches and I smile innocently. “I run a fantasy baseball league for readers, too.”

Jared scoffs.

Even though I don’t know what his specific problem is, I’ve been around the block enough to have a few guesses:

He thinks romance isn’t “real fiction,” which is total bullshit and degrading. Why is it that 99.99% of literature is written by stuffy white men and the same caliber of fiction written by women is downgraded to “women’s fiction?” Fuck the patriarchy. If I never read another rambling manifesto by Kerouac or Hemingway, it’ll be too damn soon.

He thinks people can’t possibly be interested in reading about queer love stories. Maybe not this one—his brother is openly queer, and from all the stories I’ve heard, he’s thoroughly supportive of Yoni.

Or maybe, he thinks I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Just because he’s a sportscaster for Denver’s hockey team doesn’t mean he’s the world’s foremost expert on all things sports.

Whatever his problem, I don’t have to make it mine.

Lu bustles over. “You good, babe?”

Her face is an inscrutable mask of serenity, the only hint of her anxiety the redness to her eyes. She hands me an airplane bottle of tequila, and as I clink my tiny bottle against the matching one in her hand, we both down the shots.

Warmth floods my system, blurring my senses. Everything is a little easier to process now.

When I nod, she lifts her fists to bump mine.

“We got this,” I tell her, and she exhales slowly.

No matter how many of these things I do, they never get easier.

More fun, maybe.

When the doors open, it’s time to put on my game face. I grin at the first reader to approach my table, a woman in her mid-fifties with a sullen teenager behind her.

“OMG, I can’t believe I get to meet you!” the woman exclaims. “Nesha—it’s Sylvie Hirsch!”

“Nice to meet you.” I give her a happy smile. “What’s your name?”

“Lisa. I’ve read all your books. I love…”

We drift into conversation. This is less about sales and more about human connection. But by the time she’s done telling me about her favorite of my books, she’s decided to take home four paperbacks, too. I’m not mad about that.

Yoni passes me the books and I sign my name with a flourish before he packages them up and adds some swag goodies for her. The teenager’s interest is piqued by the acrylic floral bookmarks, and I see him add an extra to the bag for her. She beams, and he winks at her.

He’s good at this. He knows how to take care of my readers.

After Lisa moves on, I turn my attention to the next reader patiently waiting her turn. We chat for a few minutes before she purchases a few books, too. And on and on they come.

They don’t all buy. Some people need to read the back blurb before they buy, and still more prefer to read on ebook or audiobook. Others aren’t interested in my books at all.

That’s fine. They’re not for everyone. There’s a book for every reader and a reader for every book.

Most of my readers are AFAB. The majority of my male readers are queer. Still, there are a few straight men here at the convention, and they tend to gravitate toward my table.

My friend Bethany’s dad, a giant biker dude who is the world’s biggest Raiders fan, makes his way over. We always have a good time trash-talking the Chargers, a team we mutually hate.

Donovan, one of the models walking around shirtless in a pair of gray joggers, spends fifteen minutes talking to me about the fantasy baseball league I run. He’s a good hype man for the events. He looks even better on the cover of my best-selling book, too.

A few of the other guys do double takes when they see my covers and hear their summaries. I’m sure they don’t expect to find much ado about sports at an event like this.

Oh, if only they knew…