Page 42 of The Flirty Forward

“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 frommy 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 wasnotwhat 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.”

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