Page 38 of The Best Parts of Him
“No? I have strict directions to make sure you eat properly and drink lots of fluids, take your pain meds, have regular bowel movements—don’t make that face at me. We all do it. Can you imagine how much pain you’ll be in if you’re constipated and have to force a poop out?”
Dabbs didn’t know whether to laugh or hide himself away in embarrassment.
“I also have strict instructions to watch out for signs of infection and to make sure you walk around a little more each day to get the blood flowing.”
“Did you talk to my doctor or something?”
“Your doctor, your mom, Bellamy.” Ryland ticked them off on his fingers. “Your team physician, your coach, and your director of player engagement, which, question. What does a director of player engagement do, exactly?”
“Mostly he makes sure the players are happy.”
“Huh.” Ryland considered that for a moment before getting back on topic. “So? What’s my first order of business? Want a snack? A glass of water? Do we need to clean your incision?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t mind a nap,” Dabbs said, his eyes heavy-lidded.
The doctor had warned him that he’d be weak and tired for several days after returning home and had advised that he should rest often to help the healing process along. Dabbs wasn’t much of a napper by nature, but there was no point fighting what his body wanted.
The dogs jumped onto the couch and curled up by his legs, ready to join him in some mid-afternoon shut-eye.
“A nap,” Ryland repeated. “Okay. Sure. Want help getting to your bedroom?”
“I’m good here.” Dabbs settled deeper into the couch.
“Okay. I’ll just . . . ” Ryland looked around again, looking adorably clueless and lost. “Take the dogs for a walk?”
The dogs perked up, naps forgotten, and jumped off the couch.
Ryland beamed, clearly pleased at having something to do. He got their harnesses and leashes on, tugged the front door open, then grabbed both leashes in his good hand.
“Don’t forget the—” poop bags, Dabbs was going to say, but Ryland grabbed them off the table next to the front door and exited with a cheery, “See you in a bit!” thrown over his shoulder.
Taking all of the energy in the house with him.
chapter eleven
Trying to figure out how to market and promote an indie book was a bit like navigating Vermont’s backroads with six different maps all depicting different routes.
Lying on his bed with his laptop on an adjustable laptop stand, Dabbs clicked through to yet another advice-filled blog and bookmarked it for future reference. There was too much information about indie publishing, some of it contradicting itself.
One website claimed that middle-grade sales were down year over year, but an indie bookseller proudly announced that middle-grade fiction sold better than young adult novels at his store.
“So I need to get into bookstores?” He scratched his head.
How did one do that?
Since he didn’t know any other middle-grade writers, he couldn’t exactly ask them for help, and cold-emailing published authors just seemed . . . weird.
One of his teammates illustrated children’s books, so Dabbs planned on talking to him about his experiences when the Trailblazers got back from their road trip.
Maybe he should submit the books to a publisher just to make his life easier? The trouble with that was he’d only receive a tiny portion of the royalties, and he wanted to maximize royalties so he could donate them all to charity.
He googled Reginald P. Stokes, the author of his favorite middle-grade series—of which he owned several different editions—to get a feel for Stokes’ marketing, but Stokes was with a publisher.
Oh, what was this? A company that, for a fee, helped authors self-publish by providing à-la-carte support, everything from editing to cover design to interior formatting to marketing and even legal advice.
And the author retained all royalties.
Huh. That looked promising. Dabbs bookmarked it to dig into later.
