Today on the site we’ve got a brand-new cover reveal: Team Phison by Chace Verity! And not only are we exclusively revealing the cover, but we’ve got an excerpt, too! First, of course, some info on the book:
For 55-year-old Phil Hutton, finding a new boyfriend is tough, especially since he’s still hurting from his ex leaving him for a younger man. Online dating has been a soul-crushing experience for the restaurant owner. Too many meat-haters interested in microbreweries or something called geocaching. His matches in the multiplayer for his favorite video game have been equally sucky too.
One night, he encounters a newbie who is so helpless, Phil can’t help showing him the ropes. It doesn’t take long for Phil to become interested in his enthusiastic teammate. 28-year-old Tyson Falls from Georgia loves working as a server in a rinky pizza joint and sees the best in everything. As Phil’s online dating matches get worse and his in-game matches with Tyson get better, he finds himself wanting to pursue the easygoing chatterbox with a thick, sexy drawl.
But Phil can’t get past the fear that Tyson could possibly want a fossil like him. If his brain doesn’t being so damn insecure, it might be game over for his heart.
And now, the cover!
But wait, there’s more! Check out this adorable excerpt!
Tyson’s the sort of guy who needs to talk all the time with everyone about everything. It’s a quality I don’t think anyone should have, but his genuine affection tickles my ribcage. He keeps trying to bring our various team members into our discussion, and he pouts when they don’t respond to his question.
Sometime in the middle of a “Defend The Flag Holder” mission, while Tyson takes the scenic route to our base, curiosity consumes me. Probably because I’m two drinks deep and pleasantly buzzed for once instead of annoyed. But it couldn’t possibly hurt to learn more about him.
“Say, Tyson, where’re you from? Georgia?”
He chuckles. “Did my accent give it away? You’re right. Athens. What about you, Phil?”
The screen flashes green after Tyson plants the flag in our base, causing him to erupt in a high-pitched cheer. The screeching doesn’t bother me though. I’m distracted by the memory of our last conversation. Are his eyes as green as our victory screen?
“Hey, Tyson. Did you ever figure out what color your eyes are?”
“Huh? Oh. No, I didn’t.”
Good grief. He’s pretty hopeless.
“Send me a pic, and I’ll tell you.”
A long and painful pause ensues. My cheeks burn, surely because of the alcohol. I shift in my chair and rub the back of my neck.
“Is there a camera on the system? I don’t see one.”
Oh, God, he looked. He wants to send me a picture. This isn’t the whisky making my head spin. I’m experiencing, uh, what’s that emotion called?
He exits the game, pushing me to new levels of uncomfortable. We’re still in a party so we can keep talking to each other.
“Message me your phone number,” Tyson says. “I’ll text it to you.”
My brain says no, but my traitorous fingers send him my number in no time flat. What’s the worst that could happen? He can’t steal my identity with it or anything. I think.
I’m not doing a lot of thinking right now, am I?
I exit the game as well and glance down at my iPhone. Waiting. Waiting.
My phone lights up, alerting me to a new text from an unknown number. Hardly a second passes before I open it.
He has small, beautiful brown eyes.
Tyson’s definitely in his late 20’s. Can’t quite gauge his height since it’s an awkward bathroom selfie, but he’s a bit soft around the edges. Probably has a beer belly. Sun-kissed skin. Dark, shaggy hair. Hasn’t shaved in a few days. Didn’t bother taking off his headset.
Goofiest fucking smile ever. And I kind of like it.
Is that not the most adorable?? Here’s where you can preorder it!
(Amazon coming soon!)
Chace Verity (she/they) is publishing queer as heck stories with a strong romantic focus, although queer friendships and found families are important too. Chace prefers to write fantasy but dabbles in contemporary and historical fiction as well. An American citizen & Canadian permanent resident, Chace will probably never be able to call a gallon of milk a “four-liter.”