Page 1 of Falling for the Orc All-Star
Chapter One: King
Alot of hockey players have rituals they do to psych themselves up before they hit the ice. In my case, I don't need to psych myself up. As soon as I hit the ice, the fans do all the work.
I think it's because my parents expected great things from me. I mean, the Silverbows have always been important in our part of the Highlands and in our paranormal-friendly community of Pine Ridge. A name like King was just my parents’ way of making sure that everyone else would realize how important I would be.
I take one last look in the mirror and flash my tusks along with my pearly whites. In my opinion, they are the perfect size, not too big, not too little. The entire effect is perfection—not that I’m taking credit. My mother was by far the prettiest Orc War Maiden of her generation. I got her good looks, and my Dad’s thick, dark hair that just keeps getting thicker and more lustrous. I tilt my head at the mirror and give it a wink, the overhead fluorescent light flashing off one pearly, dangerous tusk. Yes, under this pretty jawline and gorgeous head of hair, there’s an Orc who is completely ready to dominate.
“That’s what we’ve got to do,” I whisper to myself before my helmet goes on and I take my place in the line of my teammates waiting to enter the arena. We’re going to dominate today, because this is the first of a three-game pre-season series that will set the tone for the season,andbecause the scouts from the majors are in the audience tonight. Why? Forme.
I finally got an agent this year, and he’s been busy putting bugs in the right ears. He’s stirred up enough interest that scouts are here, taking a look for last-minute additions to their rosters. I had coffeewith the guy from Philly this morning. After the game, the guy from Toronto, my agent, and I will go for dinner. Maybe drinks.
If I play my cards right, this will be my last series in sleepy little Pine Ridge, and I'll be into the majors with that major league life, that major league money, and finally, time to get serious about finding that trophy wife.
The announcer calling the names of my teammates to the backdrop of a stadium roar is just white noise until they get to my name, King Silverbow. I was the highest scoring member of the team last season, powerful and light on my skates. Most people forget that Orcs are not just tanks, we’re hunters. Well, we used to be, before supermarkets. In the Highlands and Hebrides, where my family comes from, Orcs run through the glens and hills and dart through forests and rivers stalking hinds and hares as a matter of survival.
Not that humans would think I’m an Orc, tank or otherwise. Most humans can’t see “monsters” for what they are (human brains tend to turn anything out of their normal realm into something they can cope with). If they could, I don’t know if I’d have the massive cheering section that bursts into screams when the spotlight shines on me as I skate to the center line.
“Huge turnout,” one of my teammates mutters as he waves.
“Sure is,” I reply, blowing kisses to the dozen girls in front row seats, all of whom have tiny crowns perched on the sides of their heads, their sweatshirts emblazoned with the words “King’s Kuties.”
“Oooh, it's good to be King,” I whisper to myself as one busty blonde starts jumping like a terrier on steroids.
You could lose all this. These people know you. Love you. Some of the people in town even know what you are, not justwhoyou are. Here, you’re the big fish in the little pond, but it’s a pond that worships you. And the pay isn’t bad.
I shake my head to clear away that little doubting voice. Small towns equal small town heroes, and that’s not me. I’m ready for the big time.
Bryce Frobisher, the only other non-human on the team, skates over to me and elbows me in the shoulder. He can do that because he's a yeti, and he's taller than me by half a foot.
“You haven't been transferred yet, buddy. Get your head in the game,” he grunts as he skates away.
“Hey, man, I'm going to miss you, too,” I laugh, trying to catch up to him as we take our entrance lap around the ice while the crowd shouts the Lumberjacks’ rallying cry of “Timberrrrr!”
“Want me to put in a good word for you with my agent, Bry? Or maybe I could just talk to the scout directly?”
“Save it!” Bryce chuckles, waving at his wife, who is also our team's official photographer. “Fia and I love this schedule. We can travel together for both of our jobs. Plus, setting up home in Pine Ridge means we'll be close to people who are going to understand our kids.”
“Kids? You’ve only been married for two minutes!”
“Two months!”
“I didn't even know she was pregnant.”
“She’s not yet, but we're having fun working on it.” Bryce gives me a devilish smile.
Maybe someone else would be grossed out by that little bit of information, but there is a whole level of “family talk” that exceeds “locker room talk” in the paranormal community. Probably because our fears of recreating past human-monster drama have led to decades of living in hiding, and so many of us are dying out as a result.. When your people are going extinct, having kids becomes a major goal. Gotta save our kind, you know? Or maybe it's just because we're all horny. Someone told me once that living in PineRidge has something to do with it, too. Three intersecting Ley Lines cause a whole lot of mystical energy and, possibly, high sex drives.
“You do you, man. You know monsters blend in pretty much everywhere. Your kids would be fine in Philly or Toronto. I don't need to stick around Pine Ridge.”
“You might regret not sticking around. You don't realize how good you have things until you lose them,” Bryce says with a sage smugness that makes me want to headbutt him.
“Okay, married man. Just becauseyoutied the knot and got all serious doesn't meanIhave to.”
I skate away. Time to take our positions for the game. And this game has to be my very best. I'm not going to let myself think about things like the future, marriage, or kids until after I have a signed contract in my hand.
Even though Bryce and I are on different wavelengths right now, we still play the same way. Like predators on the hunt. He knocks them out of the way, and I fire the shots. Everything is fast and hard and primal.
Adrenaline makes me roar, and I slam my shoulder into an opposing defender from the Hershey team. He flies back, and I speed ahead with a growl. My stick hits the puck with enough force to snap it into two pieces.