Page 14 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

I immediately put my seat back, trying not to scream with pain when my knee had to bend and shift sideways to get in the car.

Kev puts my crutches in the back. “Be good, kids. See you on Wednesday. Keep off that leg! Ice and elevate. Read your instruction manual.” Kev pats a sheaf of papers into my chest with a no-nonsense look. “Don’t be a tough guy, okay? Get better so you can get back on the ice.”

I swallow. I should have asked this earlier, but it’s all so much, so fast. It’s like a car wreck, but I keep telling myself what happened could have been so much worse. I might not even need surgery. No one died. No one else got hurt.

It’s not a car wreck, except it feels like my life got smashed.

“Do you think I’m going to get back out there?” I ask, looking dead into Kev’s dark brown eyes.

No one but an Orc or other supernatural species would smell the sudden whiff of fear and the twitch around his eyes.

“Sure! You might not be playing for a while, but skating... I mean, sure. Eventually.”

“How long is eventually? The end of the season? Next season?” I demand.

“That depends on a lot of factors, the first one being your ability to listen to your medical team. Eat right, rest, do your exercises, stay off that leg!”

Kev slams the door, and Ingrid starts the engine.

I’m helpless, and I hate it.

Orc men are supposed to provide for their mates. Even though we’re much more modern now, blending in seamlessly in the human world as accountants, stonemasons, civil servants, and whatever else you can think of, it’s still not out of place for Orc males to court in an old-fashioned way. My cousins in Scotland wooed their prospective wives with lavish gifts, handcrafted works, valiant acts of service—and a house full of supplies for their brides to move into at the end of summer. That’s an old Orc tradition. Marry by summer’s end, work together through harvest, and have the whole winter in a snug, cozy, well-stocked house to work on making the next generation.

If I wanted to court Ingrid, woo her to be mine—I’d picked the worst possible time to do it.

And I have nothing but myself to woo with. I can’t hunt right now, can’t do any grand gestures unless I do them on one foot and two sticks, can’t—

Ingrid puts the brakes on my self-pity with a squeeze on my hand. “Hey. I know it’s hard, but try to take one day at a time.”

“I’m trying. But it’s hard when one day might ruin your whole career, and you don’t—” I swallow hard, “you don’t have anything else to fall back on. Just like my dad warned me about.”

She puts the car in drive and backs out, a frown on her pretty face. Her soft face. She looks...

She looks like all the soft things I never get and am not supposed to want.

“No college degree?”

“Started. Got scouted sophomore year. A season of training camps. Signed a contract for two years. Signed a one-year extension. Got an agent this year to move me from the minors to the majors.” I close my eyes and lean back, my head completely over the top of the headrest. “Scouts and my agent were there last night. After the game, I was supposed to go for drinks. Shmooze. Sign papers today, or later this week.” I ball my fists and slam one down on my uninjured leg. “If I’m out for most of a season, or I get labeled as having a bum knee, I’ll never make it to the majors. And I’ll be stuck in Pine Ridge forever.”

I know I just vented like someone in need of therapy—another sign of weakness and poor planning. My father would have a field day if he could hear this.

To my surprise, Ingrid sighs and nods deeply. “I was going to be a Navy nurse. Thought I’d have an officer husband—someone like my dad. Then my dad and Mom got divorced and moved as far apart as they could get from each other while still living in the same country. Both got remarried within two years of breaking up. Everything I thought I wanted, I suddenly didn’t want anymore. And then...” she lets out a laugh, “guess who made it all the way through two years of nursing school before finding out that she can’t handle when patients ‘expire’?”

“Well, no one likes when—”

“I tried three different programs. Three different placements. Want to know what I found out?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Oh, be afraid. Be very afraid,” she chuckles, flipping that long, light brown hair. “I found out that patients can ‘expire’ anywhere, in any field, at any time. Routine dermatology? Allergic reaction to numbing solution on the neck. Airway closed. Elderly woman. Gone in three minutes. Pediatrics. Cancer. Genetic mutations.” She shudders, and I want to put my arms around her and protect her. “General practice? Young guy. A runner. Expensive suit. Nice watch. Talking on his cell phone one second, gone the next. Heart attack and stroke, boom-boom. Gone.”

“Oh, Ingrid.” I swallow hard.

“Life is too short. I decided that if my job made me miserable before I even started it, I should stop doing it and focus on what I like. Dogs. Traveling. Eating wonderful foods from all the different cuisines in the world. Swimming in the ocean every summer. Living in cute little mountain towns instead of big cities with Navy bases.”

I smile when she smiles. She’s suddenly so... vibrant. Not just pretty, but shining.

My prize.