Page 34 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

The good life.

Not an Orc’s life, that’s for sure. Do Orcs like wealth, land, and treasures? Sure. Do they like knocking heads together? Absolutely, and that’s just one of the perks of hockey. But none of that matters without clan. Family.

My visions of the future always used to end in a glittery champagne fantasy—and always before I’ve gone gray.

Now? Suddenly, I see Ingrid and me, bundled up in jerseys and mittened hands, both going gray, cheering our lungs out while our kids play. I see a big old house, with a bigger yard, and grandkids chasing the future generations of dogs. I get to hold Ingrid’s hand as we sit outside in rockers or on a porch swing. White haired and gray. Wrinkles around her eyes and the sunlight glinting in her hair.

God, she’ll be every bit as beautiful. No, more beautiful, because she looks so happy, and so loved.

I think I finally understand what they say when they refer to someone as “breathtaking.” I let out a gasp.

“I know, right? It’s not what you think of when you hear ‘senior living.’ I’d move here if I met the age requirements. You have to be sixty-two or older,” Ingrid whispers.

I blink and come back to the present. This place gives “expensive comfort” vibes, like a blend of ritzy hotel and sweet small town. There’s a fancy granite concierge desk with a big vase of cala lilies on it, all sleek and shining blacks, whites, and grays—and there are tons of family photos lining the walls, and laughter and the sound ofBoogie Woogie Bugle Boycoming from a large living room (library? game room?) to the left.

“This is a nursing home?” I mutter.

“No. This is a senior apartment building. Everyone has their own room, kitchenette, and bathroom, and we have some B&B amenities, like daily room cleaning and offering a hot breakfast and daily tea. There’s a kitchen and dining room you can book, too, if you want to make a bigger dinner one night and have your friends or family over. Hi, I’m Grace Sanderson.”

I wobble around slowly to see the woman addressing me, again thinking about how much life can change in a couple of days. You never really think about how awesome it is to have working legs until they stop working right.

“Hi, Grace. I’m—”

“Oh, my God! It’s King Silverbow!”

“I’m King Silverbow,” I finish as the crowd in the library-game room-living room comes trotting over. Most of them make straight for the dogs, who are adorable and licking every wrinkly hand in sight. But two older men with gray stubble and thick glasses are beaming at me.

“I took my grandson to see you at the All-Star game last year! Pride of Pine Ridge!” The thinner of the two men says.

“I heard on the news you busted your leg, son. But you’re a machine! I remember the game against Hershey when you bulldozed Sheckowsky! My late wife, bless her, asked for your autographed jersey for her 89th birthday,” says the stockier one. His face softens in memory of his late wife. “I couldn’t afford the autographed one, but the kids and I got her a Lumberjacks sweatshirt. My Carol was always a big fan.”

“That’s so nice to hear. Thank you.”

I swallow and look at Ingrid. She’s not looking at me. She’s in doggie heaven, watching Chip and Daisy get quadruple belly rubs and little scraps of hot dogs, lunch meat, beef jerky, or whatever the seniors saved back from their lunches.

I should ask Ingrid to get the treats I bought out of the car. The seniors can take turns giving the dogs some.

“I’m Lester, and this is Steve.” Lester, the thinner one in baggy plaid and jeans that are holding on by a prayer, introduces himself and his hockey-loving pal.

This is different. I like fans. I like interacting with fans. It’s an ego stroke, and who doesn’t like that?

But this is quieter.

Real.

And all I can think is that some sweet old lady who loved hockey (and for some reason that shocks me, too) wanted my signed jersey, and her family couldn’t get it for her. And now she’s gone.

“I’ll bring a signed jersey for you when I come back next week,” I announce, and yep. That’s now part of my plan.

“Maybe we could pick it up in person,” Mrs. Yerchenko interjects.

For an old lady, her hearing is still good.

“We’re going to the next afternoon game. Grace and Nyx are so good to us. They’re always planning little local excursions,” she says, beaming at Grace.

I almost scream when I look over my shoulder.

Grace has a man with her now.