Page 53 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

“I love you, Ingrid,” he whispers. “Even if you never love me back in the same way, even if you never love me back at all. My heart is yours. You already took it, your trophy, War Maiden. Queen.”

And while I’m still trying to breathe—he’s gone. Down the rest of the corridor, swinging himself on his crutches like an expert gymnast on parallel bars.

You could run after him. Take a leap. Trust he’ll catch you.

Say it back.

But I stand still.

“You belong over there.” Mrs. Y points to a flock of what I believe are called “ice bunnies” —bouncing, screaming, sexy, college-aged girls with perfect bodies. “Kings Kuties.”

“Ha. I’m not like those girls.”

“No. You’re better. You’re actually King’s Cutie. And you can spell,” Mrs. Y snorts.

“One of those girls showed up at his house,” I hiss, irrationally angry.How dare she put her hands on my... He wasn’t even my anything at that point.

“I know! I saw the videos.”

Sometimes I forget how with it Mrs. Y is.

“I don’t see her over there. But I do see a lot of posters in the stands. Look. Even my eyes can make out the words. Be on Someone’s Team. Team King. Kare for King—why can’t people spell? Alliteration exists without shillyshallying with the alphabet.”

It’s my turn to snort, but mine is a giggle. “Shillyshallying, huh? That’s a word I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Yes, it’s an old word, but I’m an old lady. Your young man turned out to be quite nice, and from what I’ve seen on the ‘net, he’s got a good heart to match that beefcake exterior.”

“Mrs. Yerchenko!”

“I’m too old to lie. It wastes breath, and who knows how many of those I have left?”

Well. That shuts me up—but I still stay in my seat.

It’s weird sitting in the locker room, only semi-suited up. In a jersey. No helmet. No pads. Leg in its plastic prison, crutches under my arms. Heart twisted like a sock stuck around the agitator in a washing machine.

“You don’t look okay. You want me to get the trainer?” Bryce slicks back his shaggy white mane and slides his helmet on over it. It’s go time.

“I don’t think he can help. It’s here.” I tap my chest.

Bryce’s eyes dilate with adrenaline. “Chest pain. Coach!”

“No! No, pipe down, furball,” I hiss, yanking his sleeve. “I told Ingrid I love her. We’ve only been going out for a week. I’m an idiot. And my career is probably over. Even if it isn’t, I’m literally no good to the team, and this makes it so much more obvious.”

“That’s not true. We’re playing the Scranton Penguins, and they have a handful of new players this year. You’ll be a hunter, sizing up the prey before you attack. Passing on tips.” Bryce thumps my back and almost sends me into the lockers headfirst. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I don’t admit that for all my thoughts about coaching... I’d probably suck at it. To coach, you have to be objective, watch others, think about others. I’ve been thinking about myselffor so long, and only about how I fit into the machinery of the team—not about how the team functions around me.

No wonder Ingrid didn't say it back. It was too impetuous, too soon, and she’s probably thinking the same thing. I’m not good enough at giving—except pleasure. I don’t think she’d argue with me about that. My hand crumples the jersey above my heart, and I try to force myself into game mode, try to shut everything else out around me.

“King! King! King!”

“That’s right, the Lumberjacks are proud to announce that King Silverbow is in the house, here to support his team and show his love to the fans while he’s indefinitely on the injured list,” Danny Clark, the voice of Pine Ridge sports radio, has a smile in his voice that warms me.

Chants and cheers layer over the voice of the announcer. I walk out and wave as best I can without holding up the works.

“It’s good to see him up and about only a week after his career-ending injury.” The Penguins have their own commentator, some guy sitting up in the booth across from us, high up with his headset on, the glass windows leaving him behind a sheet of glare. I can’t see his face, but I don’t like his voice.

Neither do the fans. Booing and hissing start to rumble around us. I’m secretly thrilled to see Ingrid up on her feet and shouting across the ice, as if the rival announcer could hear her, or as if he’d even care.