Page 6 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

“And you gave hermyappointment! I can’t even drive right now! I had to get a lift from a teammate, and she just waltzes in and takes my spot? What kind of half-assed, shitty little—”

My voice snaps out, a verbal slap across his hysterical face to silence him. “Okay, that’senough.”

Sometimes my training fails me.

The little bell in my head that warns, “Danger, Ingrid Antol, danger!” must be on mute. The flashing red sign that reads “You’re going to get fired” must be broken.

Because the next thing I know, I’m pushing that big hunk of attitude down on his ass, into a chair, and getting in his (oddly) handsome face. It’s not hard. I’m standing, he’s sitting, and my head is pretty much level with his.

He looks gobsmacked, and I’m glad. It’s all that’s preventing me fromactuallysmacking him.

“That lady has been a patient here for five weeks, ever since she moved into the new senior assisted living community and fell down doing the cake walk at the Labor Day Picnic!” I say in a dangerously soft voice, slowly gaining decibels as I continue. “She comes twice a week, every week. We have her info. Patients only have to give their information once. Once they're in the system, we have them on file, and we only need their signature at each visit. You are a new patient. Also, you’re not ready for your appointment. You refused to give me your information, and you said someone else is footing the bill. I told you to call them. I offered to help you!” I suddenly, like the madwoman I’ve just become, seize his crutches, which are comically long next to my medium-sized frame, and then toss them back when I realize my idea won’t work. He catches them, eyes wide, while I storm away.

I get the pair of demo crutches from the office closet, where we keep the fold-up wheelchair and a few other mobility devices in case of emergencies. I come out striding on much shorter crutches, swinging myself around like a fluffy gymnast. “Thisis how you use crutches. You need to distribute your weight through your hands, wrists, and arms. You didn’t want to be told. Well, if you don’t learn, you’re going to have bruised armpits, not that I care! But Idocare, because it’s myjobto care about nice, sweet old ladies like Mrs. Yerchenko and big, arrogant jocks like you! So next time, don’t act like an idiot, and have some manners!” I end in a roar.

And the world is suddenly very silent.

King Silverbow is silent, his mouth open.

I’m silent, except for the blood pounding in my head. Oh yeah, and the little internal voice that’s going “Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit...” on an endless loop.

The door to the exam and rehab area opens slowly, and Kevin sticks his head out, his dark brown skin seeming several shades paler, and his eyes huge in his face.

“Ingrid... Can I have a word with you?” he asks hoarsely.

“Yes. Sorry, I...” I have no excuse. I mean, I can explain, and Kev isn’t exactly my boss, but he’s the guy in charge of patient care, so I guess if he hears me losing my shit at a patient, he’ll have to tell someone.

Someone who’ll be calling me into the regional office for a warning. Maybe a firing.

To my utter surprise, King Silverbow hauls his impressive frame up and stands between me and Kevin. “Oh, don’t worry, Doc. I’m fine. We were just talking pretty loud. I... I sometimes... I forget I’m not in the arena, and I get loud. She was just matching that energy. We’ll be quiet.”

Gratitude and relief flood me—and it’s kind of gross. I don’t want to have any nice feelings towards this jerk. Simple civility will do.

“Ingrid?” Kevin prods.

“What he said,” I say quickly, not quite looking at my friend. Which is bad, because then he’ll know I’m lying. “I got a little overexcited. Hockey fan girl,” I lie.

Kevin tilts his head. “Well... Mr. Silverbow, I just need to get Mrs. Yerchenko settled, and then I’ll be right with you. I appreciate your patience. She had a little accident that delayed her, but as you know firsthand, accidents happen.” He gestures to the crutches under my arms. “Giving him a demo, Ingrid?”

“I’m a pro,” I rasp and manage a smile.

When Kevin disappears behind the door, I sag in relief. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize to Mr. Silverbow, reminding myself again that he’s a patient, that he was upset, that he misunderstood—

But he cuts me off. “It’s okay. Um. I know I’m not going to be much fun and we can’t go skating or bowling or anything cool like that—”

“What?” I interrupt.What alternate timeline conversation is this?

“But would you have dinner with me tomorrow?”

Did he hit his head when I shoved him into the seat? Oh, that’s all I need. Get saved from a reprimand for yelling at a patient, get fired for concussing him instead. “Come again?”

“Dinner? You and me? Or just coffee?”

I look into his eyes, checking for pupil reactivity. His eyes are dark, darker brown than I’ve ever seen, almost the same midnight, inky black as his hair, but there’s a tiny flicker of gold, like a halo around the pupil. Both pupils are tracking and identical in size. He’s not concussed.

He’s just insane.

He’s looking at me in a way I’ve never experienced.