Falling for the Orc All-Star (Monster Brides Romance #41)

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, and because the scouts from the majors are in the audience tonight. Why? For me.

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 coffee with 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 just who you 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 Pine Ridge 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 because you tied the knot and got all serious doesn't mean I have 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.

“Yes!” I scream when the shot flies past the goalie as the buzzer sounds.

The scouts have got to love that. They’ve got to see how amazing that was, how amazing I am. Last year’s high scorer, 2023 MVP, and a two-time minor league all-star?

It’s in the bag.

I rip my helmet off even before we get in our lines to shake hands with the other team, skating in an exuberant lap, waving at my fans. I’ll miss them. Especially King’s Kuties.

Orcs typically wait until they find their mate to indulge in certain carnal activities, but I’ve been known to have a little fun on the road—nothing much, mind you, because most human women can’t take more than a few inches.

They’d certainly never take a knot. No, I need an Orc, a War Maiden.

Picture strong, gorgeous girls in green, who deserve to be worshipped.

But... My eyes fasten on the over-excited blonde with the King’s Kutie sweatshirt and a glittery crown perched on the side of her head.

Maybe tonight I’ll make her dreams come true and take the edge off.

I look up in the stands and see Nick, my agent. He’s beaming with both thumbs up. The scouts beside him are nodding, and one is already on his phone.

Best. Sign. Ever.

I’ll have something to celebrate for sure. I skate closer to the line of my unofficial cheerleaders, eyes locking with each one in turn.

I feel it before I see it. Something under my right skate. In a flash, I look down and see that it’s a red rose wrapped in a plaid ribbon. Nice touch.

Except that it's stuck in my skate, wedged on the blade, and I’m waving to the crowd, gliding forward, and my leg doesn’t come with me. It twists with a sickening wrench, and the world is suddenly on its side, with me on my back, and the worst pain I’ve ever known is ripping under my kneecap.

I let out a single bellow of rage and pain as it happens in slow motion—the tearing behind my knee, the pain in my leg, and the ice hitting me on my unprotected head.

I don’t even black out. That would be nice.

Instead, I have to listen to the calls for medics and PT, hear the cheers turn to gasps, and see my teammates gathering around in confusion.

“Let me help you up, man!” Bryce rushes to my side.

“I don’t think so,” I hiss, trying to sit up. My head does not like that at all. Even though I have a thick skull, it dislikes having met the thicker ice, especially without a helmet.

“What happened?” The medic is skating next to me, kneeling with a red and white bag out.

“My skate got caught in one of those damn flowers. Felt like my knee twisted and then something tore underneath the knee cap,” I gasp.

“Can you move it?”

I try, and the pain makes me want to vomit. “No,” I gulp. “Not right now.”

“Get a stretcher out here. I think we’re looking at a sprained MCL.”

“A sprain? Oh, thank God,” I whisper.

The medic pats my arm. “Let’s hope it’s not a tear.

Either way—ooh.” He stops speaking as he undoes my pads and slides them carefully off my leg.

I can see why. One knee looks like I’m smuggling a baked potato.

“I’ve never seen one swell up so fast. You probably started working on this during that final collision with Chekov from the Hershey team.

He went flying, but you were the battering ram. ”

“I was? I don’t even remember...” Hockey is full of injuries, knocking people out of the way, grappling over the puck with shoulders jamming into chests... I never get hurt. I never, ever get hurt. I’m an Orc. I’m a fucking tank! I’m King, King of this rink!

“I think you can forget about a sprain. I’m pretty sure this is a tear, a bad one. They’ll do an MRI to be sure.”

“But the season. I just...” I look desperately for my agent, not that I can see him through the wall of my teammates’ legs.

Coach Torrey is by my side now, pushing his way past his players to put his hand on my shoulder, his gray eyebrows high and his face soft and reassuring, a far cry from the usual “Give ‘em hell” face he usually wears. “Don’t you worry, King. Even if it’s an MCL tear, that rarely requires surgery.

Maybe a few weeks off the ice. We’ll see, but we’ll get by.

You don’t panic. You rest and do what the doctor says.

Boys,” he turns to the rest of the team, “go do the usual. Wrap it. Smile pretty. Frobisher, make sure Fia puts some of the shots on the website and sends some off to the Pine Ridge Gazette. I’m going with King to the hospital. ”

I close my eyes and groan.

This can’t be happening.