Chapter Seventeen Game
“Grace’s husband isn’t human!” Ingrid hisses at me, clasping my hand.
“You didn’t notice?”
“Well, not as much as I notice right now!”
Thirty minutes before game time. My team is in the locker room.
I’m going to be warming the bench, but for now, I’m helping Grace, Nyx, and Ingrid herd a dozen seniors into the row directly behind the players’ area.
Nyx has long black shadows unspooling from his arms, and they are steadying some of the tottery older residents, keeping them upright without their knowledge.
“Pretty cool, right?” I grin.
A little part of me is jealous. He’s helping so many people at once, and his wife looks at him with utter adoration.
I want Ingrid to look at me like that. I can tell Nyx is Grace’s hero. Damn it, I want to be Ingrid’s hero!
Am I having a selfish meltdown about who is more selfless?
No wonder she’s hesitant to give you her heart.
“No, it’s cool, I’m just... I’m surprised how many things I still miss, even now that I can see Pine Ridge better,” Ingrid murmurs.
“Something is in our seats. Should we move?” asks Mrs. Felice, the sweetest, most grandmotherly-looking lady with a purple cardigan, gray curls, and a sweet smile.
“No, no. Those are all for you.” I hurry over—well, as best as I can hurry with crutches and a big plastic brace around my knee. “VIP Lumberjacks jerseys. If you give them to me, I’ll make sure the guys sign them.”
“Oooh, my great-grandson would love that!” Mrs. Felice exclaims. The other seniors sit and start going through the bags left in their seats.
Steve holds his up, and his deeply lined face softens.
“I could make that out to Carol,” I mutter from the side of my mouth, not sure if it’s the right thing to say.
“You remember her name?” Steve’s eyes light up, and he looks ten years younger.
“I just wish I could have gotten it to her in time. I’m sorry it was so expensive. It never should have been. We’re just... minor league." My pride takes a wallop at that, but I shrug it off.
“Oh, son. You’re major league around here. And don’t you worry about that stuff. It’s all passed, and that was before I moved into Hilltop Home. The old house had a lot of work that needed doing, and we had our old dogs, and Carol’s meds, and the shuttle for her dialysis...”
“Well, that’s not going to happen again. If you want something from the Lumberjacks, you get in touch with me. I’ll give you my number. And hey... Steve, would you ever want to have a dog again?”
I’m having a hot flash.
It’s all centered between my legs, so I’m forced to admit that no, I’m not having a hormonal rebellion. Not of the pre-menopausal kind, at least. No.
King’s dad sounds like a pushy dad who expected perfection from his son, so much so that he gave him an ego the size of Texas, but Mr. Silverbow is also right.
King would make a good leader. When he has an idea, he puts it into action.
When he sees a need, he tries to supply it.
I’m stupidly turned on watching him step up and reassure the seniors that he’s their go-to-guy if they need anything during their visit, and I overhear how he talks to Steve about his late wife, their old home, and their ancient cocker spaniel and lab mix that have now both crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
“He’s cute, if you like them huge and solid,” Grace whispers to me, taking her seat.
“Thanks. Uh. Nyx is cute, too. If you like them... shadow-y?”
“Oh, he is solid most of the time now. Shadows can be helpful, though, especially since his shadows have mass. How long have you and King been together?”
“Oh, we’re not.. Not long.” I swallow down the refusal it feels natural to spit out.
Mrs. Y beams at me and leans over across Mrs. Felice. “Life’s too short to waste. Good for you getting what you want, not just what you need. You’d be surprised how many of us never got that chance.
I nod. Yeah. I probably would.
“I have to go to the locker room. They want me to walk out with the coaches and take my seat on the bench.” King comes up to me.
“That’s fine.”
“You don’t mind?”
“No.” I hesitate, and then stand up to kiss his cheek. Do I admit that suddenly, a little part of my lonely teenager life and my “always the fat friend, never the girlfriend” trauma just lifted off my shoulders? “Can I walk you there?”
King’s face loses its look of concern and turns into pure sunshine. “Yeah! Come with me!”
We walk side by side through the narrow walkways at the base of the rink where the team plays. “Sorry we can’t hold hands. Maybe in a few more weeks,” King apologizes.
“That’s okay. Um. You know what? Um.” I cough and swallow a couple of times.
“What?”
“No, it’s stupid.”
“Well... Tell me. I’m stupid.” King grins at me.
“No! No, you’re not.” I shake my head, lips instantly thinned in anger. “Why—”
“I don’t know. Big dumb Orc jock, right? Probably what a lot of people think?”
“I’m not one of them. Don’t you be one of them, either.
And... And maybe what I have to say isn’t stupid.
Maybe it just makes me feel that way, because I think I should be more mature.
More over it. Whatever.” I step in front of him and stare up into his eyes, watching the gold flecks in his eyes dance in the too-bright lights of the stadium.
“When the pretty popular girls always had friends and cliques that I could never get into, when, even on a team, I always felt like I was on the fringes, I wished... I wished I could be one of the girls walking with the hot jock, that they would see me, that I would feel... special to someone. That I had a handsome prince. Not super enlightened, but when you’re sixteen and can’t remember the last time you had a best friend and have never had a boyfriend.
..” I shrug. “Well. Tonight, I got to kiss the all-star, the most beloved player on the team. Tonight, I have the King. Don’t need the prince. ”
King says nothing. Just loses his smile.
There’s something deadly serious in his eyes as he approaches me, and I end up with my back against a wall, his broad shoulders looming over me.
“You were never a princess. You were a queen. Queens can go it alone if they have to. Queens make kings what they are. You’re mine, Ingrid. My queen. My reason for being better. Being even a little bit worthy of someone like you.”
His arms shift, one crutch drops, and I wish I’d seen him play.
He must have been more than just blunt force; he must have been so lethal, so fast, so graceful, because in a split second, he’s gone from towering above me to locking lips with me, bending over me like he’d tilt the world on its side just to reach me.
Everything is wonderful and perfect, and it hurts in my chest.
Because I think this is the fall.
Why the hell does it have to hurt?
“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 myself for so long, and only about how I fit into the machinery of the team—not about how the team functions around me.