Chapter Four King
My pain is gone. Well, I can’t feel it.
My career? Oh, well, I’ll care about that in a minute.
I just met my wife. The Orc War Maiden of my dreams. Only, she’s not an Orc. She’s not a War Maiden, either, not in the traditional sense, but that doesn’t matter to me.
Ingrid Antol is a warrior goddess, this... this gorgeous, fierce, hellion of a woman.
But she looks deceptively soft and cushy, and she has full lips, long lashes, and round cheeks, and...Well. That’s such a good combo. Looks soft and sweet. Is actually deadly.
She wouldn’t just be out in battle with a spear and an ax; she’d be reconnaissance. Deceptive and deadly.
I swallow, suddenly so turned on, I can’t think, my whole head wrapped in a cloud of her scent, a mix of ferocity, shea butter, and black currant.
I’m ashamed of how I acted, but I’m also completely okay with it because if I hadn’t acted like an ass, I wouldn’t have summoned up that side of her, and I wouldn’t have realized who she was.
An Orc War Maiden disguised as a plump, adorable receptionist.
When she pushed me back onto my butt in the office chair, it was all I could do not to reach out and grab her full, delectable hips, sink my hands into her ass, and pull her to me.
That woman is meant for me. My dad said it would be like this when it was real. That one minute, I wouldn’t have anyone in my heart, and the next—my heart would be my mate’s. She’d fill my head, all my thoughts, and all my senses.
Silverbows have often met our mates in confrontations.
But I don’t think it’s ever been this kind of confrontation—the kind where the male suitor embarrasses himself so badly that the War Maiden wants nothing to do with him.
She turned me down for coffee. For dinner.
If I keep staring, she’s going to think I’m a pervert.
I look down at the tablet in my lap, which is, at the moment, strategically placed, so...
Well, I’m not trying to be a pervert, but no one told my cock.
Or my brain.
I fumble for my phone and push in the first number under my parents. “Coach Torrey?”
“King! How are you?”
“Well, my leg’s not great,” I mumble. “The swelling is still pretty bad. Hey, I don’t know how to handle all the insurance stuff for my physical therapy and treatment plan.
I know the trainers made some suggestions, and they said it was based on what the doctors over here say.
.. Everything is fuzzy. I did hit my head pretty good. ”
“That you did, with no helmet. Even with that thick skull of yours...” Coach Torrey trails off, and I can hear him muttering and papers rustling. “I’ll take some photos of the stuff and email it to you, okay, kid?”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Oh, and you have this week off—but after that, you need to be at the games. Not the practices, yet. I know you’ll have to work with the therapist’s schedule.
But the games are all night and weekends for the next several weeks.
We have a mid-day game in Jersey in three weeks, but you’ll probably have a little more leeway by then. I hope.”
“Come to the games?” My voice comes out as a hoarse shout, but I quickly mute it. The brunette Valkyrie gives me a confused look.
I blush like a teenager.
I’m King. God’s gift to the ladies. Foot after foot of green muscle and inch after inch of pleasure with a knot to top off that feel-good cocktail.
But all she has to do is look at me sideways, and I’m on fire with a mix of desire to impress her—and just plain desire. Oh, and let’s not forget a new feeling—rejection. That really fucking burns.
“Yes! The team loves you. The fans love you. You didn’t die, you just busted your knee. You’re part of the team, and the team sticks together. No hiding in self-pity.”
“Listen, I—” Anger sparks in me. Torrey’s a nice guy, but he’s.
.. Content. He has drive, but in a cozy little spectrum.
I think he’s been the coach for the last twelve years, and as long as we win steadily, he’s happy.
He’s never entertained an offer from a major league, even though I heard Philly once offered him an assistant coaching position.
Never told us to play cutthroat to win. I don’t think he gets that this injury isn’t giving me self-pity, it’s giving me “my career is over.”
“No, no. I shouldn’t have said that. Of course, you’re upset. This season was going to be big for you. But King, you’re a tank. A strong, young, healthy tank. Years on the ice, and you’ve never had so much as a busted knuckle. That’s rarer than hen’s teeth.”
“Exactly.” I bite my tongue. I’m sure he knows I was looking to leave. It’s just that we never really talked about it, and talking about it now in some doctor’s office isn’t the right time or place.
Coach Torrey continues, voice quiet and firm. “You practice like you’re going to play.”
“I’m not going to be playing much of anything for a long, long time.”
“But you have to keep going. I believe you’ll be back, not just because you have the bones for it, but because you have the heart for it. King of the Rink. You love this game.”
That’s it. I love this game. I loved this game because it was something I could be good at, something that would have given me a career that still had some kind of meaning.
I’m not like other Orcs, the ones who have a day job but long to get back to the land, farming, hunting, tending the woods, fishing...
I’ll hike, but only if you push me.
If I don’t play hockey... I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who I am. I don’t fit in with the rest of the Orcs in my clan... I don’t have other passions. Me and hockey. That’s been my only relationship for the last five years, especially since my parents went back to Scotland.
Fuck, I’m a mess. And this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not yet. I wasn’t supposed to get to this point in my life until I was rich enough to ignore it.
Those bigger leagues were going to open bigger doors.
Like... I don’t know. Endorsements. Assistant coaching.
Coaching. Managing. Maybe even team ownership one day.
But all of that was supposed to happen when I was in my thirties.
Hell, with Orc strength, maybe it was supposed to happen in my forties.
I put my head in my hand and massage my temples.
The back of my head still pounds every so often.
“I don’t know what to do if I’m not playing,” I suddenly confess. “Sitting there watching is going to kill me.”
“No, it’s going to make you stronger. Sometimes in life, you have to hold others up.”
“I’m too weak to even hold myself up. I don’t even know how to use the damn crutches,” I say, and to my horror, my voice cracks.
“Well... I’ve been on them a time or two. Half the guys on the team have. We’ll help you learn.”
Kings don’t need help.
“I’m not supposed to need help,” I whisper, that stupid voice crack more magnified this time.
“You hit your head harder than I thought, boy. We all need help, and if you don’t think being there for your teammates helps, you’d better have your noggin x-rayed.
You’re never on the bench. The chance to have King Silverbow cheering for them?
Are you kidding? That’s going to be a career highlight for some of these guys. ”
Something taps my shoulder, and I jump. I can’t believe I didn’t even hear her leave her desk, but suddenly, the spitfire who gives new meaning to the words “curvy” is standing next to me.
She doesn’t look upset.
“Sorry, I’m getting the paperwork emailed to me,” I whisper, putting the phone to my chest.
“Oh, take your time. Um. I can help you with the crutches. Dr. Bailey and I can help you. That little demonstration I gave wasn’t the best, but I’ll have some time after the doctor sees you.
Um. Maybe we could practice after your session and.
.. get something from the new Italian place in the shopping center? ”
My jaw hits my collarbone, and I nod like an awestruck groupie. Believe me, I’m familiar with that look. “Thank you.”
I hear Coach chuckling. “Someone has a fan?” he says.
I’m pretty sure Ingrid can hear it, too.
I don’t know if I can resuscitate any of my confidence or smoothness right now, but I try to work up a sexy smile as I reply, “Oh, she sure does.”