Chapter Nine King
Having a distant cousin by marriage who is a witch is handy. Farrah Fenclan comes into the house, sets down three giant bags, and stares around the place.
I’ve been hobbling around, trying to clean things up. I’m not a messy person; it’s just that I don’t usually have company. My dining room table holds a stack of papers and magazines most of the time. My kitchen is only for putting away groceries and the bare minimum of cooking.
Still, when you can’t move easily, things somehow get messy, fast.
Farrah glares. “Your mother would faint. I’m sorry, poor boy, you’ve had a rough go of it.
” She flicks her hands around as she unpacks the food, and each flick tidies up something.
Clothes vanish off the back of the couch.
Dishes fly out of the dishwasher. Curtains open and napkins fold themselves neatly. “There. That’s a little better.”
“Can you fix my knee?”
“How long do they say it’ll take?” Farrah asks, pausing to pin up her long, silvery-blonde hair with her slender fingers.
All of her is slender and willowy. For the first time, I wonder how in the world this little human married an Orc and had twins—even if one of them looks like a full human, the other one looks like and, more importantly, is the size of a full Orc.
I mean, yes, I’ve wondered how Orc-human couples make things work, but with Farrah and twins, it’s mind-boggling.
How did she not get snapped in half? “Uh. Anywhere from six weeks to six months,” I answer, bringing my mind away from questions about Orc-human coupling with a snap.
Do not think about Ingrid in that way in front of... well, anyone.
But it’s on my mind. I don’t want just a little fumble with her.
Ever since I had to fend off Miss Handsy earlier, I’ve been thinking about Ingrid and how I don’t just want a single night of pleasure.
I want her. All of her. And I want her to take all of me.
I want... Wow, so many things that I thought were “afterthoughts,” accessories to the kind of life and career that should come first.
Farrah clicks her tongue. “The law of exchanges, dear. Six months of healing done in a few minutes? That’s six months of depleting something else, whether it’s another body part, another area of health, or your finances...”
“If I don’t get better, they’re not going to sign me to another contract, I know that,” I mumble. “And there go the finances, anyway.”
“Well, dear, let’s not borrow trouble. What plan did you have in place to cover you if you ever did get hurt? Hockey isn’t exactly a gentle game.”
“I never planned to get hurt.”
She rolls her eyes, and I realize how stupid that sounds now. “I’m an Orc! We’re...sturdy.”
“Aye, and the bigger they are, the harder they fall, remember that wee bit of wisdom?” she snaps, her melodious voice sharpening. With a deep sigh, she relents. “You could always talk to Ian about working with him to maintain the hunts and grounds?”
“No. I mean, no, thank you.” Traditional Orc work.
Nothing wrong with it—unless taking a job like that would make your father gloat and rub your face in it for years.
Privately, of course, while bragging about you to everyone else.
“Why couldn’t they have just named me John?
” I whisper, eyeing up the apple crumble and the jug of thick yellow custard beside it.
“Funny how a little time away from the hustle and bustle makes you rethink everything, isn’t it?”
“No fair using witchy mind-reading,” I grumble, reaching for some of the buttery, sugary brown streusel-like topping on the apple crumble.
Farrah smacks my hand away. “Nothing of the kind. It’s when you see your life change that you really think about what kind of life you want. Why do you think Ian and I stayed here instead of going back and forth to Scotland, like so many of our clan?”
“Uhhh...”
“This is a town where a human and an Orc could thrive together, where children, one who looks like me, one who looks like Ian, could succeed. Find families of their own.” Farrah smiles. “The hockey is much better over here, isn’t it?”
“I’ll give you that. Fifty-one teams to nine...”
“Who is joining you for supper, love?”
“Kev and Marina, and Ingrid. She’s a receptionist at the physical therapy center.”
“Just met her, then?”
“Yesterday.” Seems like longer. Feels like longer. I mean, I guess it would, since she’s been in my thoughts all day.
“You like her?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
“You’ve been reading your Ultarn the Prolific?”
No, she’s not suddenly talking gibberish. Ultarn the Prolific is an old-timey Orc who wrote the literal manual on wooing and winning your bride, and then keeping your wife and the mother of your children satisfied and in love with you once you’ve gotten her.
I’ve never done more than glance at the copy my dad gave me when I turned seventeen. I have killer cheekbones and a hockey jersey to my name. Plus a huge... Well, I don’t need a book.
“Sure. Yep.”
“Liar.”
“They’re going to be here soon,” I hedge. “Thank you so much for bringing this. I owe you.”
“Hm. No owing, young man.” Farrah collects her bags and kisses my cheek.
It takes me by surprise. We aren’t “close.” The Fenclans and Silverbows are very different clans. For a second, it makes me wish my mother were here.
“Thanks for dinner.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Come over sometime. Bring your young lady.”
If I ever get one.
Turned down one today...
“If I ever get the right one,” I reply, mostly to myself.
Farrah looks at me. “Put the lemon balm ointment on your knee. It’s got healing in it, and the exchange is all mine and nature’s, so it’ll do no harm, only good.
And if you really want that young lady to be the right one, find out what matters to her, and make it your goal to bring it to her.
The best treasure is your whole heart—so find out what matters to you, too. ”
“Hockey.” Instant answer.
I expect a retort, but Farrah nods vigorously. “Good! Hockey. And since you can’t play it right now, you’d best figure out how you can honor that part of your heart even while you’re off your skates.”
Honor that part of myself. Honor the game.
No, no, no. The game honors me. The game is my stage. My spotlight. If I can’t skate, it does nothing for me. I do nothing for it.
And that... That suddenly seems very wrong.
I glance at the clock on the dining room wall. “I have to send a text.”
“I’ll leave you be.”
Inever get to send the text. I had my phone tossed under a couch cushion on vibrate. When I finally retrieve it, I have 137 notifications.
Well wishes from people in the community, dozens of offers of “let us know if you need any help.”
Texts from teammates checking up on me.
Texts from Coach.
Eight messages from my mother.
And about seventy tags on social media because of the King’s Kutie debacle.
Everyone seems to be on my side, saying that she crossed a line.
I sit, crutches leaning against my knees, and move slowly.
Honor that part of yourself. Honor the game.
I hit record without even checking my hair—and my hair always has to be perfect if I’m not straight out of a helmet.
“Hi. Thank you all so much. The love and support that people have shown since I’ve been injured is incredible.
I just... I just want you to do something for me.
See, Pine Ridge is the best community in the world, and Lumberjacks fans are amazing—with a few little lapses of judgment here and there.
I’m taken care of. But can you do me a favor?
Go give some love to someone else who’s struggling.
Someone who doesn’t have their own team.
Be someone’s team today, okay? Oh—but I still expect to see your butts in the seats at every game.
I know I’ll be there, even on crutches. I’ll be the guy screaming loudest on the bench. ”
I stop recording, hit post, and swallow. Sink back.
Was that cringe? Was that sappy?
Did I have stuff in my teeth?
I lean forward and consider deleting everything, but—Kev yells outside my door. “King! Can we let ourselves in? Don’t get up!”
“Come in!” I shout back, then mute my phone. I’ll deal with the fallout from my utter patheticness later.
“There you are! I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies and brought some protein shake powder.” Marina rushes in, a body that screams sex, wrapped in a white sweater dress and stiletto heels. The only other women who can move that gracefully on a razor’s edge are figure skaters.
And before you judge me, kindly remember that rusalkas lure men to their watery graves like sensual sirens, and if Marina wasn’t reformed, Kev would literally be sleeping with the fishes.
Back in the day, before she met Kev, I always knew Marina would be a friend-with-benefits if I was desperate.
She feeds on sexual energy, so sleeping with her would’ve basically been her equivalent of grabbing a bite to eat.
It was a pleasant contemplation we never needed to act on, but I didn’t mind thinking about it.
Now? There’s nothing. The tight white dress, the chestnut waves of hair, the seductive smile she can’t turn off even if she wants to? Nada. Zip.
“Thanks, guys. Where’s Ingrid?”
“She’s on her way.” Kev’s eyes are glued to the roast boar shoulder on a platter, still steaming. “How does this look so damn amazing?” he groans.
“A little magic. I think Farrah put some sort of temperature spell on it,” I say, easing myself to my feet with some minor cursing. “Painkillers are wearing off.”
“Yeah, well, don’t go reaching for them just yet. I don’t need you addicted to those things, man,” Kev says with a grave face. “You just need a distraction. Sit down and eat a cookie.”
“Well...” I sit and take a cookie from the plate Marina pushes at me. “I’m in my head a lot. It’s hard to get distracted when you can’t do anything.”
“Hmm.” Marina nods. “You could regale us with the story of the girl who showed up and threw herself at you?”
I wince. “I think that might have been my fault. I flirt a lot with the King’s Kuties.”
“Your own unofficial cheerleading squad. Legend.” Kev reaches for a cookie. “But also, flirting doesn’t mean yes. Same rules for men and women, man.”
Marina coos and kisses his temple. “This man is going to be a wonderful example for his daughters. He’s right, too. I think there’s also a time and a place. You were clearly out of it in that video.”
“I’d just woken up.”
“Yeah, plus you’re one-legging it. She got the double-no-no of groggy and injured. She was being predatory.”
“Overeager.”
“No, man, look at the video again.”
“I didn’t even know she was filming,” I moan as Kev pushes his phone in front of me.
“You posted a video of your own?”
I shrug. “I’ll probably delete it later.” My socials are full of my best plays, clips from my All-Star games, and my best fan interactions—things my agent says the majors want to see. My heartfelt treacle isn’t on brand. Doesn’t belong there.
“Good God.” Kev looks at his screen and then at me. “You only posted this five minutes ago.”
“Yeah.”
“There are already one hundred comments. Listen, ‘Donating to my local hospital. Be Someone’s Team.’ ‘Helping my neighbor with her newborn tonight. King’s Team.
’ ‘Giving to Hockey Fights Cancer tonight. On Someone’s Team.
’ ‘I’ll be at the games all season. Lumberjacks Fever.
’ What did you say?” Kev looks at me in a mixture of shock and maybe just a little bit of horror.
I share the feeling.“I don’t even know. Something good, I guess.”