4. Ellie
CHAPTER FOUR
ELLIE
Veskar was easy to talk to, which felt like a minor miracle on my second full day on the job.
“—and that’s when Mikael tried to convince Coach that protein powder counted as a vegetable,” he said, leaning back in his chair with his plate balanced on one muscular thigh. “The orc was dead serious. He had a whole argument prepared.”
I laughed, forking up another bite of roasted chicken. “Did it work?”
“Not even a little. The coach made him skate sprints until he admitted he was wrong.”
The break room hummed with conversation, dozens of people who spent most of their waking hours together talking all at once.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on the purple accents scattered throughout the space.
Team logos. Framed photos of playoff runs.
A banner from two seasons ago when they’d made it to the finals.
This was good. Exactly what I needed on my first day.
A short time ago, Veskar had cornered me in the hallway after I’d finished helping Patty inventory the supply cabinet, asking if I’d eaten yet. When I said no, he’d steered me toward the break room, not leaving room for argument.
“Are you settling in okay?” he asked, reaching for his water. “Patty’s great, but she’s used to us, when for you, it’s all new. It would be normal to feel overwhelmed.”
“I’m managing. She’s been really helpful, actually.”
“Good. That’s good.” He grinned, his tusks catching the light. “If anyone gives you trouble, you just let me know. I’ll handle it.”
“I appreciate that, but I can handle myself.”
“I believe it.” He gestured to my plate with his fork. “You like the food? The chef does a decent job, considering she’s cooking for a bunch of orcs who’d eat cardboard if you put the right sauce on it.”
“It’s great. Better than I expected, honestly.”
“Yeah, the front office actually spends money on the important stuff. Food, training equipment, the good tape that doesn’t leave adhesive all over—”
A growl cut through every conversation in the room, a sound that came from somewhere deep in the chest and made every instinct you had sit up and pay attention.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned.
I knew without looking.
My spine straightened, the animal part of my brain responding before I could stop it. I kept my eyes on my plate. Fork to mouth. Chew. Swallow. As if nothing had happened. As if the air hadn’t suddenly changed.
Veskar’s grin spread wider. “Uh…Kedish is heading this way. And he looks—”
“I don’t care.” The words came out cool. A lie so clean it almost convinced me.
The footsteps got closer, heavy enough that I swore I felt them through the floor.
My skin prickled. I hated that I could feel him before I saw him. I wanted to throw my plate at the wall. Or at him. Everything inside screamed at me to look, but I wouldn’t. I cut another piece of chicken and stabbed it with my fork.
Veskar leaned back in his chair, a smile playing on his mouth. “Are you sure about that, Doc?”
Before I could answer, a chair scraped across the floor. Brashe Kedish sat down at our table.
Uninvited.
Veskar’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, Kedish—”
“I need a word with the doctor.” His voice came out flat. His eyes locked on me like I was the only person in the room.
I set my fork down slowly and met his gaze without flinching. “Then make an appointment.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
Up close, he looked different than he had in the hallway yesterday. The lighting picked up the small scar on the soft tissue above his right tusk and the faint shadows under his eyes. His shoulders filled the space across from me, broad enough to block out half the room.
He wasn’t smiling or deploying the easy charm I remembered from the picnic. He looked like he hadn’t slept.
“You work here now,” he said.
“Good observation.”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
Heat roared up my neck, but I kept my expression neutral. “For you, maybe.”
Around us, the break room had gone quiet enough I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the corner. Someone’s fork scraped across their plate. Veskar had stopped grinning, his attention locked on Brashe with an intensity that suggested he’d intervene if I gave the word.
Brashe’s eyes narrowed. Silence stretched between us, taut enough I could’ve plucked it like a guitar string, though I could not imagine why. He’d shot me down last summer. Pretty much insulted me. And now he had the nerve to imply there might actually be something between us?
“What exactly do you want from me?” I kept my voice low, controlled. “Because showing up uninvited to tell me I’m inconveniencing you isn’t a great start.”
His jaw worked as if whatever he wanted to say had stuck somewhere between his brain and his tusks. For a second, raw emotion crossed his face. Then it was gone, shuttered behind the same aggressive mask.
“Forget it,” he muttered.
I fumed while Veskar’s attention ping-ponged between us.
“Hey, Kedish.” Crim’s voice carried across the break room from where he stood in the open doorway. “Coach wants to see you.”
Brashe’s body went rigid. I watched the shift happen in real time. The aggression that had been rolling off him in waves suddenly snapped back, contained. His expression smoothed. He stood without looking at me again and walked from the room.
Crim strode over to join us, standing beside the table, his gaze tracking Brashe’s exit before settling on me. “Is everything alright?”
“Sure.” I picked up my fork again.
Crim’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Well, if Brashe bothers you—”
“He’s not.”
Crim studied me before nodding. “Good. I’ll see you later, El.”
He left the room, and I did all I could to stop my hands from shaking.
Veskar let out a low whistle. “Well. That was interesting.”
“It was nothing.”
“That was everything but nothing.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “What do you think that growl was about?”
“I have no idea. He’s an orc. Maybe you all growl.”
A smile flashed across Veskar’s face before he dropped it. “We do, but that usually means…” His dark gaze flashed to the door. “It can’t be.”
“What can’t be?”
“Nothing. I meant nothing.”
I set down my fork. The chicken suddenly looked like cafeteria food from middle school, back when I’d learned that the best defense against insults was pretending nothing hurt.
“Are you really alright?” Veskar asked, quieter now.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” My voice came out steady, but I’d had practice.
His brow narrowed, but he didn’t push. “Good point.”
I managed three more bites before I had to leave.
My appetite had walked out with Brashe, and I was annoyed at myself for letting it happen.
The scent of the berry candle I’d bought at the grocery store last week drifted through my condo.
The unit might be small, but it was functional. It came furnished, a wonderful thing, because I hadn’t owned enough to fill it on my own. White walls, beige carpet, and a couch that had seen better decades. Unpacked boxes sat in the corner by the window.
I’d been here a week, and I still had to think before I reached for the light switch.
My cat was on the kitchen counter, which she knew she wasn’t supposed to do.
“Get down, Marzipan.”
She stared at me with unblinking yellow eyes, then deliberately knocked my coffee mug closer to the edge.
“I’ll rehome you.”
It was an empty threat, and we both knew it.
I’d adopted her during my fellowship, after coming home to an empty apartment one too many times and realizing the silence was making me talk to myself.
The shelter had described her as independent and selective with affection, which I’d later learned was code for “this cat barely tolerates anyone.”
But she was eleven, and she’d been at the no-kill shelter for a long time. She had fluffy gray fur, and a perpetual expression that said she was judging me and finding me wanting.
I loved her.
Marzipan hopped down from the counter, her bushy tail high, and disappeared into the bedroom.
I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, and stood there, staring at the blue flame while my brain tried to process the last two days.
I’d handled whatever that was in the break room well.
You work here now. That’s going to be a problem.
For you, maybe.
I’d meant it. I had.
Hadn’t I?
The kettle whistled. I poured hot water over a tea bag and carried the mug to the couch, curling into the corner with my phone.
Three texts from Crim.
You settling in alright? he asked. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble. Including Kedish.
You already told me. I heard you then. Besides, why would Kedish give me trouble?
Just making sure. He’s been weird lately.
Weird how?
Distracted. More than usual.
I stared at the screen, unsure what to think about that.
I’m fine, I texted. Everyone’s been great.
I set the phone and my mug of tea on the coffee table and went to my bedroom to change.
I opened my closet to grab sweatpants. The yellow dress hung in the back corner where I’d shoved it when I moved here. Still taking up space.
I grabbed the sweatpants and shut the door.
That’s cute.
His dismissal had been so casual, followed by a look down my body that still made me cringe. I was a joke he didn’t have the patience to explain. After he’d turned away, I’d stood there in that dress, in the middle of his teammates and their families, doing all I could not to cry.
Since then, I’d practiced not caring. In the shower, making coffee, and while falling asleep. I’d rehearsed the version where it hadn’t mattered. Where I’d already forgotten his face before he’d turned away.
Brashe Kedish was exactly what I’d thought he was: a player with a reputation and an ego to match.
But today, in the break room, he hadn’t looked at me in the same way. He’d looked wrecked, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
Tomorrow, I’d see Veskar again for his ankle. I’d do my job. I’d prove I belonged there.
And I would not think about Brashe Kedish any longer.