Sweet Pucking Orc (The Orc Hockey League #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

HALEY

The restaurant was too loud, which made it exactly the right volume for a hockey team dinner.

Voices ricocheted off the exposed brick walls of the private room.

Someone had strung lights across the ceiling beams in an attempt to create ambiance, but mostly the space felt like what it was, an Italian restaurant that had cleared out its back room for a bunch of orc hockey players who would eat everything not nailed down and probably tip well enough that nobody would mind the noise.

Twenty-three roster players, give or take. Three assistant coaches. My father, Jim, the head coach. A handful of girlfriends and spouses scattered throughout, women who’d learned to navigate this kind of event.

And me.

The girlfriends were polite. They’d learned my name at some point over the last three seasons, though I suspected at least two of them still weren’t sure what I actually did.

Staff occupied a weird middle ground. Close enough to see everything, but not quite part of anything.

The spouses had their own table, jokes, and years of shared travel stories.

They didn’t exclude me on purpose. They just didn’t include me either.

Fine by me. I had a decent glass of wine and there was more where that came from.

My father worked the room, moving between tables with an easy authority that never looked like effort.

Suit jacket, no tie, and a shirt open at the collar.

He clapped shoulders, listened more than he spoke, and laughed at all the right moments.

A few of the newer guys watched him with the kind of attention that meant they were still figuring out what kind of coach he was.

They’d soon find out. He was good at his job, and decent in a way that made people want to be better at theirs.

The new acquisitions stuck out. We had three of them this year, all seated at different tables, all doing their best to fit in with the rest. Two were forwards, one of whom was a prospect called up from the minors, and the other was a veteran winger who’d been traded for cap space reasons nobody had fully explained to me yet.

They were both talking and gesturing, new guys trying to prove they wouldn’t be a liability on the ice.

The third new acquisition had found the quietest corner of the room and planted himself there like he intended to stay.

Tolrek Nosh.

I’d watched maybe forty hours of his footage over the summer.

I knew him the way I knew all of them, through the small persistent truths that built up across hundreds of clips.

He could read a play developing in front of him a half-second before anyone else moved.

He used his body to absorb contact differently at thirty-two than he had at twenty-six.

A defenseman, he’d never topped a scoresheet in his life, but he didn’t need to.

He sat alone at a two-top near the back wall, as far from the center of the room as the floor plan allowed.

Massive even by orc standards, he had to be at least seven feet tall, with dark hair pulled back, medium green skin, pointy-tipped ears, and tusks catching the light when he turned his head.

His hands rested flat on his thighs. He wasn’t fidgeting or reaching for a phone.

Just sitting the way you do when you’ve spent fifteen years learning how to wait.

His last team had traded him. That part I still didn’t understand.

The room pressed in the way crowds always did. It wasn’t unpleasant, just dense. Too many conversations were happening around me, overloading my brain in the small space. My father caught my eye from across the room and smiled. He was glad I’d come. I smiled back because I was glad he was glad.

But I’d been here an hour. My face hurt from smiling at people who weren’t sure why I was smiling at them.

So I did what I always did at these things.

I gravitated toward the edges, in particular, the corner Tolrek had claimed.

I set my wineglass down on the high-top table and leaned against the brick wall opposite him, letting the noise become background static instead of something I had to participate in.

Tolrek didn’t look at me. For thirty seconds we occupied the same bit of quiet, two people who’d found the same refuge.

“The loud one’s going to hurt himself,” he finally said, his voice coming out matter-of-fact.

He meant Mikael, a forward who’d been with the team for three seasons and spent most of that time operating at two volume settings, loud and louder. He was demonstrating something that involved a lot of arm movement and a chair he’d tipped back on two legs.

“Before or after he takes out the rookie next to him?” I said.

“During.”

My mouth twitched. I glanced at Tolrek properly for the first time.

He still wasn’t looking at me. His gaze tracked Mikael with the same detached focus someone might give a mildly interesting documentary.

His hands still rested on his thighs, and he had no drink.

I didn’t see anything to indicate he was doing more than existing in this space until he was allowed to leave.

“You’re not a fan of team dinners,” I said.

“No.”

A lesser conversationalist would’ve felt the need to soften that. Add something about adjusting to the new team, or how he was sure it would get easier, or literally any cushioning whatsoever. Tolrek just let the word hang between us.

I liked him.

“They get louder,” I said.

“I’m not surprised.”

“Especially once they bring out the limoncello.”

His dark eyes shifted my way. He wasn’t evaluating me the way men sometimes did. He was just checking to see if I was serious.

“That happens,” he said.

“Every time.”

“You’ve been to a lot of these.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but I nodded anyway. “Enough to know where to stand.”

Amusement crossed his face, gone before I could be sure I’d seen it.

And that’s when I realized he had no idea who I was. He showed none of the deference players defaulted to when they talked to the coach’s daughter, that thing where they were friendly enough to seem respectful but not so friendly it could be misinterpreted.

He was talking to me as if I was a regular person. It had been a long time since someone had done that.

This was the moment. I could’ve said, By the way, my last name’s Beecham. Just so you know. Just so this doesn’t get complicated.

It would’ve taken five seconds. It would’ve been the honest thing to do. Instead, I picked up my wineglass.

“I’m going to get a refill,” I said. “Do you want anything?”

“No.”

“You sure? It’s an open bar. You’re allowed to take advantage.”

“I don’t drink during training camp.”

“Smart.”

“Practical.”

I smiled. He didn’t smile back, but he didn’t look away either.

I went to the bar. The bartender was an older human guy who’d probably been working at this restaurant since before I was born. He refilled my glass without asking. I thanked him and tipped him even though everything was covered, and turned back to face the room.

Tolrek still sat in the corner.

I could’ve gone to the main table and found a seat near my dad or one of the assistant coaches, or even taken a space at the spouses’ table.

Instead, I strode toward Tolrek.

He tracked my approach the way he’d tracked Mikael earlier. He appeared aware of me, but he didn’t seem to care that I was walking his way.

When I reclaimed my spot against the wall, he grunted. “You came back.”

“I like this corner.”

“It’s a good corner.”

“Best one in the room.”

“Agreed.”

Noise swelled around us. Mikael’s story had reached its climax, and one of the other orcs was laughing hard.

“Do you know any of them yet?” I asked.

“Some.”

“From playing against them?”

“Yes.”

“Does that make it easier or harder?”

He considered this for a moment. “Easier. I know what they do.”

“Just not off the ice.”

“That part doesn’t matter much.”

My half-smile lifted before I smoothed my expression. “You don’t think chemistry matters?”

“I think it matters less than people say. You don’t have to like someone to know where they’ll be.”

It was such a perfectly Tolrek thing to say that I had to hide my smile behind my wineglass.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You think I’m wrong.”

“I think you’re optimistic.”

His eyebrow shot up. “No one’s ever accused me of being that before.”

“Then they haven’t been paying attention.”

That almost got him. I saw the split second where he nearly smiled, stopped himself, and filed the moment away in a place I couldn’t follow. He shifted his weight, leaning back in his chair, and for the first time since I’d walked over, he looked curious.

“What do you do?” he asked.

My belly dropped.

It was such a normal question. The kind of thing people asked in any social situation where two strangers were making conversation. He didn’t mean anything by it, but I felt it anyway.

“I work for the team,” I said. It was technically true.

His expression didn’t change. “Doing what?”

“Video analysis.”

“You break down tape.”

“Mostly. I tag footage, build scouting packages, and meet with players when they want to look at specific patterns.”

“That’s useful.”

“It is.”

“You travel with us?”

“Most of the time.”

He nodded slowly, processing that. “So you know the roster.”

“Better than they know themselves.”

“You know I’m one of the new guys.”

“It was hard to miss.”

He grunted. “And you came over here anyway.”

“You looked like you wanted to be left alone.”

“I did.”

“Should I go?”

“No.”

I sipped my wine. He watched the room. Near the front, my father laughed at something one of the assistant coaches said, and the sound carried over the noise the way his voice always did.

“How long have you been doing this?” Tolrek asked.

“Three years with this team. Two before that with a different organization.”

“You like it.”

“Most of the time.”

“Which part don’t you like?”

People always asked me if the hours were hard, if I missed having weekends free, or whether it was difficult being a woman in a male-dominated space. Surface things. Tolrek’s question cut past that.

“The part where I see something that matters and nobody listens,” I said.

He looked at me again, giving me the kind of attention that made me feel like I’d said something worth hearing.

“That happens,” he said.

“More than it should.”

“You tell them anyway?”

“Every time.”

“Good.”

The approval in his voice was so quiet I almost missed it. But I didn’t. I never missed things like that.

Across the room, Mikael’s laugh sounded like a car backfiring. Chairs scraped. Someone shouted, and half the table dissolved into laughter.

“You said you’ve seen me play,” Tolrek said.

It took me a second to catch up. “What?”

“You know the roster better than they know themselves. You’ve seen me play.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did you see?”

I didn’t sense any performance in his question. He wanted to know what I’d noticed, the same way he’d wanted to know which part of my job I didn’t like. I could’ve deflected or said something generic about his defensive structure or his gap control. Those would be safe answers.

“You hesitate,” I said, meeting his eyes.

His face didn’t move. “Explain.”

“Half a second. Maybe less. Before contact. You didn’t used to.”

“You’ve watched old tape.”

“Some.”

“How old?”

“Three seasons.”

He leaned toward me. “What else?”

“You protect your left side more than your right. You retreat from hits you used to welcome. And your best games were never about your numbers.”

“No. They weren’t.” Acknowledgment came through in his voice, the kind someone gave when they’d already known the truth but hadn’t heard anyone else say it out loud.

“Your old team didn’t see it,” I said.

“No.”

“They should have.”

“They had their reasons.”

“Bad ones.”

The corner of his mouth moved, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “You don’t hold anything back, do you?”

“Not about people being measured in the wrong units.”

He tilted his head and stared at me. “What’s your name?”

My heart kicked against my ribs.

“Haley.”

“Tolrek.”

“I know.”

“Right. New guy.”

“You’re the most notable acquisition of the off-season.”

“That’s what they’re calling it?”

“That’s what the reporters call it.”

“Reporters don’t watch tape the way you do.”

“No, they don’t.”

His gaze held mine a beat too long. I looked away first.

He didn’t know who I was, and he was looking at me like I was a regular person. That look was the tricky part. I was going to have to tell him soon, before this became a problem I’d have to deal with at work.

My dad continued moving, working the tables, shaking hands, and checking in. But his trajectory was angled in our general direction, and I knew that walk and the route he’d take. The people he’d stop to talk to. The amount of time each conversation would take.

I had maybe thirty seconds, but I did nothing with them.

Tolrek was still looking at me. I doubted he saw my father approaching, not until my dad’s hand landed on my shoulder.

“I see you’ve met my daughter,” Dad said.

Tolrek’s face didn’t move, and that was the worst part. I didn’t find anger or betrayal or surprise there. He stared at me, and the interest that had been in his eyes a moment ago disappeared so completely I wondered if I’d imagined it.

“Tolrek,” my father said. “Good to have you with us. Haley’s your best resource on tape. She’ll have a package ready for you before the first week of training camp is over.”

“I’m sure she will,” Tolrek said. Such a flat, polite, empty response.

My father moved on.

I remained beside Tolrek.

But he didn’t look at or speak with me again.