My life had gotten just a bit more interesting. Yes, I still needed to find a bride, but in the meantime my days wouldn’t befilled with staring at the walls of my hovel or the annoyance of going to the arena to watch the other orcs make complete fools of themselves. I could meet this entertaining group of geriatrics at their breakfast pub, then play games with them until lunchtime.
Then be completely bored for the rest of the day.
12
WILLA
Friday was always my busiest day work-wise. Early personal training appointments. A whole host of classes to lead through the day. More personal training appointments in the evening for my clients who were jump starting their weekend workout frenzy. Abby had bought us tickets for the home game tonight, but Ozar had arranged for free VIP tickets instead. Thankfully the people at the box office had refunded Abby because the second Tusks game was not exactly a sellout. She would have been lucky to get half of what she’d paid for those seats if she’d tried to resell them online.
It bothered me more than it should have. Lots of sports teams sucked. Lots of sports teams had trouble filling the seats. This wasn’t a new thing in hockey or football or baseball or any other sport, professional or not. And it certainly wasn’t a new thing in Baltimore. Even great teams had crappy seasons.
But none of those teams were trotted out like a bunch of circus clowns for the audience’s amusement. I hated that the orcs were unwilling participants in this comedy act. And I hated having to witness it once more. But I loved to root for the underdog, so I’d scream and cheer and hope with every fiber ofmy being that they could at least score a goal. And maybe not get beat quite as badly as they had last week.
My last client session ran a little late so I didn’t have time for more than a quick hose-down in the gym shower. Throwing on the jeans and T-shirt from my duffle bag, I raced out the door and drove my ancient car like I stole it through downtown traffic. Grabbing a spot in the first open parking lot I saw, I ran to the arena, adding to the already extensive amount of cardio I’d done today. Lookout cheese nachos, because I earned every one of those calories.
Abby and Jordan, whose jobs didn’t have the weird hours mine did, were already there. Jordan had left my ticket for me at will-call, so I was able to breeze right through the gates. She waved at me and I saw that Abby’s hands were full of beers. I’d just made my way over to them when Stephanie came dashing up.
“Sorry! Sorry! Time got away from me and I didn’t think you all would appreciate my showing up covered in drywall dust,” she said.
“You’re just in time.” Jordan said as Abby proceeded to pass out the beers.
Once inside the seating area we flagged down an usher to help us find the seats. He led us all the way down to the ice where we were positioned right behind the Tusks’ bench.
I eyed the seats nervously, not sure how I felt being this close to the team. Normally I would have been thrilled, but even given the number of times Eng and I had screwed I still didn’t really know where we stood. Should we act like we hadn’t met since that night at McHenry’s last week? Pretend we didn’t recognize each other? Make it clear to everyone around us that we were a…thing?
But what sort of thing? Casual sex thing? Not-so-casual sex thing? What we had could hardly be called dating. In the end, Isprawled into my seat and decided I’d just follow Eng’s lead and keep my mouth shut and expressions neutral until he indicated I should do otherwise.
Thankfully Abby went on a rant about the team’s non-existent marketing and public relations efforts. I ordered my much-anticipated cheese nachos from a stadium vendor and people watched. The seats were more than half empty, which was sad given how much Baltimore loved their sports teams. Maybe Abby had a point.
The Tusks were nowhere in sight, but the Toronto team was already warming up on the ice. I pulled out my phone and looked up the team members, mentally running through guesses about their workout routines from their position and stats. Then, just because I was curious, I looked up the Tusks’ team members. They were brand spanking new, so the stats were a whole lot of zeros and blanks, but someone had managed to get blurry headshots with their name under each picture. It was pretty much impossible for me to guess the orcs’ workout routines since they didn’t seem to have any designated positions and they basically all looked like linebackers. I was guessing their day involved bench-pressing cargo trucks and telephone-pole javelin throwing. Maybe cardio. It was hard to tell when someone had that much muscle mass. If they’d been humans I would have suspected heavy steroid use and the inability to run better than a twenty-minute mile, but Eng had serious stamina along with his strength. Someday I’d need to see how fast he could run.
I could promise him a blow job if he caught me or something, since I’d learned Eng was very resistant to following any sort of orders without serious incentive.
Thankfully sex was a serious incentive for him.
It was for me too.
I turned my attention back to the ice as the announcer began the usual comments. The Maple Leafs were introduced asthey came through the tunnel and made a lap on the ice, their pictures up on the screen. Then the Tusks cautiously made their way out of the tunnel. They didn’t have the easy comfort on the ice that the other team did, but they weren’t flailing around, and no one took the whole team down like a line of dominos, so that was a plus. Still, the team needed balance work. Yoga at the very least. I ran through a list of exercises in my head that would help them be less awkward in what I knew was an unfamiliar sport.
The announcer struggled to identify which orc was which, hindered by the fact that none of them wore shirts, and thus none of them had numbers or last names to quickly cross reference. I’ll admit my mind went immediately toward the assumption that the announcers couldn’t tell the orcs apart. My whole life had been filled with racist jokes about how all Black people looked the same, or how it was impossible to tell Asians apart. The Tusks weren’t wearing helmets, and while the announcers were a good distance from the ice, they had the benefit of multiple camera angles, some zoomed in on the orcs entering the arena. There was no reason for them to have to rely on numbers, but they were clearly floundering.
“Grease paint.” I muttered. “If they’re not going to bother to remember what they each look like, then the least the owner can do is use grease paint to put numbers on their chests and back. And their last names.”
Did they have last names? Jordan had said that Ozar didn’t. He had one name, and then identified himself by his job back home and the name of his clan. Eng had done something similar when he’d introduced himself to me, reciting a litany of parentage, clan, and kingdom. But I didn’t want to make the assumption that none of them utilized a surname, any more than I wanted people to make assumptions about me based on the color of my skin.
Abby went on another rant about the headshots on the screen, listing off all the things a decent marketing firm could do for the team, whether they were winning or losing. As I watched the orcs awkwardly skate around the ice I wondered how I’d change things if I were in charge of the team’s training and conditioning. Don’t get me wrong, no amount of work on my part could make up for the absence of skating ability, ignorance of hockey rules, and complete lack of any strategy or game plan, but there were still things I’d implement that would complement what a coach, lots of practice, and a decent PR team could do.
I was still thinking of training plans when we stood for the national anthem. Then I got sidetracked by the fights.
There were only two fights, but they were hella fun. I couldn’t hear what instigated them, but it was clear there was a whole lotta chirping going on between the Tusks and the Maple Leafs. English might not have been the orcs’ first language, but they must have picked up enough insults to bait the Toronto team into throwing gloves. From there it was a blood bath. It took a while for the refs to get everything under control, only for another fight to start minutes later.
I couldn’t help but watch Eng, wondering if he’d remain bored and sullen at the wall, or if he’d join in. It wasn’t just his attitude about the game that fascinated me, but the fact that he was some prince back in his world. Princes didn’t exactly strike me as the sort who indulged in brawls, but it wasn’t like I knew any, human or otherwise. Eng was it as far as my brush with royalty. And the dude was snobby enough that I half expected him to turn up his nose at the whole melee.
But the orc didn’t even hesitate. The first punch had barely been thrown before he dove at the nearest human, a strange expression of glee mixed with relief on his face as he knocked the guy to the ground and hit him. The human was fully padded with a helmet on, and wasn’t exactly a novice when it came tofighting, so the brief battle was evenly matched. Both men bled, and both were breathing heavy when two demon referees pulled them apart.
“Damn. These guys can fight,” Stephanie said. “You sure they aren’t werewolves?”
“Unless orcs can also be werewolves, then I’m sure,” I told her.
