“Attacker,” she decided.
I turned the board, and she moved her piece. She was surprisingly good at strategizing her moves, and it took me longer than I would have thought to win. Each of the elderly humans took a turn playing against me, some choosing to attack and others choosing to defend. The other humans watched, commenting on the game. One took pictures and spoke with Jerome and Hassan, then went on to talk with my elderly friends, recording their conversations.
After I’d managed to capture Piotr’s king, I gave my seat to Frank and let the humans play each other. As soon as I stood, the male who had been taking pictures and speaking with the others approached me.
“You’re one of the Tusks, right?” He put out his hand. “I’m with the Baltimore Sun. We got a call that you were going to be here showing these seniors how to play a traditional orc game.”
I shook his hand. “I am Eng, son of King Mrong of Clan Waragur. I am a prince, the heir to the largest of the orc clans and the kingdom of Waragur.”
The man tilted his head. “But you play hockey for the Tusks, right? I thought the only orcs in Baltimore were the hockey players.”
“I am employed by the owner of the Tusks to be on the hockey team.” I didn’t actually play hockey, and suddenly I was embarrassed to tell this male that my only participation on the team was to stand against the wall during the game and avoid either getting hit by the puck or the other players.
The reporter-male nodded. “So tell me a bit about this game you’ve been teaching the others to play.”
Happy to be away from the subject of hockey, I explained the rules of Hnefatafl and recounted a few pleasant memories of playing the game in my childhood. Then I stood for a picture with Hassan and Jerome, letting the reporter know that Jerome had been very helpful in assisting me with the supplies to make the game board and pieces, and that I highly recommended Al-Sayyed Hardware.
I’d done this sort of thing a million times back home. Ribbon cutting for a public bathhouse, shaking hands and congratulating shopkeepers as they opened a new location, giving scripted speeches on how valuable the efforts of our local guilds were in erecting the new city tower. This was nothing new, but the beaming smiles on Hassan and Jerome’s faces as Iclasped their hands and smiled for the camera gave me a sense of pride that I could help their business—not because I was born into a royal family, but because I was a member of a local professional sports team—a team where my sole contribution was standing against the wall in protest as others played.
The guilt I felt over that confused me.
“Come join us for family dinner tonight.” Piotr’s hand patted my arm. “We always have plenty, and I’d love to introduce you to everyone.”
I hesitated. The invitation was flattering, and I would love to eat with Piotr and his family instead of alone in some restaurant. But there was something else I needed to do. I’d made a promise to the shrew to do three things in defiance of my father’s wishes. TheFikmakpie boycott could wait. The declaration to have orclets on my own timeline would be best communicated in person. But choosing how I spent my life as a prince with no authority would take planning and thought. I knew the shrew meant for me to insist on attending a certain meeting for a topic I was interested in, or to decline a boring ceremony, but I took this task to mean something more.
If my father would not give me power in our kingdom, and if my rule would not begin for decades, then what did I want to do with those decades? I had a few ideas, but I needed to explore them further, to weigh the value of each before I made a decision. And that was something I needed to begin tonight.
So I politely declined Piotr’s invitation, letting him know that I would love to meet his family and break bread with them in the near future, but tonight I had other plans.
20
WILLA
Iwas one of the first children to arrive at my parents’ Sunday afternoon, which meant I immediately got to work helping my father clean the grill and fill the coolers.
“Remember the Baltimore Tusks? The all-orc hockey team that formed this fall?” I asked as I broke apart sets of juice boxes and put them into a small cooler labeled “kids” in black Sharpie on the side.
“How could I forget? They’re terrible. I don’t think those orcs even know how to skate. Why did that demon think they would make a good hockey team?”
“I think he was going for entertainment and novelty rather than actual sport prowess,” I told him. “But besides that, I’m planning to go to the owner this week and pitch my services as the team’s trainer.”
“Well, you can’t do any worse than whatever trainer they’ve got right now.”
Ouch. I know Dad didn’t mean it to sound that way, but it still stung. “They don’t have a trainer. Or a coach, or anything.”
Dad dumped a bag of ice over the sodas and closed the cooler lid. “Honey, you’re really good at what you do. Why would youwant to be the team trainer for a team where the owner doesn’t even care if they win or lose?”
“Because it’s the only chance I’ve got to prove that I can work with a professional sports team,” I argued. “No other team would even think of hiring a woman whose only work experience is at a small local gym. I’m hoping I can make a difference. And I want to have this on my resume. If it doesn’t work out or the team folds or something, then I can use the experience to springboard my career in a different direction.”
He nodded, handing me a bag of ice for the juice box cooler. “Okay. That actually makes sense. And I’m glad you’re staying in Baltimore.”
I put the ice down to give him a quick hug. Dad had always told us he never truly felt at ease unless we were all under his roof. That was becoming impractical giving the growing size of my siblings’ families, but I understood the sentiment. It was one of the reasons I cherished Sunday family dinner, and prioritized holiday and other celebratory gatherings. Family was so important, and I wanted to snatch every chance I could to be with them, to share the joyous moments and grieve together over the sad ones.
After a long hug, he patted me on the back and I pulled away. “Love you, Willa-beast.”
It was my childhood nickname given to myself after noticing the similarity between my name and wildebeests. That had spurred a fascination with the creatures that led to a lot of research and my parents’ belief that I might one day become a zoologist.
We finished up the coolers discussing the Ravens’ football season, then I went in to help Mom in the kitchen while Dad got the charcoal going on the grill.
