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?”
