Page 72 of My Orc Package Deal

The crowd had been packed, the air thick with the scent of fried food and beer, and the way Milo had sat behind that drum kit—shoulders back, sticks gripped just right, his entire body listening—had made my chest ache with pride. Korrad had played guitar, his voice rough and warm as he sang some old orcish folk song I didn’t know, but the way Milo had locked into the rhythm, the way his eyes had glowed when his father nodded at him in approval…

I’d cried, okay?

I mean, I did it subtly, I like to think, because of the whole embarrassing-my-kid thing. But still, I’d clutched Joss’s hand and cried happily to see how proud my baby was to get that nod from his father.

And Jay, bless him, had been so bored he’d nearly face-planted into his plate of nachos. But when Milo had finished their last song, Jay had clapped louder than anyone, whistling through his fingers like a proper hooligan.

Now, watching Jay on the ice, I couldn’t help but draw the parallel. The way he skated—fast, aggressive, his stick handling like an extension of his body—was the same kind of rightness I’d seen in Milo behind the drums. Different talents, same fire.

“He’s got the puck!” I shrieked as Jay broke away from the defense, his skates digging into the ice. “Go, go, go⁠—!”

A defenseman from the other team—some kid almost as big as an orc—lined Jay up for a hit. I sucked in a breath, my nails biting into Korrad’s hand, but Jay saw it coming at the last second. He twisted, took the check on his shoulder, and still managed to fire off a shot.

The puck pinged off the post.

The crowd groaned. I groaned. Korrad’s grip on my hand tightened.

“Damn,” he muttered. “That was a hell of a shot.”

Last summer, after Jay’s stitches had come out, we’d focused on shooting instead of skating. I mean, the doctor had cleared him for skating—rollerblades or ice—as long as he was helmeted, but I didn’t want to risk any brain jostling. So we spent a month just practicing shooting on the net, and he has undeniably improved.

Jay’s line changed, and the new center won the faceoff clean. The puck squirted back to the defense, and I leaned forward, my pulse kicking up as the play developed. “Watch the winger—Watch the winger⁠—!”

The opposing team’s left wing cut hard toward the net, and our goalie—poor kid looked like he’d just hit puberty and was still figuring out his limbs—went down into the butterfly. The shot came fast, a slapshot from the blue line, and⁠—

Whack.

The goalie’s glove flashed out. The puck froze midair for a heartbeat, then dropped into his mitt like it was magnetized.

The crowd erupted. I screamed so loud my throat burned.

“YES!” I jumped up, nearly knocking over the poor woman beside me in my excitement. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Korrad was laughing, pulling me back down before I could start a full-on conga line in the stands. “You’re gonna give the poor kid a complex with how hard you’re riding him.”

“I’m supporting him!” I protested. “There’s a difference!”

“Uh-huh.” Korrad’s eyes were crinkled with amusement. “And what’s the difference, exactly?”

I opened my mouth to retort, then paused. “One involves more screaming.”

Milo burst out laughing, and even Korrad cracked up, his deep chuckle vibrating through me where our arms pressed together. Gods, I loved this male. Loved the way his joy was so big, so unapologetic.

Loved the way he let me be exactly as extra as I wanted to be, without ever making me feel like I was too much.

The game resumed, and I forced myself to focus. Jay’s line was back on the ice, and this time, when he got the puck, he didn’t hesitate. He drove straight for the net, his skates carving sharp turns, his stick handling as if he was born with it in his hands. The defenseman tried to line him up again, but Jay saw it coming.

At the last second, he dropped his shoulder, took the hit—and still managed to slip the puck between the goalie’s pads.

The red light flashed. The horn blared.

I lost my mind.

“YYYYEEEESSSSS!” I was on my feet again, my voice raw, my hands clutching the railing like it was the only thing keeping me from levitating. “THAT’S MY BOY! THAT’S MY BABY!”

Korrad was right there with me, his free hand slamming against the bleacher in approval. “Atta boy, Jay!”

Milo, meanwhile, had his hands clamped over his ears. “I’m pretending I don’t know you.”