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I typed up a bunch of messages, then added an offer that I knew I’d regret later.

At ten after midnight my phone rang. I looked at the name on the screen and groaned.

“Bwat.” My voice sounded hoarse and sleepy. “It’s midnight. Someone better be on fire or bleeding out.”

The orc cleared his throat. It was a few long seconds before he responded. “Neither is happening at this moment. You said to call before I posted, no matter the time of day. Would you like to set certain hours for phone calls? Or perhaps I should only text after midnight?”

I was absolutely regretting my offer, but then I remembered the cringy bride-seeking video and the agonizingly long video of knife-throwing, and decided a few sleepless nights were worth it if they prevented a social media disaster.

“It’s okay. What are you wanting to post? And where?”

Bwat cleared his throat a few more times. “I…uh…Dylan Emmet has hashed me and the team on both Instagram and TikTok. He is thanking me for the be-well basket I sent, and saying the combustion from hitting my arm was like taking a tree-branch to the head. I want to reply apologizing again and hoping he is not injured for long.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Hashtag. And it’s a concussion. Nothing has exploded or is on fire, he just jolted his brain when he hit your arm.”

“Thank you, Abby. I am writing those words down so I can explore the definitions in more detail. Do you approve of me sending another apology on both places?”

I thought for a second, mentally reviewing my social media strategy and trying to figure how that might work with this absolute geeky, cinnamon roll of an orc.

Then I remembered the poster of Wayne Gretzky.

“Do you know the term ‘chirp’?” I asked.

“The sound birds make?” he guessed.

“No. I mean, yes, but it’s also slang for smack-talk toward your opponent. You insult a member of the other team. They insult you back. It’s funny, and it gets fans interested. The point is that you are making fun of something that’s obviously not true. If you insult them about something true, then that’s mean.”

“I don’t want to be mean,” Bwat quickly interjected.

“I know. So you have to make your insults kind of crazy, so everyone knows you’re joking.”

“Like when we tell the other players that their mother’s come to our furs frequently and with great enthusiasm?”

“Umm.” I ran a hand through my tangled hair. “Not really. Many use those insults, but I don’t think that should be your style.”

“My style is to apologize and hope Dylan Emmet recovers quickly,” Bwat told me.

“Yes, but that’s not funny. He joked that your arm was like hitting a tree trunk. Maybe you can joke back that he needs to look where he’s going, or get a new prescription for his glasses.”

“My arm is more like a twig,” Bwat admitted.

I put a palm to my forehead. “How about you make fun of Emmet and not yourself?”

“I’d rather make fun of myself.”

I give up. I just give up.

It was late. I was exhausted. My eyes felt like I had a pound of sand in them, and I needed to get up early. Social media lessons with Bwat would probably be more productive when the team was back here in person. Until then, my motto needed to be “do no harm”.

“Bwat, go ahead and do what feels right. Just no videos over thirty seconds, no talking about your search for a bride, and no mostly naked videos or pictures of anyone unless they tell you it’s okay to put it up on social media. Actually, make sure butts and frontal groin areas are covered. Okay?”

“Okay. Thank you for the advice, Abby.”

“No problem.” I ended the call, slapped my phone face-down on the mattress, and instantly fell back asleep.

9

BWAT