Page 52 of Grumpy Pucking Orc
“Then I agree. We should skate first, eat some ice cream, and see where the night takes us.”
The night was going to take us straight back to either his house or mine.
I followed him through the door, just now realizing that the guard was an amused audience to our conversation. The stadium was empty and mostly dark except for the hallway leading down to the team areas. Everything was industrial in design with concrete floors, block walls, and ductwork overhead. Ozar gave me a brief tour, showing me the luxurious—and empty—gym, as well as the meeting room and offices. Then he ushered me into the team’s locker room. I hesitated a brief second, not sure if I’d find a bunch of naked orcs inside or not.
The locker room was just as empty as every other room and hallway we’d been through. It was pretty standard. Walls of metal lockers with wooden benches lined up parallel to them in the center of the room. Toward the back, an open doorway led to tiled showers, the individual spots separated by half-walls. To the right, another open doorway led to toilet stalls with urinals and sinks. Glancing around, I noticed there were not the expected motivational posters on the walls, no action pictures, not even graffiti. This could have been an upscale high school locker room instead of one for an NHL team.
I was more disappointed that it was immaculately clean, with the faint scent of lemony cleaning product, than anything else. Not that I wanted to be hit with the aroma of damp, dirty socks, but there should be that warm odor of muscular athletes. And orc sweat had a fresh, earthy smell that from last night’s knife fight I’d discovered really turned me on.
Ozar opened a locker and pulled out a pair of skates. Aswe sat side by side to lace up our footwear, I broke our companionable silence.
“None of you wear pads or helmets when you play?”
He grunted. “Except for the goalie, no. Only the humans wear those.”
I hesitated, not sure if that was because they weren’t as susceptible to injury, or because their pride kept them from wearing safety gear.
“We only have pants, skates, and our sticks,” he continued. “And a plastic device to protect our hand-axe from impact. We didn’t used to have those, but after Morag took a puck between the legs, the team owner provided them.”
I sucked in a horrified breath, and Ozar grimaced.
“Morag’s walnuts were the size of oranges for days, and his hand-axe still curves to the right.”
“Oh God!” I couldn’t imagine how painful that had been. “What did the team doctor say? Did Morag need to see a specialist? Is he still on medical leave?”
Ozar frowned, processing my flurry of questions before answering. “He will play this next game. The healers here aren’t familiar with orc medicine, so most of the team doesn’t go to see human medics or go to human healing facilities.”
Once more, I thought of the lack of medical and dental providers for nonhumans. Demons and angels wouldn’t need such things, but other beings clearly did. It was horrible that Morag had suffered when there should have been trained individuals to ease his pain and ensure he suffered no lasting or permanent damage from the injury.
“Could an orc healer come here to train the human doctors on your medicines and treatments for illness or injury?” I asked, truly worried about one of them becomingseriously hurt and dying before we could figure out appropriate medical care.
Ozar shot me a puzzled glance. “Why? We are tough and heal quickly. Even at home, we seldom go to a healer.”
“But you’re not at home; you’re here where the human healers don’t know how to treat you,” I countered. “At the very least, the team doctor should understand orc anatomy and medical treatments. Right now, there are only a few dozen orcs among us humans, give or take, but what happens when there are hundreds of orcs living here? Or thousands?”
His puzzled expression remained. “There will never be hundreds or thousands of orcs here. We come in groups and will probably return home before a new group arrives.”
I felt a strange heaviness in my chest at his words. What did he mean “return home”? Were they tourists or on some sort of supernatural H1B visa, forced into jobs by the angels? Was this thing between Ozar and me the equivalent of a holiday fling? Did he plan to eventually thank me for a lovely time, and go home?
Or maybe I’d misunderstood, and the whole “return home” thing was a hundred years from now. I had no idea how long orcs lived, or what constituted a vacation for them.
It was ridiculous to be thinking of that when I hadn’t known Ozar for even a week. Still, it stuck in my mind. I couldn’t let myself fall for him, couldn’t get serious when I wasn’t sure if he intended on sticking around for at least my lifetime.
“I’d feel a lot better if you and the team wore the same level of safety gear that’s provided to the humans,” I told him, forcing my thoughts back to the team and the potential for injury during a game.
He grunted. “No. We do not wear helmets and pads.”
I bent to finish tying my laces, hiding my eye roll. Stubborn, grumpy male.
Skates on, I stood and waited for Ozar to do the same. He was a little wobbly getting to his feet, and put a hand out on the wall as he stomped his way out of the locker room and down the tunnel to the ice. I followed, watching him and wondering what I could do to make him more balanced and confident on his skates. After our mock knife fight last night, I knew that the huge orc was incredibly light on his feet and could move with a nimble grace that belied his size. There was no reason for him to be so unsteady now, aside from perhaps a lack of experience.
Ozar hesitated at the end of the tunnel where the carpet met the ice, then launched himself forward. As I watched him, I noted that he had improved since the game last weekend. He still tended to stomp his blades into the ice and propel himself forward by digging the toe of one skate into the ice and using it to push off. Wincing, I felt sorry for whoever maintained the surface, wondering how much time the Zamboni needed to spend going over the ice to fix the divots the orcs dug out each day.
I glided onto the ice, slowly circling around to get a sense of my surroundings and skating backward a few feet before stopping. The stands were dark, but the ice was lit like it was game day. For a second, I felt the exhilaration of what it must be like to play professionally for a packed crowd. I imagined the roar of the crowd, the echoing din of the announcer, the adrenaline rush as teammates took the ice. I loved my career and wouldn’t have made a different choice if I’d had the opportunity to do it all over again, but for a brief second, I wished I could have been good enough to play any sport in the big leagues.
Then I looked over at Ozar, who was watching me with his dark eyes.
“How do you make that look so easy? How are you so graceful on these knife-blades?”
