Page 6 of Thankful for My Orc
We get our name tags and table assignments, and I scan the room for exit strategies while Riley keeps putting her hands into her pockets and then nervously removes them again.
“Jordan O’Brien.” The deep voice comes from behind me, and when I turn, a massive orc is already approaching. The closer he gets, the more I have to look up—way up—to see an orc whose T-shirt proudly bears the Station 32 emblem. “I’m Chief Brokka. Welcome to Station 32.”
“Chief.” I extend my hand, trying not to stare at his tusks. His handshake is firm but careful, and when he smiles, it transforms his intimidating features into something almost paternal.
“Relax,” he says quietly, clearly reading my tension. “Everyone here is nervous. Even my guys.” He nods toward a group of orc firefighters who are standing in what can only be described as a huddle of masculine anxiety.
“That’s… oddly reassuring.”
“Good. Enjoy yourselves. And don’t let Kam convince you that his jokes are actually funny.”
Before I can ask what that means, a voice announces that the first round of speed dating is about to begin.
Riley and I separate and go to our assigned tables, where I find myself sitting across from a naga whose scales shimmer blue-green under the fluorescent lights. His name tag reads “Ssseth.”
“So,” I say, falling back on lawyer mode, “tell me about yourself.”
What follows is five minutes of stilted conversation about weather, work, and hobbies. Ssseth is perfectly polite, but there’s zero chemistry. The serpentine lower half of his body is fascinating from an anthropological perspective, but romantically? Nothing. When the bell rings, I’m genuinely relieved.
My next partner is a minotaur named Bront, who immediately launches into what sounds like a rehearsed speech about his job in construction and his passion for urban farming. I nod politely and make appropriate responses, but mostly I’m thinking about how I could be home in my pajamas right now.
“The key to sustainable agriculture in urban environments,” he’s saying earnestly, “is understanding soil composition and drainage patterns.”
“Fascinating.” I manage as I slyly scan the room, looking for the mystery orc from Riley’s news clip.
The third round brings me face-to-face with an orc whose opening line is, “So a lawyer, a firefighter, and an orc walk into a speed-dating event…”
He pauses dramatically, then grins. “Sounds like the setup to a bad joke, right? Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of those.”
I blink. “That was…”
“Awful? Yeah, my mate Emma keeps telling me that about my jokes. I’m Kam, by the way. Not actually looking for a date since I’m mated, but Chief Brokka asked me to participate to ‘even out the numbers.’” He makes air quotes with broad, black-tipped nails. “Usually I’m over at the rec center emceeing open-mic night—this is my punishment for all the lame jokes.”
“So you’re just here to torture people with bad stand-up?”
“Pretty much. Want to hear another one?”
Despite myself, I find my mouth twitching upward. “Hit me.”
“Why did the scarecrow get promoted?”
I arch a brow as I wait for the punchline.
“He was outstanding in his field.”
This time I actually laugh—a short, surprised bark of amusement. “That’s genuinely awful.”
“Thank you. I’ve been working on my terrible dad-joke repertoire for months. Emma says I need new material, but I think the classics never go out of style.”
When the bell rings, I’m almost disappointed. Kam’s jokes may be bad, but at least they’re not about soil drainage.
The fourth round pairs me with another orc—dark braids hanging far past his broad shoulders, ink curling in leafed patterns over green skin, and careful amber eyes. His name tag reads “Forge,” and unlike my previous partners, he doesn’t immediately launch into a conversation.
“Hi,” I say as he settles into his chair.
“Hello,” he responds quietly. Heat rolls off him across the narrow table, soap and smoke threading the air.
He looks like he’s having about as much fun as I am, which is to say none at all. There’s something almost painful about his obvious discomfort, like a warrior trapped at a tea party.
