Page 22 of Smitten Pucking Orc

“For loving someone?” I said.

“Exactly.”

We turned a corner, passing a small park with a few benches, shade trees, and lush grass newly clipped.

Brashe sat on one of the benches with a large paper bag beside him. Four or five unhoused people clustered around him, sitting on the grass or standing nearby. He was handing out sandwiches.

I stopped walking.

Haley followed my gaze. “Oh, yeah. That’s Brashe for you.”

“He does this regularly?”

“A couple of times a week, he buys lunch and brings it here.” She glanced at me, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “He has for, like, two years, I think?”

“I didn’t know he did that.”

“Most people don’t. He doesn’t talk about it.”

One of the men said something that made Brashe throw his head back, laughing. The sound carried across the park. I’d never heard him sound like that before.

This didn’t fit with the cocky goalie I remembered.

Players didn’t do this. Assholes who dismissed women at parties didn’t spend their lunch breaks handing out sandwiches to people no one else saw.

We continued walking.

“Tolrek says he’s one of the good guys,” Haley said, easing around a hot dog cart with a woman selling lunch.

“The rumors about him⁠—”

“Being a player?” Haley laughed. “I’ve never seen it. He goes home alone after every team event. Doesn’t even flirt, really. I think people just assume because he’s, you know, big and orc and gorgeous, that of course he takes advantage of anyone who throws themselves his way.”

I tried to match what she was saying with the version of Brashe I’d built in my head. They didn’t fit. Not even close.

Haley had no reason to lie, and she’d been around the team longer than I had.

As we approached the restaurant, my thoughts stayed in the park, circling around the image of Brashe laughing with people the rest of the world ignored.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ELLIE

Veskar showed up for an ankle check at two fifteen, limping less than he had yesterday but still favoring that side.

“How’s it feeling?” I asked, gesturing for him to sit on the treatment table.

“Better. The tape helped.”

“Good. Let’s see it.”

I carefully cut off the old tape and examined the joint. The swelling had gone down, the bruising fading from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green.

“You’ve been icing it,” I said.

“I have.”

I rewrapped the ankle, layering the tape. Veskar watched.