Page 44 of Scoring the Orc

I turn back to my team, each one of them battered, their jerseys stained with the evidence of their toil. "Let's finish this," I say, my voice raw but ringing with command. "Together!"

Kraag nods, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow. Borka clenches his fists, ready to become the unbreakable wall we need. Rogar and Krodash exchange a look, a silent pact between them that no Stonebreaker will get past their guard.

We line up, our formation tight, a fortress moving in unison. The Stonebreakers throw themselves against us with the desperation of the drowning, but tonight, we are the storm, unyielding and relentless.

Hrogun, with the ball still in possession, makes a break for the relocated goal, now shimmering tantalizingly close. The crowd's noise swells to a crescendo, a tidal wave of sound that tries to drown us, but we are anchored by a single purpose.

I lead the charge, clearing a path for Hrogun. Every block I throw, every Stonebreaker I fend off, feels like striking a blow for every hard-fought moment of this match.

The goal inches closer, each step Hrogun takes fueled by our collective will. I glance back to see Gargash trailing, the fight gone out of him as he watches, helplessly, the inevitable unfold.

Stay down, you coward. Or I’ll beat the defiance out of you, once and for all.

Kraag and I stay back, fending off exhausted Stonebreakers as they try to catch up with Hrogun. They try to wrestle us down, but we’ve trained long and hard for this.

We let no one through. The crowd’s cheers intensify. Shooting a glance over my shoulder, I see Borka fighting off a Stonebreaker as Hrogun puts some distance between himself and the pursuing orcs.

“Fuck yes!” I say, raising a fist to the sky. “Go, Hrogun!”

29

EMILIA

My eyes swell with tears as I watch Jurto and his team fight off the Stonebreakers with everything they have. When Jurto went down, my knees nearly buckled in fear.

At that moment, my mind swirled with thoughts of us, of our relationship, of our potential future together.

And that’s when I realize that I don’t want to lose Jurto. I’m in love with him and I can’t imagine living without him.

No matter what happens, I won’t go with Gargash. I belong to Jurto. I’m finally willing to admit that.

The crowd gasps and cheers when a Bloodcrusher manages to sprint away with the ball in his possession. Jurto trails behind, blocking off Stonebreaker defenders who try to catch up with the player. Jurto even manages to slam into Gargash, who hit him with an illegal move earlier in the game.

“Is this it?” I whisper, clenching my fists until my knuckles turn white. “Are they going to win?”

My heart pounds like a drum, echoing the thunderous roar of the crowd as the Bloodcrushers reclaim control of the game. Jurto, sweat glistening on his broad shoulders, moves with a ferocity that both terrifies and mesmerizes me. Each muscle ripples under his skin, a testament to the relentless training and raw strength he wields. The sight of him, so powerful and determined, stirs up a heat in my core.

Gods, how can an orc be so beautiful?

The Bloodcrushers, led by Jurto, are a whirlwind of energy, their movements so synchronized it's as if they share one mind. They crash into the Stonebreakers with crushing force, each tackle sending shockwaves through the stadium. I watch, breathless, as they dismantle their opponents' defense, piece by piece. The Stonebreakers, once formidable and daunting, now seem to falter under the onslaught.

Jurto’s eyes catch mine for a fleeting moment, fierce and fiery, and I feel an electric connection that roots me to the spot. It's as if his glance alone can reassure me, promising me that everything will turn out right.

The Bloodcrushers push forward, the ball now a mere blur between hands. One of Jurto’s teammates, a massive orc with scars criss crossing his arms, breaks through the line. He barrels down the field, dodging a tackle with surprising grace. The crowd's cheers crescendo into a deafening wave, urging him forward, urging them all to victory.

Jurto, not content to just watch, plows through a pair of defenders trying to block his path. His determination is palpable, every fiber of his being focused on the win, on keeping me, on proving his worth and love in the only way he knows how. It’s brutal and beautiful all at once.

"Come on, come on!" I mutter under my breath, my hands clasped so tightly together they ache. The atmosphere is electric, charged with anticipation and fear. The scoreboard shows the Bloodcrushers leading by one point. They only need one more goal to score, and with every second that ticks by, the Bloodcrushers edge closer to triumph.

As the game nears its climactic finale, the tension is almost unbearable. The crowd is a mix of frenzied shouts and held breaths, everyone on the edge of their seats. The Stonebreakers rally, desperation clear in their quick, chaotic plays, but the Bloodcrushers are relentless.

The stadium erupts into a cacophony of cheers and shouts, the sound so loud it seems to shake the very ground beneath my feet. People leap up from their seats, waving flags and throwing drinks into the air in a frenzy of excitement. The air is thick with jubilation, and confetti begins to rain down, swirling in colorful whirlwinds around us. The Bloodcrushers have not only won; they have dominated, sealing their victory with a spectacular final play that will surely be talked about for seasons to come.

Jurto stands at the center of the field, his chest heaving, a victorious grin splitting his face. His teammates rush to him, clapping him on the back, lifting him into the air. Even from this distance, I can see the light in his eyes, a wild, triumphant fire. He's more than just a winner—he's a leader who has carried his team through storms and strife to this moment of glory.

The Stonebreakers, on the other hand, are a stark contrast. They trudge off the field, heads bowed, shoulders slumped. The weight of defeat is palpable in their slow, heavy steps. Some fall to their knees and pound the ground with their fists in frustration, others simply stare blankly ahead, lost in the shadow of their loss. The humiliation is etched on every face, a stark reminder of the brutal nature of this game where today's champions could be tomorrow's defeated.

Around me, the crowd is a living, breathing entity of its own, pulsating with energy. Fans of the Bloodcrushers chant Jurto’s name, a rhythmic, thunderous sound that fills the air. "Jurto! Jurto! Jurto!" they shout, as if their voices could lift him even higher. The atmosphere is electric, every soul in the stadium connected by the sheer thrill of the win.

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