Grumpy Puck

1. Calliope

Chapter 1

Calliope

I stare into the bathroom mirror. The insane eyes of a killer clown/plush bear hybrid glare back at me from underneath giant red spectacles.

“All right, Calliope,” I tell myself. “Time to get into character.” Creasing my brow, I growl, “Bearman angry. Bearman want honey—the sweet nectar, the poo of bee, not big-breasted Pookie-poo. Roar. Now Bearman want a piece of Pookie-poo’s ass.”

Under the clown-bear’s head, Wolfgang’s tiny toes reassuringly massage my scalp. I grab a rat pellet from my jean pocket and sneak it into my headgear.

Yes, I brought one of my pet rats to this new job. No, I haven’t learned my lesson, not even after being banned from every theme park in Orlando for getting caught rat-handed.

But how could I not let Wolfgang tag along? He gets terrible separation anxiety whenever I leave without him.

A toilet flushes, which I take as my cue to leave the bathroom and go in search of the ice rink.

Wherever that is.

Maybe I should have asked the HR lady? Or the coach?

This arena is enormous, way bigger than what I imagined a Florida hockey team would have. I wander down one hallway after another before coming across a beefy dude who reminds me of a kangaroo.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Which way is the ice rink?”

He tells me, but when I follow his directions, I end up in a chlorine-scented room where the water is still in liquid form.

“Do you think ice rinks are pools when they’re not sufficiently cold?” I ask Wolfgang.

As usual, I can picture his reply. It comes in a professorial tone with a heavy German accent:

Meine Liebe, the energy required to freeze such a large body of water would be astronomical. That electricity would be much better spent running pumps attached to a million cow teats so that the resulting milk could be turned into a billion bliss-filled cubes of cheddar.

I sigh. It seems like I might have to get my phone out and call?—

Do I hear a pack of hyenas behind me?

“Mr. Bloom!” someone shouts loudly before I can turn. “Are you ready for your swim?”

Mr. Bloom?

Wait a second. That’s the name of the mascot, which means?—

Someone pushes me from behind.

Shit. My furry arms flail like those of a scarecrow in a hurricane, and then I fall right into the pool.

Splash.

Adrenaline spiking, I rip the bear’s head off of me to make sure Wolfgang can swim freely. Then I spit out the nasty pool water that got into my mouth.

“What the fuck?” says a menacing, growly voice from dry land. “That isn’t Ted.”

Does he mean the guy I replaced? Shouldn’t everyone here know that he’s missing? Then again, maybe not. The coach did swear me to secrecy.

There’s a huge splash, and then a big, sexily hairy arm wraps around my waist under the water.

Okay. This is a rescue. Thank goodness.

I grab Wolfgang from where he’s scrambling to stay afloat and allow the arm owner to drag me out of the pool and set me down onto my feet.

“She’s dripping everywhere. Get her out of the suit,” says the kangaroo-looking guy who misled me with the directions. He’s one of several beefy dudes who are standing by the pool room’s entrance, clearly having snuck up behind me.

“Touch her, and I’ll break your fingers,” says the gruff voice of my savior.

“That’s pretty violent,” I say, turning to check out the speaker.

And… wow.

He’s shirtless and muscled like a god. His face is fierce, angular, and almost perfectly symmetrical, except for his aristocratic nose, which seems to have been broken at some point and then healed slightly imperfectly—which only highlights the perfection of everything else.

He slowly examines me through a pair of somber eyes that are darker than the inside of a black hole.

Oh, boy.

There’s stubble on his cheeks that I want to reach out and touch.

But I don’t.

If I were going to be inappropriate, I’d touch the thick hair on his naked chest instead. Body hair is my sexual kryptonite when it comes to men, and even now, cold and embarrassed, I find myself wet in more ways than one.

“Are you okay?” he asks in that growly voice of his, then tucks a wet strand of my hair behind my ear.

Oh. My. Fucking. God. His touch is like the sting of an electric eel… right on my clit. And nipples. And?—

“Call a fucking ambulance,” my savior growls at the kangaroo guy. “Do it fast, and maybe I won’t kill you for tricking me into pushing her.”

Wait…

“You pushed me?” I glare up at his ridiculously handsome face.

“It was a misunderstanding,” the guy retorts. “I thought you were Ted, and that one”—he gestures at either the kangaroo guy or one of the other muscle-bound dudes—“told me that Ted called me a?—”

“Look, Michael,” Kangaroo says conspiratorially. “Ted did call you?—”

“I’m not Ted.” I snatch my bear’s head from where it’s floating near the edge of the pool and watch with jealousy as Wolfgang scrambles up my arm to my shoulder and expertly shakes off his wet fur.

The asshole—Michael—narrows his dark eyes at my little friend. “Is that a rat?”

“No, it’s a giraffe.” I turn on my heel and trudge away with squelching sounds.

“Fucking fuck,” Michael growls. “Hold up.”

“Let me help you with those wet clothes!” Kangaroo shouts.

“Do not mention her clothes again.” Michael’s growl turns threatening. “Not if you want to keep the little marbles that pass for your balls.”

“So you’ve checked out his balls?” I say over my shoulder and immediately wish my oldest brother were here.

He’d have a pair of sponge balls appear out of thin air and would label my words a “mad burn.”

“Will you slow the fuck down?” Michael grumbles, falling into step next to me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“The ice rink.” Wherever that is.

“It’s cold there. You’ll catch your death. At least change first.”

“Yeah, into what?”

Apparently, when Ted disappeared, the backup mascot suit, along with all of his worldly possessions, went missing from his apartment.

Correction, my new apartment.

Yep. One of the main perks of this job is a rent-free place to crash, so I don’t have to live with the literal circus that is my family.

“I can help,” Kangaroo says, trotting after us. “Find some clothes, that is.”

Michael’s growl goes polar. “What did I just say, Jack? This is your last warning.”

Kangaroo Jack? I could swear my grandma was recently watching a movie with that exact title while rehearsing her tightrope-walking routine.

“I’m supposed to meet the team,” I explain without stopping. “The coach told me they’re about to finish practice at the rink.”

He also said that this first week is a probationary period, and that I’ll lose the job if I mess up. Or if Ted shows up with a “miraculously good excuse for his vanishing act.”

“You’ve already met the team,” Michael informs me. “Remember the morons by the pool?”

Oh. Great. I turn and face him. “Present company included?”

He frowns. “I’m on the team, but few people call me a moron and?—”

“You’re a moron,” I say.

Kangaroo Jack’s eyes widen.

“I pushed you, so I’ll ignore that this time,” Michael growls through teeth clenched so tightly their enamel is in big trouble. “Come back tomorrow. If our coach asks, we’ll all say?—”

“Fine.” Wolfgang would appreciate a session under a hair dryer. “It was not a pleasure to meet you.”

Unless we count his touch, that is, and the feast my eyes enjoyed until I learned what kind of a man he is.

Michael’s jaw tightens further. “The lack of pleasure was mutual, I assure you.”

“Those are not real sayings,” Kangaroo Jack complains.

“Go to the dick!” Michael snaps at him.

As far as I know, that’s not a saying either—but I like it and may use it on my youngest sister the next time she tries to show me one of her cringy contortionist pretzel poses.

I keep walking, ignoring the men trailing after me, and soon reach the small closet that was assigned to me as a dressing room. Before I can step inside, I notice that someone helpfully left a tall, skinny mirror right outside the door, sparing me from having to run to the bathroom the next time I suit up.

My reflection makes me wince. I look like a sad, soggy bear who’s just eaten a similarly wet clown… and now his tummy hurts.

Unable to help myself, I get into character. “Roar. Bearman so mad. Bearman wet, like pussy.”

There’s such a loud gasp from Kangaroo Jack that I half expect him to swoon when I whip around to check what’s wrong.

Wow. For some unknown reason, Michael is staring at me with such menace on his face you’d think I drowned his puppy, ate his kitten, and stuck his lucky puck up my butt.

“Do you know what happened to the last person who mocked him like that?” Kangaroo Jack exclaims in horror. Shooting a nervous glance at Michael, he informs me shakily, “He lost four teeth.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Michael growls.

“Oh, right. It wasn’t four,” Kangaroo Jack says, backing away from Michael as if he were radioactive. “It was seven.”