Grumpy Puck

3. Calliope

Chapter 3

Calliope

“ T he nerve of that guy.” I set Wolfgang onto the little table in my makeshift dressing room.

His beady eyes glint, as though with wisdom.

Meine Liebe, men like that need to unwind in pine forests, take warm baths, and eat copious amounts of cheese.

“Great. Now I have a mental image of Michael, naked, roaming the forest for honey… and then relaxing in a warm stream.”

Wolfgang rubs his front paws on his face, like my dirty thoughts have made him feel unclean.

“Whatever.” I scout the little room for something dry that I can wear.

Dusty magazines. Nope.

Expired Gatorade. Nope.

A pile of hockey jerseys. Score.

Stripping down to nothing, I utilize a few of them as the worst towels ever, then put on the largest one, which happens to be the number eight.

Okay. The jersey is scratchy and way too baggy, but it covers all of my girl parts, so it might just work.

I take a few steps and cringe. Going commando like this will suck. Maybe I’m better off wearing wet undies than none?

Someone knocks on the door so loudly Wolfgang squeaks and leaps off the table onto my arm before scurrying up to my shoulder.

“Who’s there?” I yell.

“Michael,” a familiar voice growls in a very bear-like manner. “Come out. Quickly.”

I approach the door but do not open it. “I’ll come out when I’m good and ready.” And when I have underwear on.

“Do I need to break this fucking door?”

“Didn’t we just decide not to talk to each other?” Despite my combative words, I use a soothing tone that Grampa taught me. He trained lions, but his techniques work on rats as well, so I figure a bear shouldn’t be that different.

“Fucking fuck,” he growls. “Can we start the not-talking after I get you out of this fucking building?”

Curiosity runs in my family, so I can’t help but open the door a crack. “Why are you getting me out of the building?”

“My stupid teammates are playing a prank on you as we speak,” he grits out. “In five minutes, all the doors in this fucking place will lock.”

Shit. “Why didn’t you say so from the start?”

“I thought telling you to come out quickly would be enough.”

The only reason I don’t argue is the lack of time.

I open the door fully. “Lead the way.”

He looks me up and down with a strange expression, then takes off down the corridor with ground-eating strides. Despite my longer-than-average legs, I have to jog to catch up, clutching Wolfgang to make sure he doesn’t fall from my shoulder. I don’t jog fast enough, apparently, because he stops at the first turn and glares at me. “Don’t you understand the concept of hurry?”

“I’m practically sprinting,” I huff. In fact, I ran out of the dressing room in such a rush that I’m barefoot. I also completely forgot to resolve the underwear question, and now I feel a draft on my nether regions, made all the worse by the dampness caused by Michael’s T-shirt clinging to his powerfully muscled back.

On my shoulder, Wolfgang chirps.

Meine Liebe, I usually prefer females, and rats at that, but even I have to agree—this man looks gouda.

“What the fuck is ‘practically’ running?” Michael demands. “Run like you don’t want to be stuck in this building all night.”

Not willing to admit out loud that he has a good point, I start actually running, and Michael picks up his own pace until we’re sprinting down the corridors and leaping down the stairs two at a time.

Despite the haste, just as we get to the doors that are our destination, something dings, and the stupid things lock right in front of our noses.

“Fucking fuckers.” Michael slams a fist into the door—to no avail. He then starts talking in tongues, or rather one specific tongue that sounds familiar to what’s spoken in Cold War-era movies.

“Are you cursing in Russian?” I guess.

He stops his soliloquy. “What other language would a guy with the last name Medvedev curse in?”

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t even know your last name.”

“Oh.” He takes a breath and exhales slowly, then extends his hand. “I’m Michael Medvedev.”

I know it would be smart—albeit rude—to ignore the proffered hand. However, something possesses me to shake it.

Wow. His grip is firm, and his palm is deliciously callused. And warm. And strong.

The zing to my clit is even stronger this time—for which I blame my lack of panties.

With effort, I let go of his hand and pull myself together. “I’m Calliope Klaunbut,” I say, pronouncing my last name as “claw-un-boot.” “And, as I said before, it is not a pleasure to meet you.”

“The lack of pleasure is still mutual.” He turns back toward the door and slams his fist into it again.

“Try your head,” I suggest.

He whirls on me. “Why are you so fucking calm? Don’t you realize we’re stuck here?”

“What do you expect me to do?”

He looks me up and down. “Worry about catching a cold or hypothermia?”

Actually, despite my lack of clothes, I feel hot… and bothered, but I’m not going to tell him that. “Is there a supply closet or something here where I can get more clothes?” I ask instead.

“One second.” He turns toward the door and beats on it so fiercely I half expect it to crack open.

But no. The heavy door takes the abuse in stride.

Michael turns back to me, looking like a bear who’s failed to catch a delicious salmon.

“If it makes you feel any better,” I say, not sure why I’m trying to reassure the asshole, “that looks like it’s built to withstand a hurricane.”

He grunts something unintelligible in response before turning on his heel and storming off in the direction we came from.

Wolfgang and I exchange a glance.

Meine Liebe, do you think he’ll brie back?

With a shrug, I follow the bear—and have to resort to running yet again to keep up. Which is why when Michael stops suddenly on the second floor, I run smack into him.

It’s like hitting a wall of pure, sexy muscle.

“In here.” He gestures at the door in front of us.

I check the sign above it. “The team’s locker room?”

“They aren’t in there.” He opens the door and holds it expectantly.

Oh, well.

I step inside, and the first thing I notice is the musky—but not completely unpleasant—smell of sweaty men. The second thing I notice is the huge mess.

“Now what?” I ask. “You expect me to steal something from your teammates?”

If he suggests I grab some of the dirty underwear lying about, I’m going to smack him.

“No stealing.” He walks up to some sort of a contraption. “This machine is meant to squeeze out moisture from swimwear. You can use it to get your own clothes dry.”

Huh. “Wait here.”

I rush back to my dressing room and come back with my stuff.

“Look away,” I order him.

“Why?” he growls.

“Because I’m about to dry some unmentionables.”

Did he just turn away too swiftly? What did he expect to see, horror-movie granny panties?

Whatever. I stick my undies into the machine and press the button.

The thing sounds like a starving hippopotamus as it does whatever it does. Afterward, I check my panties.

Nope. Still too damp to wear comfortably.

Fuck.

I run the thing again—and get the same result.

I pull out my phone from the pocket of my jeans and thank goodness that it’s waterproof. I then test the machine on the jeans, and it works out a tiny bit better, in that they go from soaking wet to unpleasantly damp.

Hmm. “No luck,” I tell Michael’s back. I bite my lip, debating, then decide to go for it. “Do you happen to have a brand-new pair of underwear?”

His shoulders tense, and for a moment, I think he might snap at me. Instead, he walks to the locker with a large number eight written on it and rummages inside. Facing me, he hands me a pair of men’s briefs and a sweater, then turns around.

I put on the briefs. Interesting. “They fit me perfectly,” I tell him. And can I hope I’ll be less turned on now that I’ve hidden my bits?

“Do they?” he asks without turning. “I guess we have the same size derriere.”

So… with him being taller and bigger than I am, did he just imply that I have a big butt? I mean, I know that I do, but it’s not polite for a man to just?—

“Can I turn back around now?” The words are dripping with irritation.

“Whatever.” I walk over to a section of the locker room that is covered in white tile, but all I find are showers, toilets, and urinals.

“What are you looking for?” he demands.

“A dryer.” Even a hand dryer could be helpful, except they have the paper-wasting towel dispensers here.

“If there were a dryer, I would have taken you to it,” he grumbles. “I mean, the custodial staff must have one to dry our towels and such, but I have no idea where that is located.”

“Oh.” I look at him excitedly. “Can we look for it?”

“There is no ‘we.’ Now that you’re not going to freeze to death, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

Pretending he didn’t hear, he strides toward the exit.

Curiosity getting a hold of me once again, I run after him and catch up just in time to see him pulling out an axe from the in-case-of-fire station.

Shit. Have I annoyed him to the point of murder?

But no. Pretending I don’t exist, he speed-walks back to the main entrance and smashes the axe into the door.

Which does nothing. I mean, there’s a scratch on the door, but it doesn’t yield.

He whacks it again.

Sexy lumberjack vibes galore, but still nothing.

Again.

And again.

“Hey,” I say with a wince after he whacks it extra hard. “All you’re doing is giving me a headache.” And making me far too wet again.

He drops the axe with a loud clang and spins around to face me, his nostrils flaring. “You don’t need to be here.”

“Oh, really?” I take a step toward him and jut out my chin. “The only reason I’m here is because of the stupid prank you and your team of assholes have pulled.”

He narrows his jet-black eyes. “I had nothing to do with the fucking prank.”

“Is that so?” I imbue the question with enough sarcasm to kill an extremely sturdy horse. “Did I push myself into that pool?”

“I told you that was a fucking misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” And then I can’t resist adding, “ Bearman .”

The sound that escapes his throat is the closest thing to a growl I’ve ever heard a human make. For some reason, though, I’m not scared. If anything, I’m even more furious that he doesn’t appear inclined to move or actually say anything in response. Like I’m not important, even when I taunt him.

Recklessly, I take another step toward him and give his ridiculously hard chest a shove—which doesn’t make him budge one bit, a fact that only infuriates me further. I rise up on my tiptoes and lean in to say right to his face, “Did you hear me? Or have you gone into hibernation?”

His eyes darken further, and another low, furious growl escapes his throat. And I have no idea why this makes me so fucking wet, but it does, and suddenly, instead of shoving him again, I find my hands gripping his face, hard, as I smash my lips against his.

Because I’m so fucking angry. Not for any other reason, I swear.

He must be just as angry because he kisses me back. Fiercely. Punishingly. His arms encircle me in a bear hug, and then we’re full-on battling it out with our tongues.

And oh, my god… I may just come.