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Grumpy Puck 7. Calliope 25%
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7. Calliope

Chapter 7

Calliope

I wake up because my phone is ringing. Over and over again.

Weird. It’s barely dawn. Who could be calling so early, and why?

When I pick up the phone, the first part of my question is answered.

It’s Seraphina.

“Hey,” I say. “You act so much like a bat already. Are you adopting their schedule now?”

“How could you not tell me you kissed a hot hockey player?” she demands. “I saw you last night—as in, after it happened.”

I gape at the phone. “How could you possibly know that?” Did I talk to myself out loud yet again? And in front of her? I don’t recall doing so, but?—

“How could anyone not know?” she says. “It’s all over social media.”

Oh. Crap. The cameras from yesterday. But… “Who would care about us kissing?”

“The internet. They’ve labeled the two of you Honey and Boo Boo.”

“What? Why?”

“Something about both of you being bears,” she says. “You because you’re the mascot, and him because of his personality, and his first and last name.”

Huh? What’s his name got to do with it?

“At first, it went viral in Russian-speaking countries,” she continues. “That’s where most of his fans are. But then it started trending with hockey fans in general, and finally, everyone jumped on it. If this keeps up, you two could become as famous as Baby Shark.”

“Shit.” I walk up to my computer to check out what she’s talking about.

“Are you nuts?” she asks. “This is amazing.”

“No. I need this job, and this is a surefire way to lose it.” Not to mention, I don’t want to be forever associated with that mascot outfit—I want to be known for my rat show.

“You could leverage this for your show,” Seraphina says, as if reading my thoughts. “I mean… somehow.”

“More like, no way.”

“Hey, sorry,” she says. “Didn’t realize I’d be the bearer of bad news.”

“Was that a bear pun?” I demand.

“That’s nothing compared to the comments you’ll see online,” she says. “After you read them, you’ll need a minute to get your bearings .”

I groan.

“You might also want to choke some of the internet trolls,” she says. “With your bear hands.”

“Seriously?”

“The guy you kissed has a reputation as a bar- bear -ian,” she says. “Also, they say the two of you are polar opposites.”

“Stop. Now.”

“Why? Is this getting em- bear -assing?”

“This isn’t funny.” I search for “Honey and Boo Boo” and gape at the number of views the video has.

“Bear with me,” Seraphina says. “I might get bear -y funny after a few more of these.”

I hang up right as she says something about bear -ly having started, and a bear’s right to bear arms.

The video I’ve pulled up is set to the song “Bi-Polar Bear” by Stone Temple Pilots. It shows our kiss, but it’s also interspersed with a bunch of other videos. Most of them are of Michael punching someone’s face on the ice or scoring a goal, but there’s also the video of me from a few weeks ago, capturing the time I got caught with Wolfgang hiding under my theme park outfit.

Fuck me. Until today, only theme parks had blacklisted me over the “rat incident,” but now the whole world knows about it. If I lose my current gig—which seems likely—I won’t be able to get a job in any industry where they don’t like rats, which is most of them.

Oh, and I can’t help but make the mistake of reading the comments.

At the top, there are all the bear jokes, most of which make Seraphina’s puns seem like first-born cubs in comparison. But below that are mean personal attacks. The worst insinuate that I’m a slut and pick apart my looks, while the mildest ones make fun of our names. They call me “Clown Butt Bear” on account of my last name and my mascot outfit. Michael is labeled “Grouchy Bear” because his last name means “Of Bear” in Russian, and his first name shortens to “Misha,” which is also bear-related.

Is that why he is so touchy about bear comparisons?

Must be. It might also explain why he hates the mascot so much, along with the name of his—I mean our—team. If I ended up on a team called the Clown Butts, and it had a mascot that looked like a giant clown’s ass, I wouldn’t be a happy camper either. If I had a penny for every time I was teased with “clown butt” jokes over the years, I’d be able to afford an army of clowns by now, an army that I would order to locate the fuckers who teased me and stuff balloon animals up their asses.

Oh, and more than a few people are theorizing as to why Wolfgang is on my shoulder, with too many bestiality theories even for the internet.

But hey, not all the comments are nasty. A bunch of people are simply rooting for Honey and Boo Boo to get married and have lots of furry cubs.

Yeah, no. After my last breakup, I’m not interested in dating, let alone marriage. What’s the point of meeting someone and going on dates when they’ll break up with you as soon as they meet your family? And marriage? Forget it. No sane man would willingly become a part of the Klaunbut clan. My only option might just be to marry a distant Klaunbut cousin, of which I have countless. Needless to say, if I don’t go the cousin route, the last non-Klaunbut I’d consider would be Mr. Grouchy Bear.

Especially if by some miracle I keep my current job. My ex was a coworker, and I had to switch parks after we broke up, so I’m not repeating that mistake again.

Having said all that, looking at us kissing is making my insides feel gooey.

Stupid insides.

It’s probably just hunger. Or thirst. Real thirst, I mean, not a euphemism.

I look at myself in the mirror. “Maybe I should make a large fruit salad to take care of both those needs?”

Then I reply, “Sure, but just in case, don’t use a banana.”

Meal prepped, I share some fruit with my rats, and then I eat the rest.

Hmm. Even thus fortified, I do not become immune to watching that kiss over and over again.

Ugh. I need to stop this.

It’s time to go to work anyway.

I take Wolfgang and get into my car for the short drive to my workplace. I’m not sure what I expect when I get there, but as soon as I’m parked, I’m accosted by Coach, the HR woman I spoke to, and two of the players from yesterday.

“Hello,” I say as my heart drops. “To what do I owe this welcome greeting?”

But of course, I already know what they’ll say. They’re here to inform me that I’m fired, and the two players will serve as security in case I try to fight my way in.

Given that everyone knows about Wolfgang anyway, I make his day by letting him perch on my shoulder instead of hiding in my pocket or purse as I usually would until I got myself into my outfit.

“We figured you’d want some help getting into the building,” Coach says, seemingly unperturbed by the rat on my shoulder.

I blink at him. “You want me in the building?” Is that where the firing conversation is to take place?

“Well, yeah,” he says. “You officially start today, don’t you?”

“Right.” I’m about to set some sort of record when it comes to getting fired.

“Come then. Sorry about the circus.”

Circus? Is my family here?

No. It’s worse. A mob of journalists is milling by the entrance to the building, and judging by all the cameras pointed at me, this might have something to do with that viral video.

“Get the fuck out of our way,” says one of the players, pushing aside a dozen of the newspeople at once.

Ah. The players have taken on the roles of bouncers, but for me, not against me.

Interesting.

Once we’re finally inside, the HR woman—who reminds me that her name is Linda—asks for me and Coach to follow her into the conference room near her office.

So I am getting fired?

“Is Michael in there already?” Coach asks.

Why would he need to be at my firing?

“He’s in there,” Linda says. “So is Adam from PR and Eve from Finance.”

PR? Finance? Curiouser and curiouser. Maybe they’re going to ask me not to badmouth them after I’m fired,and to that end, they plan to pay me a generous severance?

I wouldn’t mind that at all.

When we enter the conference room, Adam and Eve are already waiting—dressed in business suits, not fig leaves. Also waiting is Michael, and seeing him again is like a kick in the ovaries. He has a muscle shirt on, with delectable chest hair peeking out, and sports a five-o’clock shadow—which everyone knows is the sexiest kind of shadow. Oh, and for some reason, he’s glaring at the players who escorted us in.

“You can go,” Coach says to said players.

The two look all too happy to leave, no doubt because they’ve also noticed Michael’s black-as-his-soul eyes beaming death rays their way.

Not a single person seems to care that Wolfgang is sitting on my shoulder, which makes me like them all, with the exception of the bear, of course, who probably just doesn’t look at me enough to notice anything at all.

“Want to sit there?” Coach points at the chair next to Michael.

I narrow my eyes. “Why would I want to sit next to him ?”

Coach shrugs. “What we have to say concerns the two of you, so it will just make life a little easier.” He gestures at a chair across from Michael. “You can sit there if you’d prefer.”

“No. It’s fine.” I plop into the chair next to Michael and immediately curse my choice. Just like yesterday, he smells mouthwateringly good: like herbs, mushrooms, and honey.

“What the fuck is all this about?” Michael growls as soon as everyone is seated.

“I might not have put it in those exact terms, but yeah,” I say. “Why are we here?”

Eve clears her throat. “I got a call from my equivalent with the Yetis. The tickets to the exhibition game are sold out.”

Everyone except me stares at her with different levels of shocked expressions.

Adam scratches the back of his head. “The same game that was going to get canceled because the Yetis couldn’t sell any tickets?”

Eve nods triumphantly.

“Who or what are the Yetis?” I ask no one in particular.

On my shoulder, Wolfgang cleans his whiskers.

Meine Liebe, a yeti is another word for bigfoot, and bigfoot sounds like a creature that smells strongly like feet, which—given that feet smell like cheese—tells me that whatever or whoever the Yetis are, they smell delicious.

“The Yetis are a New York hockey team,” Coach says. “Michael was with them for a short while, and he recently used that connection to set up an outside-league game with them, a big deal because they’re much stronger and?—”

“They’re not that much stronger,” Michael growls. “We just?—”

“Gentlemen,” Eve says pointedly. “I wasn’t finished.”

Everyone stops talking and looks at Eve, even Wolfgang.

“As I was saying,” Eve continues. “All of our other games have sold out as well, even the one against the Pineapple Ice Surfers.”

Once again, everyone’s jaws drop, and again, Wolfgang and I are the exceptions.

“Who are the Pineapple Ice Surfers?” I ask.

“The Hawaiian team,” Michael says. “They are the worst in the DHL, and no one ever comes to see them get slaughtered live. Not unless the game takes place in Hawaii.”

“And that’s not the case this time,” Coach says. “They’re coming here for that one.”

“That’s correct,” Eve says. “The financial implications are huge.” She looks meaningfully at Adam. “I presume things are equally bright on your end?”

He nods. “Fortunately, Michael breaking that camera didn’t make the news,” he says. “Neither did the team demolishing the bar yesterday. Or?—”

“Why the fuck are we here?” Michael gestures at me. “Can someone get around to explaining that?”

Coach, Adam, and Eve all look meaningfully at Linda.

“Why do I have to explain it?” Linda demands.

“Because it’s delicate?” Coach says, a bit tentatively.

“And you’re in HR,” Adam adds.

“Fine.” Linda faces us. “This meeting is to discuss the impact of Honey and Boo Boo.”

Oh.

“What the fuck is Honey and Boo Boo?” Michael demands.

“Us,” I say, cringing. “Though I’m not sure which of us is which.”

Michael grunts in frustration. “That viral fucking video.”

“No, it’s a kissing video,” Adam says. “But if you think another video with some other activity might surface, it would make my job easier if you tell me now.”

“What other video could there be?” I ask, but what I really mean is, “How slutty does Adam think I am?”

“I thought we’d established that I’d handle the talking?” Linda says icily to Adam, and you can tell she wants to smack him but restrains herself due to HR policy.

“Please,” Adam says sheepishly. “Go on.”

“Thank you,” Linda says. “As I started to say, the video is having a very positive impact on this team, and given the financial troubles we’ve been facing”—she gestures at Eve—“this development couldn’t have come at a better time.”

Everyone except me, Michael, and Wolfgang nods.

“You’re welcome,” I say tentatively.

“And get to the fucking point,” Michael growls.

Linda sighs. “Right. The point.” She puts her hands in a praying position and touches her nose. “With your cooperation, we’d like to keep the public interest going.”

“And are willing to compensate you,” Eve chimes in. “For the inconvenience that said cooperation might cause.”

“Huh?” I glance at Michael to check if he’s following this.

He isn’t, or so I figure because he puts the question a lot more eloquently than I would when he shouts, “What the fuck do you fucks need us to fucking do?”

“Nothing bad,” Linda says a bit too quickly. “Just a little PR stunt, is all.” She turns to Adam. “Do you want to jump in?”

Adam glances worriedly at Michael. “I thought you wanted to do the talking.”

“For God’s sake,” Eve says. “First things first: are the two of you dating?”

“Fuck no,” Michael says and shakes his head so vehemently the resulting gust of wind nearly blows Wolfgang off my shoulder.

Hey. Does he need to act like us dating is so unthinkable?

“I just joined the team,” I say. “When would we have had the time to date?”

Eve shrugs. “You could’ve met prior, but yes, we didn’t think it was likely. I just had to check.” She looks pointedly at Linda. “Do you want me to say it, or will you?”

“Could you?” Linda looks ready to climb under the table.

Eve sighs. “We want you to keep up the charade.”

“What?” Michael and I ask in unison.

“Everyone thinks you’re a couple,” Eve says. “Or wants to believe that you are. So, to that end, it would be great if you were dating. Pretending to date, that is.”

Oh, no. No. No. No. I can’t believe I didn’t see where this was going, but now?—

Michael leaps to his feet. “I’m going to fucking pretend you didn’t just fucking say that.”

Seriously, why is he acting like I’m a leper?

“Michael, please,” Coach says soothingly. “The team needs this.”

Looking sullen, Michael sits back down. “This is fucking insane.”

“Well,” Eve says. “We realize this is an unconventional request, hence the extra compensation.” She clears her throat and looks pointedly at Linda.

“And HR gives our full blessing, of course.” Linda fiddles with a folder in front of her. “We do not have a rule that forbids a mascot from dating a player, so?—”

“Unconventional?” I exclaim. “Unconventional would be asking me to unicycle to work in my mascot outfit. Or asking Michael here to be polite for ten minutes straight. What you’re asking is?—”

“A big favor,” Eve butts in. “For which we’re willing to put an extra zero at the end of your salary.”

I don’t know how I sense this, but at the mention of that much money, Michael tenses next to me. “Do both of us get that bump?” he demands.

“Correct,” Coach says meaningfully. “And you’ll get a bonus upfront, as a sign of our goodwill.”

“How much?” I ask, unable to believe I’m even considering this.

Eve writes something on two business cards, then hands one to me and the other to Michael.

When I see my amount, I almost drop the paper. For this much, I’d pretend to date an actual bear, and maybe consider letting him get to second base.

“You get to keep the bonus if you keep up the pretense until the Yetis game,” Linda elaborates. “And the salary bump continues for as long as the good PR from the ‘relationship’ does.”

“Fucking fuck,” Michael says, his eyes on his paper. “We’ll do it.”

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?” I whirl on him. “We will not do anything until both of us agree.”

His jaw twitches. “My apologies, ptichka . Will you or will you not participate in this fucking charade?”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s a ptichka ?”

“Translated from Russian, it means ‘little bird,’” he says. “I figure if we’re dating, we’ll need pet names for each other—and the day I call anyone Honey or Boo Boo is the day I shoot myself in the fucking head.”

Hmm. Little Bird is better than either Honey or Boo Boo, but I’m not going to tell him that. “Fine, Pooh , I will participate in the charade.”

His eyes become tiny coals. “Pooh, as in Winnie the ?”

“Ah, right.” I bat my eyelashes at him innocently. “Sorry, Shmoopy, I forgot how sensitive you are when it comes to… teddies.”

Michael balls his hands. “This will never fucking work.”

“It has to,” Eve says. “I’m sure she can call you something other than Shmoopy.”

“And since we’re on that subject,” Adam says. “Are we sure Honey and Boo Boo can’t be an option?”

Michael slams his fist on the table. “Mention those names again, and I’m out.”

“How about tsar ?” Linda asks. “That’s Russian, like ptichka .”

“Doesn’t it mean ‘king?’” I demand.

“Emperor.” A smug smile touches the corners of Michael’s lips, and it makes me remember how it felt when I was kissing them.

“No way,” I say, both to my treacherous memory and the tsar suggestion. “Also, before anyone asks, also out of the question are words like sir, master, and daddy.”

“How about bunny?” Linda asks. “What does that sound like in Russian?”

“As in ‘Honey Bunny?’” Eve clarifies.

“No fucking honey.” Michael practically roars the sentence, like a honey-deprived bear.

“Can I steer clear of Russian altogether?” I suggest. “I don’t speak it, so it would be suspicious if?—”

“Fucking fine,” Michael growls. “Call me boo.”

“Boo Boo?” Adam asks in a loud whisper.

“No,” Michael replies menacingly. “A singular fucking boo.”

“Calm down, boo,” I say. “Adam’s just thinking about the PR of the whole thing, not trying to hurt your fuzzy feelings.”

Adam looks at me gratefully, and I can tell he wants to continue the double Boo/Honey debate, but is afraid to.

Michael takes in a deep breath, then blows it out with an annoyed whoosh. His voice is a touch less growly as he says, “I think we’ve gotten sidetracked with the nicknames, and I take responsibility for that. What we really should discuss is, how are we supposed to make people believe that we’re a couple?”

I whip around to face him, my hand ready to slap his cheek. “Are you saying I don’t look like someone you would date?”

“No.” Michael looks at the ceiling as if he’s hoping a lightning strike will put him out of his misery. “What I meant was… I haven’t dated in years. Everyone knows this.”

Why do I like that factoid? Is something wrong with me?

Adam perks up. “Your lack of dating is why the video caught the initial attention of your fans. As to how to make people believe—don’t worry about that. In fact, your official statements can be that you’re ‘just friends.’ What you need to do is be seen together as much as possible, ‘accidentally’ allow paparazzi to take more photos, and strategically stage another kiss.”

Before I can violently protest, Linda clears her throat. “You don’t need to kiss, or partake in any intimacy for that matter.”

“Right, right,” Adam says, looking majorly disappointed. “Just spend time together, and when it comes to touching and whatnot, do as much as you’re comfortable with.”

“Or none at all,” Linda says insistently.

At the thought of Michael touching me “and whatnot,” a blush spreads from my toes to the very top of my head. “Where do you suggest we go to be seen?”

Adam shrugs. “Visit sick kids? Be there for Michael after his games?”

“I’m a mascot on the team,” I say. “I’ll be there for the games regardless.”

Adam’s eyes light up. “Right. Sorry. But here’s another idea: when you’re dressed as the mascot, mess with Michael more than you would mess with the rest of the team.”

I like this last suggestion, especially because it makes Michael produce a sound like he’s been caught in a bear trap.

Coach shifts in his seat. “I have an idea of my own.”

We all look at the man as he faces Michael. “You should tell some of your gossipier teammates that you’re dating, and that she’s off-limits.”

“I already did that,” Michael snaps. “I mean, the off-limits bit. I told Jack and said to tell the others—not that it fucking helped.”

He told them I was off-limits? The nerve of this guy.

But also, it feels kind of nice to know.

“Good,” Coach says. “Now just add the bit about you two dating—and mention that it’s a secret from HR or something like that. That will almost guarantee they’ll gossip about it.”

You’d think he were talking about a knitting circle and not a bunch of macho dudes.

Suddenly, a panting woman runs into the conference room, her lipstick smeared and hair disheveled, like she just got properly fucked a few minutes ago. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she says. “Did I miss anything?”

“They’ve just agreed,” Coach says. “And we’re about to adjourn. Practice is about to?—”

“That is so great.” She looks my way. “Hi, I’m Amelia, the general manager for the team. Sorry again. I was in a meeting with Mr. Ironside, the owner.” Her eyes suddenly widen. “Is that the rat?”

I half expect her to jump on the table and squeal—a surprisingly common reaction from the female of our species—but she actually runs toward Wolfgang and grins like a loon. “She’s so much cuter in person than she is on the video.”

“He’s a male,” I say, unable to help an answering grin.

“Ah,” she says. “My apologies. Of course. Now that you mention it, I realize how very handsome he is.”

Wolfgang puffs up.

Meine Liebe, give this human some cheese—such good behavior must be rewarded.

“What kind of a rat is he?” Amelia carefully touches the top of Wolfgang’s head, and he generously lets her keep her finger.

“He’s a dumbo rat,” I say. “Hence the round ears, large head, small jaw, and wide eyes.”

“What’s his name?” Amelia asks. “Wait, let me guess: Remy?”

I grin wider. “That is my favorite fictional character of all time, but naming one of my dumbo rats something like that would be asking for a cease-and-desist letter from Disney. But you’re close. His name is Wolfgang, after Wolfgang Puck, another famous chef.”

“Puck, huh? That’s a link to hockey.” She looks approvingly at Linda and Coach. “You guys should have told me you’ve gotten us two mascots for the price of one.”

Interesting. “You know,” I say nonchalantly. “I could put Wolfgang on my shoulder while I’m inside Mr. Bloom.” Wait, did that sound like I’m planning to fuck the mascot?

“I love that idea.” Amelia looks authoritatively around the room. “Please do what is needed to make that happen.”

Linda looks at Wolfgang as if for the first time. “There could be some concerns from?—”

“We can just say he’s her emotional support animal,” Eve interjects. “That’s what I did for Lucie, my pet monitor lizard.”

Wolfgang looks at me worriedly.

Meine Liebe… why does that last word make me feel like I’ve suddenly become a delectable slice of cheese?

Adam pales. “You don’t happen to have Lucie with you, by any chance?”

“What? No,” Eve says with a narrowed gaze. “Lucie is a big girl, so in what orifice do you imagine I might be hiding her?”

“Please do not answer that,” Linda says in a panicked voice. More calmly, she adds, “I think I speak for everyone when I deem this meeting successfully concluded.”

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