Grumpy Puck

9. Calliope

Chapter 9

Calliope

I gnoring my assurances that his help isn’t needed—or wanted—Michael explains to me something called a snow plow stop.

I set Wolfgang on a nearby bench and attempt the maneuver. It turns out to be pretty easy. Next, Michael teaches me another way to stop, where I have to drag the skate back and angle it, which is a little trickier, but I make it work.

“You’re a quick learner,” he says approvingly once I master the fourth technique he shows me.

“And you’re a condescending jerk,” I reply. “Just teach me the best way to do this, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Arching an eyebrow, he skates away, picks up speed, and then stops so suddenly I can scarcely believe my eyes. “You mean, like this?”

Shit. “Yeah. Sure. Anything you can do I can do better.”

Great. I sound like that musical where someone gets her gun—which is trivial here in Florida.

“Okay,” he says skeptically. “Turn your skates in a perpendicular direction from where you’re headed and use the edges of the blades to create friction. It’s called a hockey stop.”

Is he saying words like “friction” to turn me on? Because it’s not working. I’m not tempted to slip my arm out of my costume’s sleeve to touch myself—all under the cover of layers of fake bear-fur. Nope. Not tempted at all.

“—got all that?” he demands.

Shit. I might have spaced out there for a second. “Show it to me again.”

He does, and I realize I must have some sort of skating fetish—or competency fetish—because I never would have expected that seeing someone come to a sudden halt on ice would make me this hot and bothered.

“Like this?” I speed up and try his method—and promptly fall, the suit assuring that only my pride is hurt in the process.

He skates over and lifts me up with a gentleness I didn’t think him capable of. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” I try to pull away. “Just need to practice that a few more times.”

“No,” he says imperiously, not letting go. “Let’s make sure you’re not hurt.” He lifts me up like a sack of teddy bears and carries me somewhere as I protest loudly.

When a janitor spots us, he winks at Michael knowingly, which pisses me off almost as much as the manhandling does.

Finally, he puts me down next to a door labeled “MEDICAL.”

Inside, a woman tells me that she’s an orthopedic surgeon, and per Michael’s demands, she insists I get out of the suit so I can be checked.

“No.” I stomp my fuzzy foot to punctuate the word. “I have to go get Wolfgang.”

“I’ll get him,” Michael says and leaves before I can raise any sort of objection.

“That’s just great,” I tell the doctor. “You’re about to have two patients.” Because Wolfgang will surely bite the asshole. I’m the only human he trusts to pick him up.

“Is Wolfgang a dog?” the doctor asks.

“No.” I don’t clarify that he’s a rat in case the good doctor is one of those jumps-on-furniture-when-frightened females. There aren’t many places of elevation in this tiny room.

“Can you take that thing off?” She pokes at my costumed bicep with a smirk.

I do so, grateful that I’m wearing my short shorts and a tank top underneath instead of just my bra and panties.

She quickly examines me and tells me that I’m totally fine.

“I know,” I say. “It was Michael who?—”

Speak of the devil. He waltzes in, and a surprisingly content-looking Wolfgang is perched on his shoulder.

Hell, the little traitor even chirps excitedly, like he’s scored a slice of cheese.

Well, at least Wolfgang jumps over to my shoulder as soon as Michael is within leaping distance. Otherwise, I don’t know what I would have done.

“Oh,” the doctor says. “Wolfgang is your rat. I should have guessed.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “How often do you assume people have rats?”

“Honey, everyone saw the YouTube video,” she says.

“I call her ptichka ,” Michael growls. “ Not honey.”

The doctor looks nonplussed. “That’s good for you…”

“Is she hurt?” Michael demands.

“Boo, I’m perfectly fine,” I say in a saccharine voice.

The doctor nods, and Michael looks so relieved that it tugs on something in my chest.

Wait. What? I’m being silly. The brute was just worried because I never signed any sort of a liability waiver before his lesson. He couldn’t care less about me, I’m sure of that.

“Is that what you plan wear under that outfit every day?” Michael asks, his black eyes glinting dangerously for some unknown reason.

“Sometimes,” I say. “Sometimes even less.”

“Less?” His nostrils flare.

“What business is it of yours?” I demand, and then recall we’re supposed to be dating.

“Fucking fuck,” he growls and rushes out of the little office, slamming the door on his way out.

“All hockey players are hotheads,” the doctor says sagely. “I’m sure he’ll cool off and apologize for that later.”

Does that mean she still thinks we’re together? “Thanks, doctor,” I say as I pick up my suit.

“You’re not putting it back on?” she asks.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Some guy might whistle at you, and Michael might overhear and?—”

“That’s ridiculous.” But I yank on the suit. “Happy now?”

“I had nothing to do with this,” the doctor says. “Please take care.”

Holding my head high, I leave the office and return to the ice.

To my relief, no overbearing assholes are around, so I focus on mastering stopping the way Michael showed me. Just as the Zamboni machine shows up to spruce up the ice, I nail a perfect stop, but my excitement is cut short by a slow clapping behind me.

I execute a figure-skating-like spin to see who’s there.

Surprise, surprise, it’s Michael. I mean, who else would be here to rain on my parade?

“You spying on me?” I skate over to where he is standing and stop perfectly once again.

He shrugs. “Someone has to make sure you don’t break something.”

“I’m perfectly fine without you,” I say, and, of course, nearly fall on my ass for no reason at all.

“That should be a clue that you’ve overtrained,” he growls. “Can you finally go change?”

I set my jaw. “Why do you care?”

He sighs. “I’m starving.”

“So go eat,” I snap. “What does that have to do with me?”

Unless it is me that he wants to eat. It’s eerily easy to picture those masculine lips on my?—

Said lips vibrate as he blows out a frustrated breath. “Coach asked that I walk you to your car. The vultures are still outside.”

Oh. I forgot.

“Does Coach want them to see us together?” I ask. “Or is he actually worried about my safety?”

“For fuck’s sake, does it matter?” Michael points at the exit. “Can we go?” His stomach growls, loudly.

“Fine.”

I only remember my great-grandfather vaguely, but I’m pretty sure one of the pearls of wisdom that he passed on to me was, “There’s nothing more dangerous than a hungry bear.”

As Michael stalks me to my changing room, I make a point not to speak, and he doesn’t break the silence.

Once inside, I take off the mascot suit and debate if I should stay in the skimpy clothing, just to piss him off.

But no. I don’t want to leave my day clothes here for the hypothetical stalker to mess with, and if I carry them with me, my ploy will be transparent.

So I change, and when I exit, I catch him scanning me from head to toe again, and nodding approvingly—which pisses me off.

I walk up to him and poke his chest with my finger—a mistake because touching his hair there does things to me. Inappropriate things. “Let’s get something straight. I wear whatever I want.”

“Sure, ptichka . Who said you couldn’t?”

Is this a joke? “You did. Or implied it.”

His eyes heat up. “You can walk around naked if you so wish. I’ll just deal with every asshole who dares to ogle you.”

Is “deal with” a euphemism for “break the neck of”?

“Why do I even bother trying to reason with a caveman?” I ask no one in particular.

Wolfgang cheerfully grinds his incisors.

Meine Liebe, I prefer standing on your shoulders when they are not covered by clothes. It makes my paws feel like I’m standing in warm mozzarella.

Turning away from Michael, I hurry down the corridor, and he lets me lead until we get to the exit doors, which is when he goes ahead and roars at the media crowd—or at least that’s what it sounds like.

Usually a brave lot, the journalists make a path that is wide enough for a marching band to parade through.

Grunting something unintelligible, Michael takes my elbow and leads me through, while I do my best not to swoon from his touch in front of all these cameras.

Or maybe I should swoon? We are, after all, supposed to make the world think?—

“That’s yours, right?” Wrinkling his nose, he gestures at my Beetle.

I glare at him. “Now you don’t like my car?”

“It doesn’t look very safe,” he says. “Also, I’m pretty sure it was modeled after one of Hitler’s ideas.”

What? I got it secondhand from my cousin who is a clown—literally, that is—and I’ve always associated this type of car with clowns. And sure, they sometimes seem a little evil, but not Hitler-level evil.

“What car do you drive?” I ask challengingly.

He points at a sleek muscle car nearby. “A Ford Mustang Shelby GT500.”

Damn it. That is the coolest car I’ve ever seen, and I can’t think of anything negative to say about it. Then again… “Looks like the type of ride men get to compensate for something.” I make the pinky on my right hand go limp.

“Oh, I have nothing to compensate for.” He smiles dangerously. “Would you like confirmation?”

Was that a proposition? My gaze darts at the bulge in his pants, and I swallow thickly. “This conversation is over.”

He cocks his head. “Shouldn’t we do something for the cameras?”

I swallow again. “Like what?”

He closes the distance between us. “Like this.” He takes my face into his hands and kisses me, ruthlessly, like I belong to him.

My panties go the way of the Wicked Witch of the West when doused with a bucket of water—they full-on melt, and so do I.

In the distance, I hear cameras click, and the sounds remind me that this is just for show.

Fuming, I push him away.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“Go suck a dick.”

He actually smiles at that, and his smile is as panty-melting as his kiss. “The Russian expression is go ‘ to ’ the dick. Not ‘suck’ a dick.”

“And the difference is?”

“‘Go to the dick’ almost literally translates to ‘go to hell.’”

I arch an eyebrow. “So you’re saying your dick is hell?”

“No, ptichka ,” he murmurs. “For you, my dick will be heaven.”