Grumpy Puck

10. Calliope

Chapter 10

Calliope

W hen I get home in my Hitler-inspired car, the first thing I do is reunite Wolfgang with the rest of the rat pack. Then I fix all of us some food.

Once Lenin is done eating a frozen grape, he starts doing zoomies around the whole apartment.

Tovarisch, this is the food of the bourgeoisie, and it is having its corrupting influence on the proletari-rat .

Ignoring his antics, I stare at myself in the mirror long and hard.

“The kiss was just for the pictures,” I remind myself.

“But then why did it feel so good?” my mirror self asks very reasonably.

“Because you’re a dummy. Because you’re not careful with?—”

My phone rings, which is just as well because if I talk to myself any longer, my rats will have me committed.

It’s a video call from Seraphina.

I accept it with a smile. For a change, she’s not hanging from the ceiling.

“Hey, former roomie,” I say. “Miss me already?”

“Yeah, right. I just need to get up to speed because all your other siblings are inundating me with questions about you and your hockey player.”

“ My other siblings?” I let the “my hockey player” bit slide. “Don’t you mean our ?”

She flashes the super-healthy teeth that she allegedly inherited from our great-great-grandfather, the one famous for his razor-blade chewing and sword swallowing. “Semantics. Now, spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” I state.

“Yeah. Right. You’re blushing. Did you boink him already?”

I roll my eyes. “Even you are not that slutty.”

“Just tell me.” She makes puppy eyes. “I can’t bear the suspense anymore.”

Should I tell her about the arrangement we’ve been forced into? Nobody said we had to keep it a secret from our families. In fact, I don’t want my family to think this is for real, and telling Seraphina the truth is the same thing as sending them all an email outlining what’s happened.

I take a breath. “Fine. We kissed again, but?—”

She squeals so loudly the ears of all my rats perk up. “I knew pestering you for info would bear fruit.”

“As I was about to say, it was just for the cameras.” Marco and Polo scurry over, so I pet them both.

She cocks her head. “Why would you kiss him for the cameras?”

I explain that the viral video is a financial boon for the Florida Bears, and that Michael and I are getting paid to keep the public’s interest going. Not sure why, but I also mention the small skates he had handy, clearly for the daintily feminine feet of his many puck bunnies.

“Are you sure it’s the Florida Bears that bear responsibility for that kiss, and not your bear-like boo?”

Am I sure? “This conversation is over.”

“Why?” she asks. “Is it because you can’t bear my bear puns anymore?”

“No, but they do not help,” I grumble.

“Please, bear with me,” she says. “I’m going to run out of them sooner or later.”

“I doubt you will run out.”

“You’ve got a point. I’m just getting my bear ings.”

“I’ve got to go.” I hover my thumb over the “end call” button.

“Wait,” she says urgently. “Use a condom when you do boink him. You’re of child- bear ing age, after all.”

I end the call just as she defines a condom for me as a type of bear -ier made of latex.

The next day, I start practicing the shtick that I plan to unveil for my first game as the Bears’ mascot: the Yetis exhibition game in New York.

Inspired by the hatred I’m starting to develop for the press, my main priority will be photobombing. That means as soon as any camera zooms in on a player, or on a fan, I’ll jump into the frame and strike a funny pose, and if all goes well, Wolfgang will strike a similar pose to mine. The problem with photobombing is that it is difficult to practice, so I focus on something easy: Mr. Bloom’s new ice dance.

Thus far, the dance—and I use this term very loosely—involves pretending to be a T-Rex, roping people in with an invisible lasso, and acting like an octopus that’s about to be killed by a sushi chef. Oh, and on occasion, I throw in the classic clown move of slipping on a banana peel, and toward the end, I shuffle around like a zombie.

When I finish the dance, there’s a familiar slow clap behind me that I should have expected but didn’t.

Executing an elegant spin on the ice, I take advantage of the fact that he can’t see where I’m looking when I have the mask on and let my eyes roam freely over his visage. Damn him. Why is he, of all people, so fucking hot? It’s not just the rippling muscles or his piercing eyes.

It’s his hair. From the stray chest hair peeking through his shirt to the dark, rumpled locks on his head. Oh, and last but not least—as far as my libido is concerned—is his facial hair. As if to taunt me, he hasn’t shaved since I saw him yesterday, and what was a five o’clock shadow has become a starter beard.

Wait. As much as I appreciate the feast for the eyes, why would he grow one? After all, a beard is only one letter ‘d’ away from ‘bear.’

“I was becoming concerned for your sanity,” Michael states.

I take off the bear mask just so that I can glare at him properly. “My sanity isn’t any of your concern. Nothing about me is.”

He blows out a breath. “I was just joking.”

“That wasn’t a joke. But this is: what color socks am I wearing?”

He darts a glance at my feet. “It’s difficult to see.”

“Wrong,” I say. “I’m not wearing any. I have bear feet.” Yes, Seraphina has rubbed off on me.

He doesn’t so much as chuckle—probably because the forbidden topic of bears has been broached. “I think it’s smart that you’re preparing. Ted just made shit up as he went along, and it was never as professional-looking as that dance.”

“Wait. Was that a compliment?” I glance at Wolfgang. “Is the universe about to implode?”

Wolfgang makes a chattering sound by grinding his incisors.

Meine Liebe, at the moment, galaxies are rushing away from each other, which implies that the universe shouldn’t implode for a while, if ever. I theorize that the galaxies are chasing supermassive black holes made of the most delectable cheese.

“Are you ready for me to escort you out?” Michael asks gruffly.

“Fine. Let’s go,” I say with an eyeroll and swing by my changing room before I stride out, feeling his eyes on my back.

With every step, my heartbeat skyrockets in anticipation of what might happen in the parking lot.

After all, we kissed for the cameras yesterday, so we should do so again today, right?

For consistency’s sake, of course. It has nothing to do with that beard.

Once again, the media people are still there when we exit, and they scream questions at us that are cut short by Michael’s suggestion that everyone go to the fucking dick.

As soon as the journalists have been scared into giving us a path through, Michael takes my elbow and leads me to the parking lot—which makes me feel like I’m floating.

As we approach my Beetle, he releases my elbow.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs.

I blink at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He arches one of his sexily thick eyebrows. “What am I forgetting?”

I gesture at the journalists. “A kiss?”

He looks like he’s just bypassed all bee defenses and is about to savor some premium honey. “You don’t think they took enough kissy pictures yesterday?”

I dampen my dry lips. “It’s not about the pictures this time. It’s about them seeing us being intimate, or not.” Yeah. That’s why we should do it. “We don’t want someone to write a story about how we’ve already broken up.”

He leans in, his lips tantalizingly close. “Are you sure it’s for them? Maybe you want me to kiss you.”

I all but turn into a growly bear myself. “Not if you were the last man on Earth.”

He shrugs. “I guess we can fake a kiss for them.” He turns his back to the journalists and envelops me in a hug, but his lips are a whole inch away from mine—which might as well be a mile. “This way they’ll think we’re kissing,” he whispers. “But we’re not.”

My heart is pounding way too fast, and I feel oddly shivery despite the Florida heat. “But what if someone has a long-focus lens and is hiding where they have just the right angle?” I whisper, then mentally kick myself.

He’s going to tease me again. I just know it.

“If someone takes a picture of this, they’ll have a picture of us embracing,” he murmurs. “In what world does that lead them to conclude that we’ve broken up?”

How dare he use common sense and logic? I push him away. “I’m going home.”

He blows me a mocking air kiss. “Pleasant dreams, ptichka .”

I wake up in the middle of the night, wet. No, that’s an understatement. I need a new, better word for how desperately I need sexual release.

Grr. Bastard. It’s like he cursed me when he wished me pleasant dreams—and there I went, dreaming of his naked chest and of running my fingers through the hair there. And that wasn’t the worst of it. I felt his beard in that dream, both as we kissed and as he went down under—a glorious experience, if only in my imagination.

Mom calls as I drive to work and tells me that journalists are hounding the circus, hoping for a sighting of me.

“It’s great for business,” she says. “We’re all probably going to get raises thanks to you.”

“Happy to be of service. I’m just hoping they don’t figure out where I currently live and bug me there.”

If they do, Michael might want to walk me all the way to my door, and that way lies the possibility that I’ll accidentally invite him in, and that his cock will accidentally end up inside me.

“So,” Mom says conspiratorially. “Have you taken any cooking lessons yet?”

What? “Why?”

“You’ve got a new boyfriend,” she says. “Everyone knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

That sounds like something a serial killer would say. “Did Seraphina not tell you all?” I ask. “He’s not my boyfriend. It’s just for show.”

“Yeah, right,” she says. “I saw the video, and the pictures. If you were that good of an actress, you wouldn’t be in the circus. You’d be on Broadway instead.”

“I’m not in the circus,” I remind her. “And I assure you, none of it is real.”

“Let’s agree to disagree,” Mom says.

“This isn’t a situation where you can use that phrase.”

“Let’s agree to disagree twice then.”

I nearly run over a goffer tortoise crossing the street. Fortunately, I brake in time. “I forgot to tell you, I’m driving,” I say to Mom as I wait for the tortoise to pass. “It’s not safe to multitask like this.”

“On that, we’re in agreement,” she says and hangs up.

On that we are? So she still thinks Michael and I are dating? I mean, I know she and Dad want grandchildren, but I didn’t realize the desire has gotten so desperate that it’s causing her to deny reality.

Whatever.

When I finally get to work, I hold off on changing into my bear suit. I need a few volunteers from the team to help with an idea I have for my shtick, and I’m hoping they’ll take me more seriously in street clothing.

So… I make the mistake of watching them practice. Or more specifically, I make the mistake of watching Michael do his drills. His beard is even more noticeable today, and it’s all too easy to picture him drilling into me, his cock hard as a hockey stick and his beard pleasantly scratchy on my?—

“Hi, Calliope,” Coach says, scaring the bearjesus out of me.

“Hello, Coach.” I wipe my mouth on the off chance that some of the copious amounts of drool I’m producing has escaped.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks.

“Yeah. Make Michael shave,” I blurt.

That way, it will be easier to keep my sanity around him—and reduce bodily fluid production.

Coach grins. “Sorry, but no can do. They never shave before an important game, and I won’t get in the way of that. Particularly in Michael’s case because when he first joined, he mocked this particular superstition on the grounds of ‘too many people are doing it, so how can it give you an edge?’ The fact that he’s since joined in with them tells me he really wants to win the upcoming game.”

Did he just say “they?” I look at the rest of the players. Yep. All are indeed unshaven. It’s just that Michael is able to grow his beard faster and bushier.

Speaking of Michael, I catch him glaring at me, for no reason at all, so I flip him the bird and turn back to Coach. “I was joking anyway. But I could use some help.”

“What can I do?” Coach asks.

“Not sure if I want to do this to you,” I say. “Better I get a few volunteers from the team.”

“Sure. Go for it.” He uses his whistle, and everyone looks our way.

Coach gestures for me to speak.

“I need a few volunteers,” I announce.

The bearded faces look at me like I might bite.

“It’s for my shtick,” I explain. “I’d like to do a bit where I stretch an imaginary rope across the ice, and then some of you will trip over it, as if it were real.”

A lot of the dudes nod approvingly—until they hear a low growl, that is.

“I volunteer,” Michael states. “And no one else.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Do you not get how volunteering works?”

He skates over. “Do you want me to withdraw my candidacy?”

“No. I’ll meet you back here.” With an eyeroll, I turn around and head to my dressing room to gear up.

Once the costume is on, I place Wolfgang on my shoulder and examine myself in the mirror to get into character.

“Bearman horny like deer. Roar. Bearman want to come on big boobs of his Pookie-poo for the cameras.”

Wolfgang washes his face with his paws.

Meine Liebe, this Bearman person sounds like he just needs regular rations of cheese.

Feeling ready for anything, I return to the rink, where Michael is waiting for me along with Coach.

As I explain what I want to do, Coach grins, but Michael’s face is completely impassive, like I’m talking about my income taxes and not a fun prank.

Then, after I make a big deal about setting up the invisible rope across the ice, Michael skates through and very deliberately falls.

“That was terrible,” I say. “It needs to look natural. That was just you falling on purpose.”

His nostrils flare. “How the fuck do I fall naturally?”

“Like it’s an accident.” I look at Coach for help.

“Hey, Michael,” Coach says, his eyes crinkling. “If this is too childish for you, I’m sure Dante would be happy to help Calliope.”

“Over his dead body,” Michael growls and turns to me. “Just show me how you want me to fall, and I’ll do it that way.”

Huh. “Like this.” I skate toward the invisible rope, then act as if it were a laser that has chopped off the bottom of my feet. I wail in pain, wave my arms around like I’ve been attacked by a swarm of bees, then clutch my chest and fall on the ice, twitching as I pretend to expire.

“That was natural?” Michael looks from me to Coach.

“It was inspired,” Coach says. “Kids will love it.”

“And since when is hockey a sport for kids?” Michael grumbles.

“Didn’t you start at four?” Coach counters.

Michael’s face turns exceptionally gloomy, even for him. “Let me try the fucking fall.” Gritting his teeth in determination, he skates over to the “rope” and then repeats the ridiculous challenge I’ve set out for him—except he manages to do it with a predatory grace more typical of a feline.

“How?” I ask no one in particular.

“His kinesthetic intelligence is off the charts,” Coach says.

I exchange a confused glance with Wolfgang. “Does that mean Michael can read minds?”

Meine Liebe, my mind is easily read. ‘Cheese.’

“No.” Coach chuckles. “It means he can use his body with great precision.”

Was it Coach’s intention to give me an onslaught of dirty images, ones where Michael uses his body on me… with great precision? Wait. That makes it sound like my holes are difficult to hit or something, which they?—

“How was that?” Michael growls.

“Very… precise,” I say. “But not at all funny.”

“But the potential is there,” Coach says quickly. “Can you do it again but pretend that you’re very drunk?”

Muttering something about everyone going to dicks, Michael tries again, and this time, his fall is hilarity itself.

“There you go,” Coach says. “I knew you could do it.”

“And you’re a good coach, Coach,” I add.

Michael stretches his arms—which are probably sore from all that flailing. “Who knew looking like a fucking idiot would be such a challenge.”

“But you do it so naturally,” I say, flapping my eyelashes at him all innocent-like.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” he growls.

“On the bright side,” Coach says, “I’ve been telling you that you need to do more assists, and that was an excellent one.”

A female clears her throat behind us. It turns out to be Linda from HR. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“How much of that did you see?” I ask.

She shudders. “Are you asking if I saw our most expensive player nearly break his neck?”

Most expensive? Do hockey players get paid proportionally to their grouchiness?

“What do you want?” Michael demands.

She shuffles from foot to foot. “I wanted to run something by you both. An idea from PR.” She winces. “It has to do with your accommodations in New York.”

“What about them?” I ask.

Linda wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. “They—we—wanted to know if you two would be okay sharing a hotel room.”

I feel like my brain has just tripped over the invisible rope and is flailing its hippocampus and hypothalamus as it lands on its amygdala. “Me and him?” I point at Michael. “Or him and Coach?”

Coach raises his hands like I’ve got a gun pointed at his chest. “I’m staying with my wife. Sorry.”

“Why the fuck?” Michael demands.

“To further fuel the rumors,” Linda says. “Otherwise, the press may start to question whether you’re really together. The two of you haven’t been seen together much, so…”

I glare at her. “I’m not doing it.”

“Me neither,” Michael says, his black eyes glinting with wrath.

“It will be a room with two beds,” Linda squeals. “With a partition between them as well.”

“Aren’t those partitions made from paper and wood?" I slant a glance at Michael’s crotch for no reason at all. “I’m not exactly reassured.”

Michael doesn’t reply, but his expression makes Linda take a step back.

“Mr. Ironside—the team owner—is willing to give both of you a bonus for the inconvenience,” she says in a loud whisper. “Twenty percent of your annual salaries.” She faces Michael. “He also said he would donate a hundred times that to your?—”

“Deal,” Michael growls and turns to me. “I will, of course, be a perfect gentleman."

“Fine,” I say, probably because my brain is still on the fritz. “I’ll do it.” That money will go a long way toward my rat show dream.

As Linda runs away, I narrow my eyes at Michael. “What’s he donating money toward?”

“I have to change,” he says, ignoring my question. “Where do you want to meet so we can exit together?”

“By the front doors?”

With a nod, he strides away.

I turn to Coach. “Do you know what the money is for?”

“I do,” Coach says. “But it’s Michael’s secret project, so you’ll have to get him to tell you. Sorry.”

Secret project? “Does he run a bear preservation society?” That’s something a rich guy might want to donate money to.

Coach shakes his head. “Please don’t put me in this position.”

“Fine. I guess I’ll go change.”

Coach looks relieved, which is why I don’t offer him my second guess: a high-tech facility where toys, porn, and zebras are cleverly utilized to encourage giant pandas to mate.