Grumpy Puck

11. Michael

Chapter 11

Michael

“ Y ou okay?” Dante asks me when I storm into the locker room.

I slam my locker door, hard. “Those fucking fucks want me and Calliope to stay in the same hotel room in New York.”

Dante snorts. “You and the girl you like spending a night together. The horror.”

I whirl on him. “Don’t fucking test me. On top of that, fucking Linda almost told Calliope about my secret project.”

He shrugs. “Would it be so bad if she knew? She might actually like you more.”

“Fuck.” I rip off my jersey.

“She may do that too, if she knew about?—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss at Dante because Jack comes out of the showers—and he’s not in on my secret, and never will be.

“She could even help,” Dante says vaguely. “If I were you, I’d take her to the fundraiser when?—”

“Which part of ‘shut the fuck up’ did you not get?” I growl.

Then again, his idea is worth considering. Not that she’d agree to accompany me to any events.

Changing quickly, I rush downstairs, where I wait for what seems like hours for Calliope to show up.

“Finally,” I can’t help but say when she appears.

“I could make my own way to the car,” she retorts.

Not dignifying that with a response, I open the door and channel my frustration at the fuckers outside.

Unfortunately for my itching fists, they make way for us, so I take ptichka by her elbow and lead her through the parking lot—ready to punch anyone who asks us some stupid question. Here again, I don’t get the chance.

Speaking of people I’d punch… “Have you seen any other signs of your stalker?”

She shakes her head. “We don’t know that it was a stalker, but no.” Yet she looks a little unsure.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

She hesitates. “Now that I think about it, when I got to my place on my first day, something seemed off. There were some smudges on the walls, and a few floorboards looked like they’d been pulled up and then placed back.”

“Fucking stalker,” I growl.

“Or it was my imagination,” she says. “Also, I’m not sure the video was even viral yet at that time.”

I clench and unclench my fist. “Do you have a security system?”

“No.”

“I’m going to make some calls. One is getting installed tonight.”

She rolls her eyes. “That sounds like overkill.”

“It’s better to have a security system and never need it.”

“Whatever.” Her classically shaped nose wrinkles. “Now… can you tell me what your secret project is?”

I lean in. “Can you keep a secret?”

She nods eagerly and gets so close I can almost taste her lips.

“So can I,” I say and watch as the disappointment spreads over her face.

“Fine,” she says. “I’m going.” Yet she doesn’t move even an inch. A flap of a butterfly’s wing is all it would take to have our lips meet.

My heart pounds heavily, and my voice is a touch too husky as I say, “Don’t we have some pretending to do?”

Her shoulders dip fetchingly. “Not everyone kisses their girlfriend goodbye every day.”

“If you were really mine, I would.”

Fuck, what am I saying? Why am I saying it? It’s like a demon has taken hold of my tongue. Or my dick.

She moistens her lips. “Seems like we don’t have much of a choice.”

The demon pushes me from behind, making me dip my head, and my lips clash against hers.

Her breathy gasp of surprise tells me that she didn’t expect it—but she doesn’t push me away. No, she returns the kiss with a passion that could win her an Oscar.

I pull her closer and she melts into me, her soft parts driving my hard ones insane.

The sound of cameras clicking brings me back to reality, and I pull away from her.

Eyes wild, she touches her lips. “I bet that was pretty convincing.”

I nod. “See you tomorrow, ptichka .”

With that, I drag myself away and drive home in a haze. When I get there, two journalists are waiting for me, and one asks about Calliope.

I destroy his camera first, then do the same to the other asshole. Then I promise to break body parts if I see them again and head into my house.

Finally. I’m still painfully hard after that kiss, so I fist my dick to release the tension. Afterward, I eat dinner and get on my computer to work on my secret project.

By the time my eyes grow tired from staring at the monitor, I have a new sponsor secured and have managed to score an invitation to a fundraiser where I can meet more while I’m in New York. It’s a black-tie event, so I go over to the suitcase I’ve already prepared and pack my tux into it.

The problem is, just dressing the part isn’t going to help me score more sponsors. I’ll need to shmooze and be fucking polite, which isn’t my forte.

Maybe Coach is right. Maybe I should ask Calliope to join me. Despite being a contrarian who would no doubt have a rat on her shoulder even at a black-tie event, she’d do a much better job than I ever could when it comes to charming people. Something about her just draws you in. Some sort of a sparkle, for lack of a better term, and I don’t just mean the color of her nails.

But no. I can’t. It sounds too much like an actual date. And it would feel like one too, which is the last thing we need.

Closing my computer, I walk over to my telescope and unwind by watching the hawk family.

The next day, by the end of the practice, I realize I’ve almost lost my voice from yelling at my sorry excuses for teammates.

Sweating bullets, I approach Coach while he is speaking with Calliope, and catch her asking, “Maybe you should enroll him in anger management classes?”

“Fuck that,” I growl. “But you could enroll these lazy fuckers in some ‘intro to hockey’ classes.”

Coach turns my way. “I know you want to win, but maybe you’re pushing yourself and the others a little too hard?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Shouldn’t you want us to win more than I do, Coach?”

“It’s an exhibition game,” he reminds me. “A glorified practice. There’s no prize money. No impact on rankings. It doesn’t count toward anything.”

I shake my head vehemently. “After we beat them, my prize will be the expressions on their faces.” Especially one specific face.

“ If we beat them,” Coach says. “Our chances aren’t that good. They’re a much stronger team and?—”

“Which is why they’re going to be overconfident,” I say. “And not try their hardest—for all the reasons you’ve mentioned.”

“So why do you want to beat them so much?” Calliope asks just as Dante skates over and takes off his mask, nearly blinding us all with his paleness.

“Because they fired him,” Dante says without missing a beat. “And it’s not just all of them that he wants to defeat, but Mason Tugev especially. The one responsible for said firing.”

I restrain all of my violent urges. Dante is a friend. Plus he’s an outstanding goalie, and we need him for the game in question. “Tugev actually claimed it was their coach who fired me,” I grit out. “The real reason I want to beat him is because he thinks he’s the best in the league.”

“He and the rest of the world,” Dante says. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Mason Tugev,” Calliope repeats with a frown. “Isn’t that guy a billionaire?”

“Exactly,” I say grimly. “And all that money has made him soft, I’m sure.”

“He’s the team owner now,” Coach adds. “So he’s probably thinking about retirement rather than winning.”

“There you go,” I say. “This might be my last chance to best him.”

“Don’t you mean for your team to best his team?” Coach asks with a smirk.

“I’m sure he meant exactly what he said,” Calliope says with an eyeroll. “The man’s ego is the size of Mount Everest.”

Dante gives her a high five, and I almost break his arm for daring to touch her—friend/goalie or not. What stops me is Coach’s hand on my shoulder.

The man understands me much better than anyone else.

“So, Calliope,” Coach says. “Any new shenanigans you need help with?” The bastard looks pointedly at me.

“Actually, yes,” she says. “But I’m not sure if I should clear them with everyone, or just run with them.”

“Clear it with him ,” Dante and Coach say in unison, looking at me.

“Especially if you’re planning them for the Yetis game,” Coach adds.

She sighs. “Okay. I was planning on attacking you with a giant foam finger after you score.”

“You have furry paws,” Dante says. “How are you going to hold onto a giant foam finger?”

“That’s my burden to bear ,” she says.

I grit my teeth. “Fine. You can use the finger.” But only because the plan takes it for granted that I will score.

She chuckles. “I’ll call this bit ‘Michael gets fingered.’”

Coach and Dante laugh uproariously, and my only non-violent option becomes to turn on my heel and leave.

When I walk out of the locker room, Calliope is waiting for me, and she looks extra delectable now that the bulky mascot suit isn’t hiding her curves.

“Hey,” she says. “Are you mad?”

“Mad as in insane?”

I did, after all, agree to pretend to date this woman.

“Mad as in angry,” she says with a slight eyeroll. “You were being unnaturally agreeable when you said yes to—let’s call it Project Foam Finger—and I made a joke at your expense instead of saying thanks.”

“Unnaturally agreeable?” I arch an eyebrow. “You might just be worse at apologies than I am.”

“Sorry. Now, can we go?”

“Sure.” As if possessed, I take her elbow right then—without any journalists in sight. If she minds, she doesn’t show it, so we walk like that all the way to her car.

“So…” She nods at the idiots with cameras and bites her lower lip. “Shall we?”

Oh, yes. I kiss her once more, the taste of cotton candy as intoxicating as it is arousing. The world around us seems to fade away, at least until she gently steps back from me—at which point I hear the clicks of cameras over the hammering of my heartbeat.

“See you tomorrow,” she says shyly.

The best I can do as far as replies go is a grunt. But hey, it could have been worse.

I could have growled.

The next few days blur together. I practice like my life depends on winning, and then I kiss Calliope for the cameras with a similar fervor and without a care for how blue my balls get. After that, I jerk off, work on fundraising, look at the hawks, and sleep, then rinse and repeat.

“So…” Calliope says after we grudgingly disconnect from the kiss on the day of our flight. “I’ll see you on the plane, right?”

“Correct.” I doubt it was necessary, but I’ve already warned my teammates that I’m sitting next to her, and that they’d better stay away on the pain of… a lot of pain. “Why do you ask? Did you want to watch a movie together?”

Her eyes light up. “Could we?”

“Sure. What kind of movies do you like?”

She darts a glance at Wolfgang. “ Ratatouille is my favorite, but I also like Encanto —because of Bruno’s friends.”

Thanks to my secret project, I’m actually familiar with the movies in question, so I ask, “Are we allowed to talk about Bruno?”

Her eyes widen. “You’re right. We don’t talk about Bruno. No. No. No.”

I resist the urge to kiss her again. “So… do the movies you like always have rats?”

She shakes her head. “I like Stuart Little , and he’s a mouse.”

“Ah. You like rodents then.”

She shakes her head again. “I like Pikachu, and he’s a Pokémon—a fictional creature with superpowers.”

“Yeah, but he still looks rodent-like.”

She narrows her eyes. “How are you so up to speed on things that kids like? Do you have any of your own?”

“Nope.”

“Nieces or nephews?”

“No.” The word comes out more growly than I intend. “I don’t have any family.” Fucking fuck. How did we get on to this subject?

She gapes at me. “Any?”

“No. I grew up in a Russian orphanage—and the less said about that, the better.” Else I might just go berserker on the nearby media fucks, and that wouldn’t be good for the team’s PR.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, staring up at me. “I didn’t know.”

I feel a muscle pulse in my jaw. “Can we change the subject?”

“Yeah. Sure. Let’s just finish talking about movies. What kinds do you like? Maybe we can find one that we’d both enjoy?”

“I like movies with spies and superheroes,” I say. “My favorite character is Black Widow.”

She rolls her eyes. “Is it because you think Scarlett Johansson is hot?”

“No. I relate to her character’s backstory.”

Shit. Why did I just say that?

When Calliope stares at me like I’ve grown a second head, I’m forced to explain. “Born in Russia, recruited into a grueling training program. The only difference is the curriculum: spying versus hockey.”

She just continues staring at me, her face a kaleidoscope of emotions. “So, when Coach said you started hockey at four, it wasn’t voluntary?”

“It wasn’t, but I grew to like hockey pretty soon after that, and I understood that my life would be much worse without it. Still, being trained using Soviet-era methods is not something I’d recommend, even to my enemies.”

She takes my hand into hers, her small palm soft and warm around my fingers. “I’m sorry… again.”

“It’s fine.” I nod toward the journalists. “They’re probably getting some great pictures of us having a heart to heart, so there’s that.”

“Yeah,” she says and releases my hand.

I mourn the loss of her touch, but I can’t tell her that. “Have any movie suggestions?” I ask instead.

She nods. “How about The Suicide Squad ?”

I cock my head. “The old or the new one?”

I heard the older version sucks.

“Only the newer one has the ‘the’ in the title,” she says. “And it’s the only one that has Ratcatcher 2, a character who likes rats as much as I do.”

“No spoilers,” I say gruffly. “I haven’t seen it.”

“Oh.” She smiles. “You’re in for a treat.”

Fuck. Why does it all of a sudden feel like we’re going on a movie date? What’s worse, we can’t even tell ourselves this is part of the usual ruse since we’ll be in the air, so no one except my team will see this, and they already believe we’re a couple.

“Would it be a good idea to kiss again?” Calliope asks shyly. “I figure that’s what a real couple would do after a heart to heart.”

Good idea? Hell, no. But I draw her to me anyway and kiss her with everything I’ve got.