Grumpy Puck

12. Calliope

Chapter 12

Calliope

O n the commute home and during the ride to the airport, I reflect on what I’ve learned about Michael today—and enrich this information with whatever tidbits I can locate online. Apparently, as a newborn, he was left on the doorstep of an orphanage in Novosibirsk, which is a town in Siberia, a part of Russia that’s famous for being so cold and dark that you could punish people by sending them into exile there. At four years of age, Michael was discovered by a hockey coach due to his aptitude for the sport. He had an entire hockey career as a teen back in Russia, and when he became an adult, he moved to the United States.

Being part of an extremely large and boisterous family, I can’t imagine growing up without them. Nor can I imagine living in a place as cold as Novosibirsk. Their warmest day happens to be just below the temperature we’d get on the coldest day here in Florida, so I shudder to think what their winter is like.

One thing Michael and I do share is the fact that someone trained us early in life, but in my case, it was a pretty gentle training, all things considered.

So yeah, Michael clearly had a difficult early life, which may explain some of his grouchiness.

My heart aches as I picture him as a little boy, with black soulful eyes and the earliest mustache in history. If I had a time machine, I’d?—

The car stops, interrupting my thoughts. The door opens to reveal Michael in all his glory.

My already overworked heart does a backflip. The man is wearing a muscle shirt, as well as shorts that expose his powerful and scrumptiously hairy legs. Oh, and he’s even neatened his beard.

“No,” he says sternly to the driver, who has just opened the trunk. “I’m getting her bags.”

While he brings over my suitcase, I grab my rat carrier from the seat next to me and get out.

“How many rats do you have in there?” Michael asks, staring at my carrier.

“Six,” I reply. “The ones you haven’t met are Lenin, Marco, Polo, Damon, and Catnip.”

“Lenin?” Michael arches an eyebrow. “Is that after?—”

“A comrade from your motherland.” I point at Lenin, so he notices the uncanny resemblance.

“Why?” Michael asks.

Huh. I guess he can’t see it. “He grew up to resemble his namesake, but even as a pup, he seemed like a commie—always unhappy with how many treats I’d give him, and treat distribution in general. I thought about naming him Karl, after Marx, but then I would’ve had two rats with German names.”

“You have Marco and Polo. Aren’t those two Italian names?”

I sigh. “Marco and Polo are identical twins, so… I think that allows for an exception.” I mean, I assume they’re identical twins. They came from the same litter and look and act exactly alike.

He studies the rats in the carrier with fascination. “All six of them look identical to me.”

“Wow. That’s a pretty ratist thing to say.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ready to board?”

I nod and we get onto the private jet, which is to commercial planes what first class is to coach. The seats are bigger than my lounge chair at home, and there’s enough space around each of them for a man of Michael’s size to spread out comfortably.

“Here.” Michael gestures at an adjacent pair of seats near Coach and Dante. “Sit there.”

I do, and before I can comment on how comfy the cushion is, he descends into his seat and presses some button that makes our seats join together, turning them into a makeshift loveseat.

Are his teammates giggling?

Michael slants them a glare, and they all go quiet.

“We’re watching The Suicide Squad ,” Michael announces. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

No one admits to having a problem with it, though Dante does mutter something about it not being the most romantic movie.

“Can I get you something to drink?” asks a flight attendant who clearly works nights as a ninja and weekends as a super model.

“Tomato juice,” Michael replies.

“Non-alcoholic,” she says approvingly, then bats her ridiculously long lashes at him. “You’ve got that important game tomorrow.”

Seriously? “I will have a Bloody Mary,” I say very pointedly.

Given the expression on the woman’s perfect face, you’d think she really hadn’t noticed me until that second. “Sure,” she says offhandedly. Turning back to Michael, she croons, “Would you like salt in your juice?”

Oh, come on. What about asking me how much vodka I want in my drink, or how much hot sauce and so on? Also, I have a funny feeling she plans to include spit in it, or even a splash of cyanide.

To his credit, Michael just grunts in the negative without so much as gracing her with a glance.

“Would you like anything else?” she asks in a tone that implies her pussy is on the list of offerings.

Michael looks at me, and it has to be my overactive imagination, but the corners of his lips seem to lift, as though in a hint of a smile. “Do your rats need a drink?”

“Rats?” The flight attendant’s eyes grow so big she wouldn’t look out of place in an anime.

I present the carrier to her the way Rafiki did with Simba.

What happens to the flight attendant is best described by the expression “a fit of the vapors.” She screams like a horny banshee, goes paler than Dante, and then climbs Coach like a tree.

“My rats are harmless,” I say after the shrieking subsides. “And they’re inside the carrier.”

For now, at least. I’m considering letting them out to stretch their legs, but between possible turbulence and so many giant hockey players around, I’m not sure I’ll risk it.

One of the pilots comes out, along with another flight attendant—a woman who is even more attractive than the hysterical one.

“What seems to be the problem?” the pilot demands.

I show them both my carrier. “I think she’s afraid of my emotional support animals.”

Both the pilot and the other flight attendant react so calmly to the sight of my rats you’d think they meet passengers like me every day.

“Hey, Precious,” the pilot says, looking at the flight attendant on top of Coach. “Are you going to be able to get yourself together?”

Precious? Was she named by Gollum?

With a visible effort, Precious climbs off of Coach and shakes her head.

A kerfuffle ensues during which Precious is swapped for someone who is a lot less ratphobic. Meanwhile, the hockey players tease Coach for being flustered after being assaulted by a woman who isn’t his wife.

“Sorry, everyone,” I say when the jokes at Coach’s expense subside. “I didn’t mean to delay us.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dante says. “She tried to flirt with your man, so you had to unleash a plague of rats on her. It’s only logical.”

I frown. “The collective noun for rats is a pack.”

“Isn’t it a swarm?” Kangaroo Jack chimes in.

“Pack,” I say firmly.

“A plague is a group of locusts,” Coach says, clearly pleased with the change of topic.

“Precious is lucky she left before the movie started,” I say. “There’s?—”

“No spoilers,” Michael growls. “In fact, why don’t we start the fucking movie before someone ruins it.”

In reply, a big screen scrolls down in front of us, and the film studio logo appears.

Midway through the first scene, we are ordered to buckle up for departure. As soon as we are allowed to unbuckle, Michael scoots over and envelops me in his big arm, short-circuiting my brain.

I refuse all drinks and food offered to me and don’t remind anyone about the Bloody Mary because I can’t be sure it will not contain Precious’s spit—or worse. I feel grateful I’ve seen this movie before because I doubt that I would remember anything about it other than the warmth of Michael’s arm. Not warmth, heat. Said arm remains slung over my shoulder all the way until the credits roll, by which point my ovaries have released a dozen eggs that are now all sunny side up in my uterus.

“Isn’t it suspicious that we’re landing just as the movie ends?” Dante asks.

“Coincidence,” Coach says. “This movie is two hours and some change, and so is the flight from Florida to New York.”

Everyone discusses this while Michael and I sneak out and jump into one of the waiting limos.

Once inside the vehicle, despite the obscene amount of room, we sit next to each other, so close, in fact, that I feel tingly again.

“I really enjoyed that movie,” he says as we get going. “Thank you.”

Movie? What movie? All I remember is his arm around my body, and waves upon waves of happy hormones.

I clear my inexplicably dry throat. “Are you feeling ready for the game tomorrow?”

He nods. “I’m going to crush Tugev.”

I chuckle. “Great. That totally doesn’t sound like something an evil villain would say. Not at all.”

He shrugs. “As you just saw in that movie, the line between villain and hero can be thin.”

Before I can reply, Wolfgang produces a short squeak from the rat carrier.

“Ah, right.” I take him out and allow him to perch on my shoulder. “Good job being patient until now.”

Wolfgang blinks at me.

Meine Liebe, the proper way to show your appreciation is with a generous serving of cheese.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll order a cheese plate when we get to the hotel.”

The pack chirps excitedly. They seem to have learned the “c” word.

“You speak to them?” Michael asks. He doesn’t sound disapproving, like my ex was, merely curious.

I smile sheepishly. “They’re my friends.”

“I think I get it,” he says.

I examine him skeptically. “You do?”

“Why not?” he demands. “You still think I’m some sort of monster?”

Wolfgang’s ears perk up. He must’ve heard “Munster.”

“It’s just that you’ve never mentioned any pets,” I say.

“When was I supposed to mention it?” he demands. “After you slammed a pie in my face? Or after you made me play dead—like a fucking dog?”

I roll my eyes. “You forgot ‘after being molested with a giant foam finger.’”

“I didn’t forget,” he growls. “The foam finger is something that’s in my bright future—but I’m sure you’ll ask me all sorts of personal questions afterward.”

“Hey, you started it,” is the most mature retort that I can come up with. “Plus, you don’t let me prank anyone else but you.”

“Whatever,” he says gruffly. He waits a beat, then admits, “I don’t have any pets.”

I squint. “But there’s something. I can tell.”

“No pets,” he says again, but he sounds strangely hesitant.

“What about an aquarium?” I demand. “One with a spiny lumpsucker inside?” It’s a fish one of my cousins owns, and I’ve never seen a creature that looks so much like its name, and its owner.

“I don’t have any fucking pets,” he grits out. “I just watch birds.”

He’s a bird watcher? I never would have guessed that in a million years. “What kinds of birds?”

“All kinds.”

I smile. “So… penguins? Ostriches?”

His jaw ticks. “I watch them in the wild, not in some fucking zoo.”

“Ah, so Florida birds?”

He nods. “White ibises, scrub-jays, wood storks, painted buntings, snail k?—”

I chuckle. “Do you specialize in birds with funny names?”

“No. I was giving them to you in order of how common they are.”

Wow. He’s really into this. “Why don’t you get a bird as a pet?”

“Because birds are meant to fly. How is that supposed to work indoors?”

I shrug. “Maybe rescue a bird that lost a wing or something?”

He looks thoughtful, then shakes his head. “I prefer watching them in their natural habitat.” He hesitates, then adds, “There’s actually a hawk family I’ve been watching recently.”

I arch an eyebrow. “How do you know that they’re a family?”

“I saw them build a nest, and then she laid just the one egg,” he says, his expression darkening. “It should have been somewhere between three and six.”

“Wow,” I say. “It sounds like you’ve gotten attached.”

“No,” is his growled—and unconvincing—reply.

“Did you name them?”

His jaw twitches. “What the fuck does that prove?”

“So that’s a yes,” I say triumphantly. “What are their names?”

He frowns. “Ethan and Mo are the parents, and Eye is the chick.”

They are totally his pet hawks. They just live outdoors. Then I fully register the names and grin like a loon. “A hawk named Eye? Is that after Hawkeye, Black Widow’s best friend?”

The frown is replaced with a hint of a smile that touches his eyes, which is all the confirmation I need.

“And the parents are Mo Hawk and Ethan Hawk?”

Now the smile touches his yummy lips—which you can barely see under the beard. “Let’s hope the hawks never meet your best friends because they’d eat them.”

I wave that away. “My rats live indoors.” And that isn’t such an unnatural habitat for them.

“You sure?” He gestures at Wolfgang.

I scowl. “If some stupid bird tried to go after him, I’d break its stupid beak.”

Michael’s stomach rumbles, loudly. “I should’ve had some food on the plane.”

“Actually, I’m hungry too.” For those hidden lips… but food would be helpful as well.

He knocks on the partition that separates us from the driver. When the partition descends, he asks the driver what there is to snack on in this car, and the menu turns out to be that of a fancy restaurant—and includes a cheese plate.

Closing the partition, I let the rats out so they can feast alongside us.

Michael doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“You know,” he says as he raises a cracker with caviar to his mouth. “I told you about my family situation—or lack thereof—but you never told me about yours.”

Ah. That. I’m worried that if he learns about my family, he will not want to even pretend to date me anymore. Then again, if he’s like that, fuck him. I don’t want to date him either. Fake date, I mean.

So, as I devour the fancy appetizers, I tell him about growing up in the circus and list some of the more outrageous “jobs” of my family members.

“Wait,” he says after I mention my grandparents. “Were you joking, or was your Pop-Pop really a human cannonball?”

That’s where he thought I was joking? Not when I mentioned a cousin who has a regurgitation act?

“No, I’m serious. Pop-Pop got shot out of a cannon until he retired. Oh, and his act has been retired too.” I grin. “They couldn’t find another man of his caliber.” In case it wasn’t clear, I add, “That part was a joke.”

Michael groans. “All the best comedians tell people that they’ve just made a joke.”

“There are more jokes where that one came from,” I tell him.

He arches a sexy, bushy eyebrow.

“Do you know what you call the act of eating a member of my family?”

He shakes his head.

“I’ll give you a clue. Why wouldn’t you want to eat a member of my family?”

He looks at me like I might require psychiatric help. “Because… cannibalism?”

“Wrong. The respective answers are: ‘tossing the salad’ and ‘because we taste funny.’”

“I don’t get it,” he says. “Or is that on purpose?”

“Come on. Our last name is Klaunbut,” I say, this time pronouncing it as everyone else does.

“Clown butt?” He cocks his head. “Didn’t you say it was ‘claw-un-boot?’”

I sigh. “It’s clown butt. I just didn’t want to give you any more ammunition.”

He groans again. “I get it now, though I wish I didn’t. Tossing someone’s salad is slang for eating butt, and you wouldn’t want to eat a clown because they taste funny.”

I slow clap and roll my eyes. “Do you think you’re better at jokes than I am?”

His eyes go slitty. “A guy gets lost in the woods and starts shouting. A bear walks up to him and asks why he’s making all the noise. ‘I’m lost,’ the guy explains. ‘So I was hoping someone would hear me.’ The bear bares his teeth. ‘I heard you. Feel better now?’”

I suppress a chuckle. “Is this a test?”

He pauses mid-bite of his cracker. “What?”

“You tell a joke that features a bear, I laugh, and then you get pissed off.”

He blows out a breath. “You can laugh when I tell a bear joke. Just don’t call me a bear.”

“Deal,” I say, but then I can’t help but ask why he’s so touchy about it.

So he tells me, and in a weird way, it makes sense. Being a Klaunbut, I can even relate.

“Is that why you hate the mascot?” I tap my suitcase, where Mr. Bloom is vacuum-sealed in a specialized bag.

“I hate the fact that some people call me the mascot behind my back.”

Oh. “Who?” And are they suicidal?

He clenches and unclenches his fist. “Russian-speaking players from other teams.”

“That can’t be many people.” Yet it explains why he’s broken so many noses on the ice.

“Ten percent of the league are Russian,” he counters. “Plus, there are plenty like Tugev who aren’t Russian but speak the language enough to mock me.”

Wow. “That’s more than I would expect.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. There are four times as many Canadians.” He wipes his hands on his napkin.

I wipe mine too. “That makes more sense.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Dante is Canadian.”

“He is? I would have guessed Transylvanian.”

This time, Michael smiles full-on, with teeth showing and everything, and it’s a glorious event, like a sunrise over a stormy ocean.

As if it’s developed a mind of its own, my hand lands on his thigh. “I will not make any bear jokes ever again.”

His eyes grow heated. “And I will never start making clown butt ones.”

I scoot closer to him. “It’s a deal.”

He leans toward me. “A deal has to be properly sealed.”

It’s unclear who moves first, but our lips meet.

The world starts to fade way… and then our stupid limo stops.