Grumpy Puck

17. Michael

Chapter 17

Michael

“ T his one?” Calliope dangles a strapless black cocktail dress in front of her body. “Or this?” She replaces the black with a red one, which seems to be even shorter and with more fabric missing in the back.

My nostrils flare. Picturing her in either outfit makes me hard, which in turn makes it difficult to make decisions. “Why don’t you try them on?”

Shit. I’ve essentially asked for a private strip show, so I fully expect her to tell me to go to the dick.

“That’s a great idea.” She runs to the dressing room, picking up a few more dresses on the way.

As I wait, I surreptitiously position my legs so that my hard-on is not so noticeable—and I’m glad that I do because when she comes out wearing that short black dress, my dick needs all the extra space, and then some.

Hell, even Wolfgang—whom she’s left next to me—seems to whistle.

And that’s before she twirls, giving me a view of her lithe back and the perfection that is her ass.

“What do you think?” she asks shyly.

“You look magnificent, ptichka ,” I say, the words coming out husky. “You’ll draw a crowd without the need for a rat show.” And I’ll punch them all in the face.

Her cheeks turn pink. “Thanks. Should I just take this one?”

“No,” I say, much too eagerly. “Let’s see the others.” Even if that means my balls might actually explode into blue dust.

The red dress exposes even more of her milky skin, and I find myself mumbling the compliment because my dick has left no blood flow for my tongue to properly operate.

Things only get worse from there. Or better, depending on how I look at it. The white dress is shorter than the others. The shiny silvery one pushes her boobs up.

“Which is your favorite?” she asks.

“It’s hard to choose.” I want to get them all, but not for the fundraiser. My new fantasy is to have her wear each of those for me, very privately, in my bedroom. “You make them all look amazing.”

Picking just one is like picking which of my balls is my favorite.

“But if you had to pick a favorite?” She dangles two dresses in her hands expectantly.

“Red?” It’s no doubt the color her commie rat named Lenin would choose, if he were here.

She frowns. “I think I like black more.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Black looks amazing on you. As I said, they all do.”

“Yes, but you like red more.” She waves at the saleswoman. “I think I should try on a few more dresses.”

And boy, does she try on more. If my spank bank were a real bank, it would need to open a few new branches at this point.

Could she be teasing me? Is this an attempt at seduction?

If it’s the latter, she succeeded on dress number one. At this point, I can’t even recall why it would be a bad idea to fuck her brains out—especially seeing how I don’t have a game tomorrow, or anytime soon.

No. I think it’s my dick’s wishful thinking that is making me think this is a seduction. She?—

“What about now?” Calliope asks. “Do you have a favorite?”

This is starting to sound like a trick question. “Can I see the black again?”

Nodding approvingly, she disappears into the changing room, and I wait with bated breath and a hard dick.

When she comes out, I look at the dress as if for the first time. “This is the one,” I say solemnly. And by that, I mean when I picture her in my mind from now on, she’ll either be wearing this dress or, more likely, nothing at all.

She beams at me. “Who knew you had such good taste?”

By the time we return to the hotel room, all I have time for is a cold shower and a quick change into my suit. Then, per Calliope’s instructions, I knock before leaving the bathroom, “in case she’s not decent.”

Fuck. Thinking of what that could entail undoes all the benefits of the cold shower.

“Come out,” she says.

When I step into the suite, she’s turned away from the giant mirror, thanks to which I can see her from the front and back.

“Wow,” I say in an understatement of the century.

Her cheeks redden. “You saw me like this at the store.”

Should I tell her I could see her in that dress a million more times and still have the same overreaction?

“You didn’t have your hair done at the store,” I say lamely. “It adds to the ‘wow.’” And she has put her hair in an updo, which exposes her long, delicate, and very kissable neck.

She beams at me. “You don’t look too bad yourself, boo.” She walks over and grabs my tie. “Let me just adjust that.”

As she fixes the wayward tie, I fight the overwhelming urge to rip her dress off and carry her to the giant bed.

“That’s better.” She bats her eyelashes at me prettily. “Now we can go.”

Leaving is the last thing I want to do, but we’re late as is. Plus, she wouldn’t want me to take her to bed. She’s not into casual hookups, and I’m not sure if we have the time to start a real relationship. Not that the latter is a good idea. If we dated for real, just as I’d start to care about her, she’d leave, just like everyone else in my life. No, it’s better?—

“Here.” She thrusts the rat carrier into my hand. “Make yourself useful.”

She then rummages through her suitcase and takes out some hoops “for the rats to jump through,” balls “for the rats to balance on,” a unicycle for obvious reasons, a tiny soccer ball, and two goalposts.

“Shouldn’t that be a puck?” I point at the soccer ball.

She shrugs. “I taught them to play soccer before I knew I’d have a hockey career.” She stashes all the trick accessories into a bag and swaps it for the carrier in my hands. “Let’s go.”

“So,” I say while we sit next to each other in an Uber. “You didn’t know you’d have a hockey career?”

She shakes her head. “I worked as a character in theme parks, but then I got blacklisted from that field, so I took the mascot gig. What I really want, though, is to do rat shows for a living.”

“You do?” I glance at the rat carrier. “Why?”

She thinks about my question for a block or so. “Historically, rats have had bad PR and have been blamed for things like spreading the plague.”

“Is it bad PR?” I ask. “I thought they really did spread the plague.”

She shakes her head. “Recent studies have debunked that theory. It was humans who spread it, not rats.”

I give Wolfgang an apologetic nod. “I didn’t realize.”

“Few people do. The reality is, rats are cute and intelligent creatures. When it comes to cohabitation with people, they are superior to cats in every way, yet the bad PR is making it so they are not nearly as mainstream as felines. Worse still, people create things such as rat traps and rat poison—which are terrible.”

I nod. “Your shows are meant to cast rats in a more positive light?”

“Exactly. My goal is to help the great work that Pixar started with Ratatouille . Work that was continued by rodent heroes such as the Pizza Rat.”

I glance at the streets of New York outside, half expecting to see a rat carrying a slice of pizza as we speak. “I think I get it.”

Hell, I myself have been on the other end of bad PR—though, granted, it might actually have been deserved in my case.

“So,” I say. “If you did have a show, what would the rats be doing?”

For the rest of our trip, she tells me in minute detail, and I realize something I never would have imagined.

I’d like to see this rat show of hers.

The fundraiser is the kind of fancy that is only possible in New York. If it had a theme, it would be “old money” and/or “snobbery.” Most of the women wear pearls that they seem very eager to clutch, and the men all have a rare-for-hockey combo of soft hands and never-been-broken noses.

Just thinking about striking up a conversation with any of these people causes my blood pressure to spike way more than it would if I had to step into a boxing ring with a heavyweight champion.

“Let’s set up here.” Calliope gestures at one of the long tables in the middle of the room.

“Sure.”

Glad to have an excuse to postpone having to shmooze, I carry the bag with rat paraphernalia over to the table and watch as Calliope sets it all up.

“Now I’ll do my thing, and people will hopefully come over,” she says.

At her urging, the rats play soccer—an activity chosen because it’s a sport and therefore should allow me to segue into mentioning my foundation.

A couple of people gather and watch in fascination until the performance is finished, with Marco—or maybe Polo—scoring the last goal.

“That was amazing,” says one of the men, turning to his wife. “Wasn’t it, Sugar?”

I open my mouth to somehow talk about the fundraiser, but Sugar butts in, asking if Calliope has a business card.

“No,” Calliope replies. “Sorry. This isn’t about me.” She nods my way. “The performance was a means to draw attention to Michael’s foundation.”

Everyone turns my way, so I launch into the speech I’ve rehearsed so often in my head. To my shock, not only are they interested, a few even pull out their checkbooks—including Sugar’s husband.

“Now that that’s settled,” Sugar says, turning to Calliope, “how do I reach you in case I want to hire you to put on a show like that for me?”

Using nearby napkins, Calliope writes down her number.

“Thanks,” Sugar says and departs.

“Damn,” I say. “You might just get your show sooner than you thought.”

Calliope shakes her head. “I want to be performing in theaters or circuses. Sugar clearly has a private event, like a birthday, in mind.”

“Still. She might have a guest at her event who owns a theater or a circus.”

“How about we focus on you for now?” Calliope sets up the soccer game again, and it draws an even bigger crowd.

“Are you Honey and Boo Boo?” asks a lady when the performance is over.

“Yes,” Calliope says. “Though we don’t go by those nicknames.”

Knowing that we are celebrities opens up people’s checkbooks even quicker, and on top of that, Calliope gives away two more napkins with her number.

Around the time we gather a third crowd, a person walks over that makes me do a double take.

He is someone I expected to see earlier today.

“Tugev,” I grit out. “What are you doing here?”

He and his date look up from the rats, and he acts as though he’s seeing me for the first time.

“Mi… Medvedev?” he says, eyes widening.

My jaw twitches. I know he was initially going to say “Misha” but decided not to spew an insult that would undoubtedly cause a scene.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I asked first.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “And since we’re throwing questions around, why weren’t you at the game?”

“I brought him here,” says his date with a grin. She then extends her slender hand to me. “Hi, I’m Sophia. You must know Mason from hockey.”

“Call me Michael.” I shake her hand. “Did you also forbid him from playing earlier?”

“I didn’t play because I’m retired,” Tugev growls.

So that’s true? “How convenient. Just as I was going to kick your ass on the ice, you retire.”

“Oh, please,” he says with derision. “Had I been there, you and your team would have lost.”

“What he means is ‘congratulations on your win,’” Sophia says.

“I meant what I said,” Tugev says to her. Turning my way, he grudgingly adds, “I was impressed with your teamwork. Or more specifically, that you managed any at all.”

Is that a compliment or a diss?

In that moment, Lenin scores the last goal, and Calliope looks up from the rat game.

“Hey,” she says, looking at Tugev. “Aren’t you the guy Michael wanted to beat today?”

Tugev smirks. “I didn’t realize he cared so much about me. I’m flattered.”

I ball my hands into fists. “You wish. But you’re going to get flattened if you keep?—”

Calliope puts a calming hand on my shoulder. “Did you tell him about your foundation? With both of you being so much into hockey, he might just be the perfect sponsor.”

“What foundation?” Sophia asks, looking genuinely intrigued.

Tugev doesn’t say anything, but he raises an eyebrow very pointedly.

“Right.” I grit my teeth, think of the kids, and go into my spiel. I even adjust for the audience, emphasizing that I’m interested in starting with hockey as the sport and Russia and former Soviet republics as the recruiting locations.

“That is amazing,” Sophia says and elbows Tugev.

“I agree,” he says. “Tell me more.”

Shocked by this turn of events, I talk for a while. To his credit, Tugev asks some intelligent questions. Soon, he and Sophia recommend me their lawyer, suggest some people who could serve on the foundation board, and invite me to more events where I can raise funds.

“Have you spoken to Orehov about this?” Tugev asks toward the end.

“Why?”

Orehov is a strange hockey player because there are persistent rumors linking him to the Russian mob. I have no idea if said rumors are true, but the one time he fought someone on the ice, the guy disappeared afterward.

“They say he has a lot of connections in Russia,” Tugev says. “Figure that might come in handy if you plan to help kids there.”

“I think I can get by without him,” I say. “I regularly get letters from Russian fans, so that’s who I’d ask for help.” Because the last thing I want is to mix helping children with even a hint of the Russian mob.

“Whatever works best for you.” Tugev goes into his inner jacket pocket to pull out his checkbook. “This is just the start.” He fills out the check and hands it to me.

When I see the number, my eyes widen. This is more money than anyone has ever contributed to my cause, even if you combine it all and add a few zeros. I guess this could’ve been expected. After all, Tugev is a billionaire, but?—

The loud gasp from Calliope’s mouth is weirdly sexy. She’s also noticed the obscene number.

“This will help a lot of kids,” I say solemnly, looking at Tugev. “Thank you, Mason.”

He hands me a business card. “Like I said, that’s just the beginning. Let’s touch base when you’ve grown the fund a bit, and I could make a more meaningful contribution.”

Stunned at the idea of an even bigger check, I nod and watch as he and Sophia leave to mingle with other people.

“Do you think he did that because he felt bad about missing the game?” Calliope asks.

I shrug. “If that’s the case, I’m glad he retired. This money changes everything.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s keep going while the going is hot.”

“Sure.”

The rat show resumes, and we return to our fundraising mode—which somehow goes a lot smoother now that I have that giant check. It’s like people can sense success and are attracted by it. That or I’m better at social skills when the pressure is off. In fact, I lose count of the checks I get, and then, just as the latest group leaves, a woman steps up to the podium in the front of the room and taps on the microphone.

“The dance-a-thon is about to begin,” she says. “But we’re short on dancers. Anyone want to volunteer?” She looks directly at us. “Particularly anyone who’s a viral sensation?”

I shake my head.

Calliope does the same.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” the woman says. “I’m pretty sure we’ll raise plenty of money if you participate—and it can go to the cause of your choice.”

“Even if it’s his?” Calliope points at me.

“Sure,” the woman says.

Shit. Are we actually going to do this?

Probably not. Calliope still looks uncertain. “I can’t leave my rats alone,” she says.

“I’ll watch them,” the woman says, and she must have a lot of Botox because she manages to wrinkle her nose without causing any wrinkles.

“I’ll make a pledge of a hundred grand if you do dance,” Sophia says, eyes glinting mischievously. “I’m sure other people will be even more generous.” She nods at her date.

Other people get into the spirit of pressuring us and also make pledges. Then, according to the instigator woman, there turns out to be additional money coming from the hoi polloi who will be watching the dance-a-thon online.

“We should do it,” Calliope whispers into my ear. “The kids could use that money.”

“Tugev’s check makes it so we don’t need to do anything we don’t want to do,” I whisper back. “You’ve done so much already.” I doubt I would’ve raised a fraction of this insane amount by myself.

Her lips brush softly against my ear as she whispers, “Dancing together would also help sell our charade. Real couples dance.”

Fuck it. Pantomiming something a figure skater might do, I extend my hand theatrically. “Would you care to dance?”

Blushing for some unfathomable reason, she takes my hand, and we walk over to the dance floor, where we are joined by the volunteers that the lady mentioned earlier.

“How about you two?” said lady says to Tugev and Sophia. “Will you join?”

They do. So does another couple, and a few more after that.

As we wait for the music, I realize that my heart is hammering—and not just because of Calliope’s proximity or the fact that her slender hand is enveloped in mine. Nor am I bothered by the fact that this performance is going to be streamed live. No. It’s hammering due to a belated realization.

I want this fake relationship with my team’s mascot to be real.