Page 11 of Grumpy Puck

Shit.She looks like she’s contemplating running me over, but then she rolls down her window and sticks out her head.“What?”

I step over to the side of the car.Now that I’m face to face with her, I find myself strangely at a loss for words.“I…” Fuck, what is wrong with me?I force myself to say something, anything.What comes out is, “What the fuck was that?”

“A huge mistake.”She punctuates her words by slamming on the gas, and with a screech of tires, her tiny Beetle whooshes out of the parking lot, nearly flattening my toes in the process.

Fucking fuck.

I stand there staring after her until a pale hand lands on my shoulder.“I take it the conversation didn’t go so well?”Dante asks when I turn around.

I shake my head.

“Want to get a drink, talk about it?”He gestures at the other side of the parking lot, where the rest of the team are getting on our private charter bus.“Everyone’s headed to the pub.”

“Fuck no.”I hate team-building exercises—almost as much as I hate the overabundant sunshine that blinds everyone, gives them skin cancer, and yet somehow fails to give Dante even a hint of a tan.

“Suit yourself.”Dante jogs over to the bus, and they leave.

Good fucking riddance.

Unfortunately, I’m still not out of the woods because Coach is heading my way, no doubt with words of encouragement and wisdom.

“I’ve got to go!”I yell over to him and beeline for my own car.

Chapter5

Calliope

Ireplay what happened all the way to the circus parking lot.Obviously, the kiss is at the forefront of my mind, particularly how passionate, fierce, and completely and utterly insane it was.

With Wolfgang safely in tow, I slam the car door, hard, and head into the colorful, circular building.What possessed me to do something like that?One second, I wanted to slap the bear with my palm, and then boom, I did so… but with my lips.

Hey.At least it wasn’t my pussy.But still… Why that guy, of all people?

Maybe my ex was right.My family and I just might be a little cuckoo in the head.

As if to illustrate my point, when I pass by the kitchen, I spot my dad juggling our toaster, a loaf of bread, and an avocado.

“Hey, Papi,” he says as he reaches for the knife—still keeping the rest of the objects in the air as he does.“How was your first day?”

Should I discourage this new attempt at a nickname for me?If we spoke Spanish, it would make more sense for me to callhimthat.Then again, these namesaregetting worse, so maybe I should settle.For all I know, the next one might just be Mini-Me.

“That bad, huh?”he asks, now juggling the knife as well.

Skillfully keeping all the objects circling in the air, he side-eyes my attire, or lack of it, but says nothing.Not that I expected him to.He’s probably decided that a jersey and nothing else is what all mascots wear during time off.I’m betting the rest of the family will assume the same.

Skimpy clothes and circus go hand in hand.

“First days are always tough,” says Mom’s voice from somewhere far down below.

What the hell?Where is she hiding?

I walk around the kitchen counter in search of her—and find her sitting in a deep split, munching on avocado toast.As expected, she doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by my attire.

“My day was fine,” I lie.“I’m here to get my stuff.”

Dad almost drops the toaster.“You’re still moving out?”

I nod.“The place they offered me is closer to work.”And it’s twice the size of my current room, and I don’t have to share it with anyone.

---