Page 26 of Grumpy Puck

Arching an eyebrow, he skates away, picks up speed, and then stops so suddenly I can scarcely believe my eyes.“You mean, like this?”

Shit.“Yeah.Sure.Anything you can do I can do better.”

Great.I sound like that musical where someone gets her gun—which is trivial here in Florida.

“Okay,” he says skeptically.“Turn your skates in a perpendicular direction from where you’re headed and use the edges of the blades to create friction.It’s called a hockey stop.”

Is he saying words like “friction” to turn me on?Because it’s not working.I’m not tempted to slip my arm out of my costume’s sleeve to touch myself—all under the cover of layers of fake bear-fur.Nope.Not tempted at all.

“—got all that?”he demands.

Shit.I might have spaced out there for a second.“Show it to me again.”

He does, and I realize I must have some sort of skating fetish—or competency fetish—because I never would have expected that seeing someone come to a sudden halt on ice would make me this hot and bothered.

“Like this?”I speed up and try his method—and promptly fall, the suit assuring that only my pride is hurt in the process.

He skates over and lifts me up with a gentleness I didn’t think him capable of.“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.Fine.”I try to pull away.“Just need to practice that a few more times.”

“No,” he says imperiously, not letting go.“Let’s make sure you’re not hurt.”He lifts me up like a sack of teddy bears and carries me somewhere as I protest loudly.

When a janitor spots us, he winks at Michael knowingly, which pisses me off almost as much as the manhandling does.

Finally, he puts me down next to a door labeled “MEDICAL.”

Inside, a woman tells me that she’s an orthopedic surgeon, and per Michael’s demands, she insists I get out of the suit so I can be checked.

“No.”I stomp my fuzzy foot to punctuate the word.“I have to go get Wolfgang.”

“I’ll get him,” Michael says and leaves before I can raise any sort of objection.

“That’s just great,” I tell the doctor.“You’re about to have two patients.”Because Wolfgang will surely bite the asshole.I’m the only human he trusts to pick him up.

“Is Wolfgang a dog?”the doctor asks.

“No.”I don’t clarify that he’s a rat in case the good doctor is one of those jumps-on-furniture-when-frightened females.There aren’t many places of elevation in this tiny room.

“Can you take that thing off?”She pokes at my costumed bicep with a smirk.

I do so, grateful that I’m wearing my short shorts and a tank top underneath instead of just my bra and panties.

She quickly examines me and tells me that I’m totally fine.

“I know,” I say.“It was Michael who?—”

Speak of the devil.He waltzes in, and a surprisingly content-looking Wolfgang is perched on his shoulder.

Hell, the little traitor even chirps excitedly, like he’s scored a slice of cheese.

Well, at least Wolfgang jumps over to my shoulder as soon as Michael is within leaping distance.Otherwise, I don’t know what I would have done.

“Oh,” the doctor says.“Wolfgang is your rat.I should have guessed.”

“What do you mean?”I ask.“How often do you assume people have rats?”

“Honey, everyone saw the YouTube video,” she says.

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