Page 28 of Grumpy Puck

Said lips vibrate as he blows out a frustrated breath.“Coach asked that I walk you to your car.The vultures are still outside.”

Oh.I forgot.

“Does Coach want them to see us together?”I ask.“Or is he actually worried about my safety?”

“For fuck’s sake, does it matter?”Michael points at the exit.“Can we go?”His stomach growls, loudly.

“Fine.”

I only remember my great-grandfather vaguely, but I’m pretty sure one of the pearls of wisdom that he passed on to me was, “There’s nothing more dangerous than a hungry bear.”

As Michael stalks me to my changing room, I make a point not to speak, and he doesn’t break the silence.

Once inside, I take off the mascot suit and debate if I should stay in the skimpy clothing, just to piss him off.

But no.I don’t want to leave my day clothes here for the hypothetical stalker to mess with, and if I carry them with me, my ploy will be transparent.

So I change, and when I exit, I catch him scanning me from head to toe again, and nodding approvingly—which pisses me off.

I walk up to him and poke his chest with my finger—a mistake because touching his hair there does things to me.Inappropriate things.“Let’s get something straight.I wear whatever I want.”

“Sure,ptichka.Who said you couldn’t?”

Is this a joke?“You did.Or implied it.”

His eyes heat up.“You can walk around naked if you so wish.I’ll just deal with every asshole who dares to ogle you.”

Is “deal with” a euphemism for “break the neck of”?

“Why do I even bother trying to reason with a caveman?”I ask no one in particular.

Wolfgang cheerfully grinds his incisors.

Meine Liebe, I prefer standing on your shoulders when they are not covered by clothes.It makes my paws feel like I’m standing in warm mozzarella.

Turning away from Michael, I hurry down the corridor, and he lets me lead until we get to the exit doors, which is when he goes ahead and roars at the media crowd—or at least that’s what it sounds like.

Usually a brave lot, the journalists make a path that is wide enough for a marching band to parade through.

Grunting something unintelligible, Michael takes my elbow and leads me through, while I do my best not to swoon from his touch in front of all these cameras.

Or maybe I should swoon?We are, after all, supposed to make the world think?—

“That’s yours, right?”Wrinkling his nose, he gestures at my Beetle.

I glare at him.“Now you don’t like my car?”

“It doesn’t look very safe,” he says.“Also, I’m pretty sure it was modeled after one of Hitler’s ideas.”

What?I got it secondhand from my cousin who is a clown—literally, that is—and I’ve always associated this type of car with clowns.And sure, they sometimes seem a little evil, but not Hitler-level evil.

“What car doyoudrive?”I ask challengingly.

He points at a sleek muscle car nearby.“A Ford Mustang Shelby GT500.”

Damn it.That is the coolest car I’ve ever seen, and I can’t think of anything negative to say about it.Then again… “Looks like the type of ride men get to compensate for something.”I make the pinky on my right hand go limp.

“Oh, I have nothing to compensate for.”He smiles dangerously.“Would you like confirmation?”

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