Page 30 of Grumpy Puck

“There’s nothing to spill,” I state.

“Yeah.Right.You’re blushing.Did you boink him already?”

I roll my eyes.“Evenyouare not that slutty.”

“Just tell me.”She makes puppy eyes.“I can’tbearthe suspense anymore.”

Should I tell her about the arrangement we’ve been forced into?Nobody said we had to keep it a secret from our families.In fact, I don’t want my family to think this is for real, and telling Seraphina the truth is the same thing as sending them all an email outlining what’s happened.

I take a breath.“Fine.We kissed again, but?—”

She squeals so loudly the ears of all my rats perk up.“I knew pestering you for info wouldbearfruit.”

“As I was about to say, it was just for the cameras.”Marco and Polo scurry over, so I pet them both.

She cocks her head.“Why would you kiss him for the cameras?”

I explain that the viral video is a financial boon for the Florida Bears, and that Michael and I are getting paid to keep the public’s interest going.Not sure why, but I also mention the small skates he had handy, clearly for the daintily feminine feet of his many puck bunnies.

“Are you sure it’s the Florida Bears thatbearresponsibility for that kiss, and not your bear-like boo?”

Am I sure?“This conversation is over.”

“Why?”she asks.“Is it because you can’tbearmy bear puns anymore?”

“No, but they do not help,” I grumble.

“Please,bearwith me,” she says.“I’m going to run out of them sooner or later.”

“I doubt you will run out.”

“You’ve got a point.I’m just getting mybearings.”

“I’ve got to go.”I hover my thumb over the “end call” button.

“Wait,” she says urgently.“Use a condom when you do boink him.You’re of child-bearing age, after all.”

I end the call just as she defines a condom for me as a type ofbear-ier made of latex.

The next day, I start practicing the shtick that I plan to unveil for my first game as the Bears’ mascot: the Yetis exhibition game in New York.

Inspired by the hatred I’m starting to develop for the press, my main priority will be photobombing.That means as soon as any camera zooms in on a player, or on a fan, I’ll jump into the frame and strike a funny pose, and if all goes well, Wolfgang will strike a similar pose to mine.The problem with photobombing is that it is difficult to practice, so I focus on something easy: Mr.Bloom’s new ice dance.

Thus far, the dance—and I use this term very loosely—involves pretending to be a T-Rex, roping people in with an invisible lasso, and acting like an octopus that’s about to be killed by a sushi chef.Oh, and on occasion, I throw in the classic clown move of slipping on a banana peel, and toward the end, I shuffle around like a zombie.

When I finish the dance, there’s a familiar slow clap behind me that I should have expected but didn’t.

Executing an elegant spin on the ice, I take advantage of the fact that he can’t see where I’m looking when I have the mask on and let my eyes roam freely over his visage.Damn him.Why is he, of all people, so fucking hot?It’s not just the rippling muscles or his piercing eyes.

It’s his hair.From the stray chest hair peeking through his shirt to the dark, rumpled locks on his head.Oh, and last but not least—as far as my libido is concerned—is his facial hair.As if to taunt me, he hasn’t shaved since I saw him yesterday, and what was a five o’clock shadow has become a starter beard.

Wait.As much as I appreciate the feast for the eyes, why would he grow one?After all, a beard is only one letter ‘d’ away from ‘bear.’

“I was becoming concerned for your sanity,” Michael states.

I take off the bear mask just so that I can glare at him properly.“My sanity isn’t any of your concern.Nothing about me is.”

He blows out a breath.“I was just joking.”

---