Page 40 of Grumpy Puck

Fuck.Why does it all of a sudden feel like we’re going on a movie date?What’s worse, we can’t even tell ourselves this is part of the usual ruse since we’ll be in the air, so no one except my team will see this, and they already believe we’re a couple.

“Would it be a good idea to kiss again?”Calliope asks shyly.“I figure that’s what a real couple would do after a heart to heart.”

Good idea?Hell, no.But I draw her to me anyway and kiss her with everything I’ve got.

Chapter12

Calliope

On the commute home and during the ride to the airport, I reflect on what I’ve learned about Michael today—and enrich this information with whatever tidbits I can locate online.Apparently, as a newborn, he was left on the doorstep of an orphanage in Novosibirsk, which is a town in Siberia, a part of Russia that’s famous for being so cold and dark that you could punish people by sending them into exile there.At four years of age, Michael was discovered by a hockey coach due to his aptitude for the sport.He had an entire hockey career as a teen back in Russia, and when he became an adult, he moved to the United States.

Being part of an extremely large and boisterous family, I can’t imagine growing up without them.Nor can I imagine living in a place as cold as Novosibirsk.Their warmest day happens to be just below the temperature we’d get on the coldest day here in Florida, so I shudder to think what their winter is like.

One thing Michael and I do share is the fact that someone trained us early in life, but in my case, it was a pretty gentle training, all things considered.

So yeah, Michael clearly had a difficult early life, which may explain some of his grouchiness.

My heart aches as I picture him as a little boy, with black soulful eyes and the earliest mustache in history.If I had a time machine, I’d?—

The car stops, interrupting my thoughts.The door opens to reveal Michael in all his glory.

My already overworked heart does a backflip.The man is wearing a muscle shirt, as well as shorts that expose his powerful and scrumptiously hairy legs.Oh, and he’s even neatened his beard.

“No,” he says sternly to the driver, who has just opened the trunk.“I’m getting her bags.”

While he brings over my suitcase, I grab my rat carrier from the seat next to me and get out.

“How many rats do you have in there?”Michael asks, staring at my carrier.

“Six,” I reply.“The ones you haven’t met are Lenin, Marco, Polo, Damon, and Catnip.”

“Lenin?”Michael arches an eyebrow.“Is that after?—”

“A comrade from your motherland.”I point at Lenin, so he notices the uncanny resemblance.

“Why?”Michael asks.

Huh.I guess he can’t see it.“He grew up to resemble his namesake, but even as a pup, he seemed like a commie—always unhappy with how many treats I’d give him, and treat distribution in general.I thought about naming him Karl, after Marx, but then I would’ve had two rats with German names.”

“You have Marco and Polo.Aren’t those two Italian names?”

I sigh.“Marco and Polo are identical twins, so… I think that allows for an exception.”I mean, I assume they’re identical twins.They came from the same litter and look and act exactly alike.

He studies the rats in the carrier with fascination.“All six of them look identical to me.”

“Wow.That’s a pretty ratist thing to say.”

He rolls his eyes.“Ready to board?”

I nod and we get onto the private jet, which is to commercial planes what first class is to coach.The seats are bigger than my lounge chair at home, and there’s enough space around each of them for a man of Michael’s size to spread out comfortably.

“Here.”Michael gestures at an adjacent pair of seats near Coach and Dante.“Sit there.”

I do, and before I can comment on how comfy the cushion is, he descends into his seat and presses some button that makes our seats join together, turning them into a makeshift loveseat.

Are his teammates giggling?

Michael slants them a glare, and they all go quiet.

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