Page 57 of Grumpy Puck

As soon as I arrive back at our honeymoon suite, I jump into the shower to wash the unladylike bear-suit sweat from under my arms.Then I work on my hair and makeup until there’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“One second.”I pull on a robe and come out, only to bump into Michael.

Fuck me.His hair is tousled, and he smells freshly showered—which means he must’ve done it in the locker room.

“When are we going shopping?”he asks, his face unreadable.

“Not so fast.You promised to tell me.”

Sighing, he walks over to the dining area and takes a seat.“Can we at least talk while waiting for room service?I’m starving.”

“Fine.”I call and order for everyone, including my rat crew.Then I look at Michael.“Now… we need to talk.”

His gaze strays to the bed.“About a number of things.”

Shit.I think I’m blushing.“We don’t need to talk about what happenedthere.You said it was a mistake, and I don’t disagree.”

At least my brain doesn’t.My other organs, especially my vagina and heart, aren’t so sure.

“I said we shouldn’t have done what we didbefore the game,” he says.“But hey, we won, so I guess?—”

“Nice try.I’m pretty sure you meant ‘mistake’ in a broader sense.And you were right.”

He grits his teeth.“And why was it such a mistake?”

“Because we’re not really dating, and I don’t do casual hookups.”And it would be pointless for us to date for real because that would only last until he met my family.

“We also work together,” he says.“And you hate my guts.”

“No, you hatemyguts,” I counter.

“No, you?—”

There’s a knock on the door, and it turns out to be room service.

I feed the rats first, and as usual, Lenin asks for seconds, and then thirds.

Tovarisch, we the proletari-rat do all the hard work, which naturally increases the appetite.

“Fine.”I give him a whole baby carrot, and that seems to pacify him, at least for the moment.

Getting back to the table where my tacos are waiting for me, I smile at the speed with which Michael wolfs down most of the quinoa and salmon that he ordered.

“So,” I say after he also downs a whole glass of tomato juice in one gulp.“What’s the secret project?”

“Right.”He looks thoughtful as he devours the rest of his meal.“The project is meant to give others the lucky break that I got.”

He looks to be finished with his explanation, but I have no clue what he means, and I tell him so.

He sighs.“I want to give kids in orphanages a chance to play hockey—or other sports—and thus set them on a path to a better life.”

My head spins.Of all the possibilities, this is not something I expected—and not just because this has nothing to do with pandas.This is a genuinely kind-hearted thing to do, and that word combination isn’t something that pops into my head when I think of Michael.

Realizing he’s looking at me expectantly, I say, “Wow.That is amazing.How is it going?”

“Not great.So far, I’ve only been able to help local Florida kids, and even that is mostly thanks to Coach.He was the one who got the league higher-ups to allow my kids access to the rink and old equipment.Whatever they’ve needed beyond that, I’ve purchased with my own money—and that of a few sponsors that I’ve found thus far.”

Oh.So those small skates he gave me were meant for kids, not women?The relief I feel is pretty ridiculous and should be blamed on how sexy Michael is when he eats.And breathes.

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