Page 94 of Grumpy Puck

This is it.I’m getting a second chance at the biggest “what if” that has been tormenting me all this time.

I cradle Calliope’s face in my palms.“I love you,ptichka.”I stare deeply into her eyes.“I started falling for you when you took off that bear’s head, and I saw your green eyes and pink hair for the first time.Then I fell a little deeper when you took off the gloves, and I saw your sparkly nails.And deeper yet when I saw the rat on?—”

“Can I reply already?”she says with mock grumpiness, but her eyes gleam with happiness.At least, I hope that’s what I see.

I nod.

“I love you too,” she says breathlessly.“You’re the drake to my duck and the dove to my pigeon.”

Is my chest glowing?Because that’s what this feels like.“You know, ducks are not the most romantic birds to use in your declaration of love,” I can’t help but point out.“They don’t mate for life, and they have very aggressive sex.”Not to mention an even less romantic factoid: drake dicks are shaped like corkscrews.“Oh, and a dove is not a female pigeon or vice versa, which you seemed to imply.They’re technically the same bird, but with slight chromosomal differences.”

She rolls her eyes.“I love you despite what you just said.I love you as if I were…” She pauses, searching for words.“As if I were the puck to your stick.”

And in response to that brilliant analogy, I kiss her again.

Epilogue

Calliope

“Thank you,” I say to the cheering Estonians in their own—albeit broken—language.“And please, in the future, I hope you can find it in your hearts to treat rats with kindness.”

With that, the curtain falls, and I give all my rats their treats, especially Lenin, who just executed a tight-rope walking routine almost as well as my grandmother would have.

Tovarisch, I can’t believe you brought me to a country that dares to thrive after abandoning the glory that was the Soviet Union.

Gathering my things, I head backstage, where I meet some of the VIPs and give them my autograph—something I’ve been asked for more and more as of late.

When the signings are done, I approach Michael and a group of children that he’s with, kids who are about to begin a career in a sport of their choice thanks to Michael’s ever-growing foundation.

“Children, meet my wife, Calliope,” Michael says proudly.“Calliope, meet the children.”He then presumably says the same thing in Russian, which is the most popular minority language in this country.

Using Michael as an interpreter, I learn all their names as they tell me how much they loved the show.

When the twins—a.k.a.two of my most favorite people in the whole world—join us backstage, Michael beams at them and says, “These are our children, Sasha and Filipp.”Just like earlier, he repeats the whole thing in Russian.

His protégés look at the twins with unabashed curiosity, and a girl says something to me in Russian that Michael translates to be, “You seem too young to be a mother to such big kids.”

That’s not true.The twins are nine, so I could’ve given birth to them… in theory.

Michael gives a whole monologue in Russian, one where he probably explains that Sasha and Filipp are biological brother and sister, and that we met them at a Russian orphanage and adopted them soon after.

Hopefully, he does as I asked him and skips the bit where his foundation couldn’t help the twins because they weren’t into any sport.And that their story was particularly heart wrenching: their parents were firefighters who died in the line of duty.And how the twins got bullied at the orphanage because they (mostly Sasha) had a pet rat, Lariska, who is now also part of our household.

“Mom,” Sasha says.“Can I show them our rats?”

I smile.“Of course, sweetie.”

Sasha chirps to her new friends in Russian and hurries away, her brother and the other kids on her tail.

Michael tells one of his employees to keep an eye on the kids, and then he asks me what I thought of the venue.

“It was amazing,” I say.“Tell Mason—I mean ‘Tugev’—that I owe him a huge thanks for suggesting we tour his fatherland.”

“I will do no such thing,” Michael growls.“The fucker’s ego is already gargantuan; I refuse to feed it anymore.”

Hmm.Speaking of things getting gargantuan…

“Boo,” I say tentatively.“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

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