8. Michael
Chapter 8
Michael
C oncluded? What the fuck? What about the logistics? If I’m supposedly dating Calliope , there’s?—
Everyone leaps to their feet, and the room empties faster than you can spell “cowards.” The only one who isn’t running is Calliope, but I suspect that has more to do with the rat on her shoulder than any bravery.
“We should talk,” I tell her grudgingly.
She turns my way, a perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “Oh? Why?”
I sigh. “How are we going to pull this off?”
“Ah. That.” She runs her hand through her hair, her nails as sparkly as the rest of her. “Who cares about the pesky details, right?” She makes air quotes. “The meeting was ‘successfully concluded.’”
I shrug. “Linda probably wanted us to discuss the minutia amongst ourselves, like adults.”
“Like adults? What is that supposed to mean?”
Fuck me. “Are your feathers always so easy to ruffle?”
She gapes at me. “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw pucks.”
I grit my teeth and strive for what little patience I possess. “I get it. You need to process all of this. Maybe we can talk after practice?”
“And maybe you should bite me.” She turns on her heel and strides out of the conference room.
“That may not be a bad idea,” I say without thinking—though, in my defense, this is the first time I’ve borne witness to the marvel that is her rear end. I mean, butts have always been my weakness, especially ones with plenty to grab during doggy style, but ptichka’s ass is on another level. If there were a competition for the juiciest derrière, she’d win it without even needing to bend. And if she did bend?—
She slams the conference door almost in my face.
I leave the room and follow her in silence, my dick painfully hard on account of the view. When we get to the locker room, I frown, and when she tries to go inside, I grab her shoulder—a firm, shapely shoulder, to be exact.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demands, eyes on my hand as if it were a cobra.
“Right back at you.” I remove my hand. “Practice is about to start. There are naked assholes in there.”
“Oh.” She shuffles from foot to foot. “I forgot my costume inside.”
“Right. I know. It was there when I came in this morning. I hid it in my locker for you.” And sure, maybe I took a whiff of the disembodied bear’s head to check if ptichka truly smells like cotton candy, and she does, but that was just a momentary lapse of reason. “You also forgot your other clothes.” Including her panties, which I didn’t sniff, no matter how tempting the proposition. “I’ve got it all stashed away.”
“You do?” She looks at me and then at her rat, as if she wants him to confirm she heard me correctly.
“It’s no big deal,” I reply gruffly. “If I hadn’t, those assholes in there could have messed with your stuff.” And then I would have had to break some bones, which would’ve meant we’d be a player short while flying to New York to play the Yetis.
“Thanks.” She bats her eyelashes prettily. “Can you bring those to my changing room?”
“Sure.” I head into the locker room—and am met with hoots and cheers.
“What the fuck?” I demand from all the leering faces.
“The video,” Isaac says for everyone in a rare feat of leadership. “You’re famous.”
Fuck. I guess this is a segue. “It’s good you all saw that. Saves me the time to explain what will happen to the balls of anyone who so much as looks at Calliope the wrong way.”
Jack pales so much his skin is almost as alabaster as Dante’s. “I’ve already told them she’s off limits.”
“That was yesterday,” I growl. “As of now, she’s more than off limits. She’s mine.” I meet the gaze of each player one by one, so there can be no mistake that I’m being heard. “Anyone who comes near her will become a eunuch.”
There. Not as subtle as Coach would have suggested, but they know all they need to know and are free to gossip… unless I’ve scared them out of doing even that. Or unless they respect the unwritten rule that states “what happens in the locker room stays in the locker room.” All I know is, there’s no sign of cheering or snickering when I grab the mascot costume from my locker, and the silence continues even when I pull out Calliope’s clothes… including her panties.
Good. The fuckers must be smarter than I’ve given them credit for.
Leaving the locker room, I stride over to the closet that’s become Calliope’s changing room and find the door wide open. She’s inside, scanning her surroundings in dismay.
“What’s wrong?” I growl.
“Like you don’t know?” She glares at me. “Do you and the rest of the brutes think it’s funny to ransack my room like this?”
Fuck. She’s right. It looks as though someone went through all the shit in this room and then didn’t put it back the way it ought to be afterward.
“Whoever did this wasn’t anyone on the team,” I say coldly.
They’re not suicidal.
“Who then?” she demands.
Great fucking question. “I don’t know, but we can start by talking to security.”
“Oh.” She brightens. “You think there’s a camera monitoring the door?”
“Better fucking be.”
Together, we head over to the security office, where we learn that no, there are no cameras by the door to her changing room or in any of the hallways near it.
“As of today, there will be,” I tell the guy.
“What do you mean?” he asks. “The budget?—”
I toss a few hundred dollars at him. “I don’t care if you have to go to RadioShack yourself. Get it done. I’ll be back to check.”
“RadioShack?” Calliope says as we’re headed back. “Is he supposed to jump into a time machine and go back to 2014?”
I frown. “This isn’t a joking matter. Someone broke into your changing room.” And when I find out who, there will be hell to pay.
“Could it be related to the stuff online?” she asks. “Maybe I’ve gained an overeager fan?”
I halt in my tracks. “You mean a stalker?”
“Well, I guess I do. My youngest sister is a… performer, and she had one once. He was pretty harmless, and after one of my brothers had a talk with him, he left her alone.”
Sure, her brother “talked” with the stalker. I’m sure no hammers or pliers were involved. “Stalkers aren’t harmless,” I say firmly. “If there is one, I’m going to find him and make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
If growing up in an orphanage in Russia has taught me anything, it’s how to properly deal with people who cross me.
“It’s probably not a stalker,” she says. “I still think it’s more likely a prank by your teammates.”
Hmm. “I’ll ask them about it now,” I tell her. “See you on the rink.” I turn to leave, but this time she’s the one who puts a hand on my shoulder, and the feeling of her delicate fingers makes me instantly hard.
“What?” I demand without turning.
“How do I get to the rink?”
Oh. I tell her, then get back to the locker room just in time to catch my teammates gearing up.
“Did anyone go into her dressing room?” I demand. “Admit it now, and I might be merciful.” By which I mean I’ll only break half the bones I would have otherwise.
They take turns reminding me that Jack told them she was off limits, and therefore they obviously wouldn’t go anywhere near her room.
“Then she might have a stalker,” I say grimly. “If you see anything sketchy, let me know immediately.”
“We will,” Isaac says solemnly.
“Yeah,” everyone echoes.
With that, they finish gearing up and leave, and I follow close behind them.
Once we’re on the ice, I channel my frustration into the practice, and it must be a success because Coach calls me over and tells me that if I keep this up, we might actually beat the Yetis in New York.
Hearing a couple of muffled giggles, I realize that everyone has paused to watch Calliope riding a unicycle on the ice with her rat on her shoulder and what seems to be a pie in her hands—or at least I assume it’s Calliope. She has the mascot head on.
How is she keeping her balance? And in that suit? Remarkable.
“Boo!” she screams, making her voice deeper. “Are you done with practice?”
Now the giggles turn into chuckles, and everyone looks at me.
“Oh, yes,” Dante replies to her. “Boo was a beast today, but he is done and is all yours.”
She rides the unicycle over, then parks it near us, and wobbles over the remaining distance.
“Boo,” she says eagerly.
“Ptichka,” I say with a lot more reservation. “If you’re thinking of?—”
Bam.
The pie slams into my face, as I strongly suspected it might.
A hushed silence descends on the rink, and Coach puts a calming hand on my shoulder, all of which I find extremely insulting.
Even if she were about to murder me, I wouldn’t hurt a woman. Especially this woman.
Taking a finger, I scrape some cream off my face and put the finger in my mouth.
“Thank you,” I say loudly. “Next time, please make it cotton candy-flavored.”
Like a bubble bursting, everyone laughs uproariously and, in my opinion, disproportionately to how funny the situation is.
Dante skates over and takes off his goalie mask. “Boo, it seems like you can skip your daily facial.”
Calliope chuckles.
“Go to the dick, Nosferatu.” I wipe all remnants of cream off my face with my sleeve.
Calliope salutes Coach. “Mr. Bloom reporting for duty, Coach,” she says as though she didn’t just assault me with a confectionary. “Anything I should practice today?”
The corners of Coach’s eyes crinkle. “Your job is pretty free flowing. The only thing you have to do is learn how to give an autograph as Mr. Bloom so it matches the way Ted and his predecessors did it. Otherwise, you can use your own creativity if you wish. That is, unless you want my help?”
“I’m good,” she says. “I’ve watched some videos of the shenanigans Ted used to pull, and I think I can improve upon them.” She gestures at the unicycle with her fluffy paw. “One question I had was: do you need me to skate, or can I walk when I’m not on my unicycle? I know how to rollerblade, but?—”
“That can help, sure,” Coach says. “You need balance for both, but given your unicycle skills, I’m sure you have that aplenty. Forward movement is similar. Turns are easier on the ice. Stopping is the thing that’s going to be quite different.”
“So I’ll work on stopping,” she says. “Though for now, given this suit, I can just crash into something or someone when I need to stop.”
If it’s someone , they had better be me.
“Is there any chance you have skates in my size?” Calliope asks. “I’m suddenly dying to try them.”
Coach surreptitiously looks at me, and I give him an imperceptible nod—mostly because I’m curious how quickly she will learn to ice skate.
“What size shoe do you wear?” Coach asks.
“Nine,” she says.
“That’s a child’s seven and a half, right?” Coach asks.
She cocks her giant clown-bear head. “How would I know that?”
“Sorry,” Coach says. “Once you have kids, you do that sort of conversion all the time.” He turns my way. “Michael, do you happen to know where we can get ice skates in that size?”
He knows that I do, so instead of replying, I march away to locate a few pairs of skates that are around that size—though a part of me wishes I’d measured Calliope’s foot first, since that is the way skate fitting is supposed to be done.
Yeah. It’s not like I want to see and touch her feet. Or check if she’s got sparkly nail polish on her toes to match her fingers. Or if she wears a toe ring. Or an ankle bracelet. No. You just have to be measured to get properly fitting skates, that is all.
When I return, Calliope has her mascot head off, and when I hand her the first pair of skates to try on, she narrows her eyes at me. “Why do you have these on hand?” She scans my teammates. “I doubt any of your fellow Neanderthals wear dainty skates like these.”
I take a deep sigh. “A thank you might be a more appropriate response.” There’s no way I’m discussing my secret project right now.
She waltzes over and leans in to whisper into my ear. “Do you use these to seduce puck bunnies?”
Her lips brush my ear, and I thank the hockey gods for my protective cup. Otherwise, she’d be able to see my raging erection, and so would everyone else.
“Why?” I whisper back. “Are you jealous?”
She huffs indignantly. “If we’re pretending to date, we have to also at least pretend not to be with anyone else.”
My jaw ticks. “That’s absolutely correct, ptichka . I will not even look at anyone else, and no man but me is to come within six feet of you.”
Muttering “bar-bear-ian” under her breath, she nevertheless nods and then tries on the various pairs of skates before settling on a pink pair with glitter-like sparkles sewn on—of course.
As soon as she hits the ice, she’s able to move gracefully, or as gracefully as is possible for a giant plush bear. When I spot my teammates watching her with too much curiosity, I suggest to Coach to call the practice over and hint that he might find himself a few players short otherwise.
Coach uses his whistle and sends the assholes to the locker room.
Meanwhile, Calliope is skating better and better, though as soon as I get on the ice, she slams into me—which could be a prank but is more likely the only way she knows how to stop.
“I have to go now,” Coach says. “Michael, can you do me a favor and teach Calliope how to stop?”
Calliope pushes away from me. “I don’t need his help.”
Coach grins. “You two make a cute couple.”
With that, he leaves, and if he had been anyone but Coach, I’d tell him wholeheartedly to go to the fucking dick.