Fat lot of good that did.
Ten-to-one, every Wildcat ever has been a dude who didn’t have a great handle on his laundry. The thought of sweaty mascots donning the suit year after year triggers my gag reflex, and a shudder racks my body.
Dios mío. I can’t breathe. It’s too hot.
Fresh air. I need fresh air.
My fingers itch to remove the head, but I force myself to remain still, paws at my sides.
I drag in a shallow breath, hold, and release it slowly.
Waiting until the last minute to try on the costume probably wasn’t the brightest idea.
Too late to do anything about it now.
It’s going to be a long day. My schedule is packed with appearances and it’s supposed to be another scorcher. Before this day is over, I’m all but guaranteed to join the list of sweat soaked bodies who’ve contributed to the funky aroma of the fur suit.
Lucky me.
I do a few stretches and practice moving around. The suit is enormous, but the paws keep the sleeves from sliding down too far and while the tail is a pain in the ass, practically dusting the ground behind me, there’s not much I can do about it.
You could tie it in a bow.
Yeah, then Coach Sharpe would keel over and I’d be in even more trouble.
At least he doesn’t have to worry about me leaking the secret of his little mascot swap to the media. My teammates would never let me live it down if they knew I was filling in. My disdain for the football team is well known and well documented.
A check of the overhead clock tells me I’m out of time.
The football team should be lining up right about now to board the busses that will drive them over to the stadium. Apparently there’s a pre-game pep rally to celebrate the home opener, and, according to the binder, I’m supposed to ride with the team and hype them up—whatever that means—as they get off the busses to greet their adoring fans.
With a sigh, I give myself one last look in the mirror and head for the door.
As expected, the football team is fully dressed and has already started filling the busses when I arrive. I move toward the bus in the back and one of the coaches blocks my path.
“You know the drill,” he says, gesturing toward the first bus. “Mascot rides up front since you’re the first one off.”
I nod and change course, silently cursing myself.
It’s an obvious mistake, but hardly earth-shattering.
I board the first bus and am greeted by Coach Collins’ stern face. He gestures to the empty seat across the aisle and I slide into it, noting the team’s quarterback, Austin Reid, is seated behind him.
Thankfully, I don’t have a seat buddy either.
The ride to the stadium is short and noisy, but no one talks to me, which is just as well.
Mascots are silent and I need to get into character.
My stomach drops as we pull up to the stadium. There’s a sea of blue and white surrounding the players’ entrance and from what I can see, the cheer squad is hard at work entertaining the fans.
At the sight of the bus, they scramble to form a human chain on either side of the players’ entrance, leaving a wide path for the team.
Our bus pulls to a stop, and the driver opens the front door, letting in a blast of hot air and the raucous cheers of Wildcat Nation. For a moment, I just sit there, processing.
If gymnastics had this kind of support, we’d have a much nicer facility.
And security. The kind that appears to be quietly holding the line behind the smiling cheerleaders.
