“Well?” Coach barks, gesturing to the door with his clipboard. “What are you waiting for? We’ve got a game to win.”
Mierda.
I’m supposed to lead the team off the bus. Through that unruly crowd. To the stadium.
I leap to my feet and scurry down the stairs.
The moment the crowd catches sight of me, another boisterous cheer goes up and the cheerleaders shake their pom-poms like their lives depend on it. Excitement crackles in the air, moving around me, but not through me.
I hop down from the bus and, uncertain what’s expected, wave to the crowd.
Should’ve read the handbook in your free time. Or watched a few old games.
Yeah, because I have so much free time.
The cheerleaders each extend one hand into the empty aisle, and when I stare blankly at them, a little girl in a blue and white Waverly jersey at the front of the crowd yells, “You’re supposed to give them five.”
Of course, I am.
I give her a thumbs up and jog down the left side, slapping palms. At the end of the line, I turn and make my way up the other side, giving out more high-fives as the squad returns to shaking their pom-poms and takes up the Waverly chant.
When I make it back to the bus and none of the players or coaches have descended, I scan the audience, searching for another cue. They’re clapping in rhythm with the cheerleaders, so I do the same, positioning myself near the door to the bus. The noise reaches a fever pitch and Coach Collins finally descends, followed by Reid.
I throw up my paw and give them both a quick fist bump as they smile and wave to the screaming fans. This continues as other members of the team hop down from the bus, helmets tucked under their arms. When Parker appears, I make a point of turning my back and waving to the crowd.
Yes, it’s petty as hell, but I might as well get some pleasure out of this farce.
For the next twenty minutes, I wave and take pictures with the crowd and by the time the cheerleading squad finally enters the stadium, I’m sweating bullets. I’ve never slapped so many palms or snapped so many pics in my life.
Perspiration dampens my hair and my tank top is stuck to my lower back, confirming that no, I definitely did not drink enough water to prepare for today’s game.
Lesson learned.
As we make our way to the field, I relieve the cheer squad of one of their water bottles, duck into a blessedly cool storage room, and guzzle the contents.
When I catch up, the cheerleaders are warming up on the sidelines as the team does the same on the field. The stadium is packed, and according to the announcer, there are one hundred and three thousand fans in attendance today. Which is bonkers. Why this many people come out to watch these guys throw a ball around is beyond me. Gymnastics is a far more challenging sport and we don’t have a fraction of the fans these guys do.
The cheerleaders begin stunting and one of them motions for me to join in, so I throw a few simple tricks for the crowd. Nothing fancy, just a few roundoffs and a couple of back handsprings, which are definitely harder to pull off while wearing a mascot head.
By the time kickoff rolls around, I’m hitting my stride.
I do my part to cheer the team on as they run out of the tunnel and when the Wildcats score their first touchdown, I join the deafening applause as a half dozen male cheerleaders hustle me to the end of the field.
The guys form a line and watch as the kicker puts the ball through the upright. The crowd goes wild once again and the cheerleaders circle around a white, rectangular board lying on the ground.
What the hell?
The cheerleaders stare at me, waiting for…something. I shrug, unsure what I’m supposed to do. The moment stretches out interminably and I can practically feel the eyes of the fans—all one hundred and three thousand of them—boring into the back of my skull, waiting for me to do whatever it is I’m supposed to do in this moment.
A bead of sweat drips into my eye, but the sting is nothing compared to the heat scorching my flesh as embarrassment takes hold.
At least no one can see your face.
“For your pushups,” one of the cheerleaders finally shouts, his deep baritone barely audible over the crowd noise.
Pushups?
“One for every point,” he adds, using a tone that suggests I better not screw this up.
