It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue, but he’s right. This project will go much more smoothly if we exchange numbers. Plus, with my luck, if I don’t give him my number, he’ll just show up at my door whenever the hell he feels like it.
Hard pass.
I recite my number and watch as he punches it in and hits the call button. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out so Parker can confirm it’s his number on the screen.
He snickers as he saves my contact information, and when I see that he’s saved my number as Shorty, I follow his lead.
I tap out a fitting moniker and hold up the phone so he can see his nickname: 2PumpChump
Parker’s jaw drops and he makes a play for the phone, but I’m ready for him and dance out of his reach.
“You can’t leave that. It’s offensive and insensitive.”
I shrug. “Sometimes the truth hurts.”
“What if someone sees it?” he asks, brows pulled low. “I’ll never live it down.”
“Exactly.” I smirk up at him and slide the phone back in my pocket. “Guess you’ll have to think long and hard about using my number.”
He presses his lips together, but the moment of self-reflection is short-lived. Before I know it, the smug grin is back in place. “Nah. I’ll just think long and hard about how to change your mind.”
“Don’t waste your time. It’s never going to happen.”
Which is a real bitch because for the first time in my life, BOB feels like a poor substitute for the real thing.
22
SUTTON
It’sSaturday afternoon and the Wildcats are playing Michigan State. It’s a home game, and the team is 4-0, soon to be 5-0, because although the game has been physical, Waverly has a solid lead. As long as they don’t blow it, the team’s got this one in the bag.
Too bad there isn’t a mercy rule in college football.
It’s hotter than a pair of sunburned tits in this fur suit and the game clock is moving slow as hell today. As if that’s not bad enough, I’m sweating buckets and my eyes are stinging because I forgot my headband. Or, as us non-marketing folks call it, a sweatband.
So much for the cooler temps the weather app promised.
On the bright side, the costume should keep me warm-ish in the colder months.
Waverly converts on third and long—yes, I know what that means now thanks to my mascot duties—and the crowd goes nuts, drawing my attention back to the game.
The cheerleaders are chanting and jumping, so I do a short tumbling pass down the sideline and end with a split.
Take that, Coach Sharpe.
I’ll bet his regular mascot can’t do a freaking split. Not a lot of guys with that particular skill outside of the men’s gymnastics team.
I pop to my feet and jog past the student section, cupping my ear and gesturing for the crowd to bring the noise.
And just like that, they obey my command.
Turns out, being the mascot is a powerful gig. I can get people to dance, sing, stomp, clap, and cheer with a few silent gestures. Last week, I even got Herky the Hawk to face off with me in a pushup contest when the team played Iowa. I had to flap my arms like a chicken to shame him into it, but still. And I’m proud to report that just as the Wildcats kicked Hawkeye ass on the field, I kicked Herky’s ass on the sideline.
On his home turf.
It’s the little things.
It really is. Especially when your performances are mandatory to avoid possible expulsion.
