I nod and get back to sign-ups, roughly tracking that the mascots have returned from their break. Hard to miss when a commotion breaks out under the refreshments tent moments later though.
“Hundred grand says Zeus and Ares just got here,” Duncan murmurs to me.
“Sucker’s bet. If you wanted to put real money down, we’d be betting on what they’re wearing or what they’re carrying.”
The mascots.
The answer is the mascots.
Zeus gets Thrusty the bratwurst up on his shoulders and Ares gets Ash the teenage dragon up on his, and the two sets line up against each other for a pool noodle sword fight.
Mary’s laughter echoes over to our table as the giant former hockey players wave her over to get a picture with them.
“Thrusty’s gonna kick your dragon’s ass,” Duncan says to me as we all pause to watch.
“Ash can breathe fire. She’ll roast your bratwurst without hardly trying.”
He laughs, but it’s cut off by the first roll of thunder crossing the park.
We both look up at the sky.
“Time to close up,” the Thrusters admin says to us as three more assistants fan out to speak with the remaining people in line. “Quick pictures if anyone wants them, and then take shelter.”
Two people want pictures with me.
Seven get the fastest pictures I’ve ever seen with Duncan. I shouldn’t linger helping the admins get the table picked up and the paperwork in bins, especially since I’m still favoring my shoulder and can’t help as much as I want to, but it goes against my nature to not do whatever I can.
Which isn’t the real reason I’m lingering as lightning flashes in a distant cloud, sending another low roll of thunder grumbling through the park moments later.
No, the real reason I’m lingering is because Duncan is a magnet and I’m a pile of iron flakes.
I shake myself out of it as he’s doing the next to last picture. “I live across the street,” I tell the admins. “Mind if I get out of here before it starts pouring?”
Rain is fine.
We get our fair share of drizzly games over the course of any given season.
But it’s the thunder and lightning we need to take shelter from.
“Can you make it?” one asks me.
“Absolutely.” I’m not as quick as I was before I dislocated my shoulder—running is still jarring for my joint and I’ve just started working on rebuilding my strength and range of motion—but I can speed walk.
“Go, then,” they say. “We’ve got this.”
“Later, Duncan,” I say, just to not look like an asshole who can’t say goodbye.
His gaze hits mine for a split second as he’s posing for a picture, but I shift my attention toward the mascots, who are climbing into the back of vans that have been waiting. I wave to the Fireballs staff finishing up the rapid teardown of the shelter over the refreshment and swag tables, then head off at a fast clip toward my building.
Which is a little farther than just across the street.
Just farther enough that a fat raindrop plops down onto my head while I’m still roughly a block’s length from my building.
That fat raindrop is followed by another, then another, and another, in rapid succession, beating the oak and elm leaves around me, until it’s a full deluge only partially blocked by the trees.
“Addie!” an achingly familiar voice says behind me as my building comes into view.
A blinding flash of lightning rips through the sheets of rain pummeling us, nearly immediately followed by a crash of thunder.
