“We have a problem.” The young mascot handler, a teenager who barely comes up to my shoulder, races into the temporary office I’m using for the morning at our spring training facility on the coast, an hour and a half away from our regular season stadium in the city—where most of the support staff is. So I’m the person who solves problems today, I guess. “Um…”
I’m already on my feet. After everything I did to get Jeff Rosehill to agree to this event, and with a hundred couples waiting to file onto the field to get married en masse alongside their favorite coach, aproblemis unacceptable. “What is it?”
“He can’t keep anything down.”
“The coach?”
“Worse. The mascot.”
“Oh no. Okay, who can fill in?”
“Usually, it’s Neil, but he’s not here. And Itried on the costume, but…” She waves her hand over her head.
I bet it looks ridiculous on her.
Also, I don’t love the optics of asking a teenage girl to marry the head coach, even in jest and as part of her job. It was funny when it was the forty-year-old longtime mascot actor.
“Let’s find someone else who fits in the costume,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
But it’s Friday the 13th, and everything is going wrong all over the place, it seems. By the time I get to the room where the mascot’s costume is waiting—a rigid, muscular pirate suit and an aggressively smiling grapefruit head—there’s only one option.
I’m the someone.
“Let’s not tell anyone about this,” I say brightly to the mascot handler, ignoring the special oversized ring with a baseball fixed on top of it for Captain Citrus to slide onto Coach’s hand. “You’ll take good care of me?”
“Yes ma’am,” she promises.
Great. Now I’m a ma’am at the ripe old age of twenty-three.
A knock at the door interrupts us when I’m only halfway into the suit. I’m bottom half mascot, top half flustered Molly Henderson.
“Who is it?” I call out.
“Molly? Are you in there? I have the souvenir wedding license,” Jeff Rosehill’s assistant says throughthe door.
Fuck.
I nod, and my handler—quickly becoming my best friend despite the ma’am reference—opens the door.
Helen does a double take when she sees me halfway into the Captain Citrus costume. A capable woman who has been with the organization a long time, she immediately rolls with the apparent change in plans. “I’m guessing I need to give this to someone else?”
“Do you mind? Sorry, I know you must be busy.”
She waves it off. “Not a problem. I’ll get it to someone in Fan Services. Just as soon as I getyoursignature too.”
I laugh.
She’s not kidding, though. Of course not. Captain Citrus needs to sign it as well.
I don’t know what the mascot’s signature is, so I scrawl my own, because what does it really matter? It’s all just a squiggle on a piece of paper.
My hand shakes, and Helen notices.
She gives me a careful once-over. “You’re all right with this?”
“Oh yeah.” I wave my hand. “This is going to be?—”
I almost say fun. But the word is heavy on my tongue. Instead, I give her a bright smile.
