Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Olivia
This is going to be the weekend from hell. I barely survived the private jet experience. Barfing three times into a plastic
bag totally ruined any shot I had at joining the Mile High Club. I can’t believe I almost confessed everything to Brody at
our pasta date. I was seconds away from spilling it all—my last name, the sabotage attempts, my personal vendetta against
his father.
The guilt is rooting itself into the pit of my stomach, deepening its grip on me, and the longer I drag this out, the further
it sprouts. A romantic weekend away with Brody is exactly what I need to wrap this whole charade up. Away from the daily grind,
Brody will loosen up. He said things with his dad are messy. Well, I’m here to clean up. I’ll turn that dirty little family
secret into an anonymous tip to the press. Erik Parker’s facade of a legacy will crumble and Brody might finally know some
peace from his father’s ego.
I’m starting to tell myself that sabotaging Erik will do good for both Brody and me—a type of revenge that will serve the Hinckleys and the new generation of Parkers.
Brody seems to really trust me, and I hate to admit it, but .
. . my fake-dating scheme is starting to feel less and less fake as we spend more time together.
I can’t lose sight of my goal, but any kind of real relationship with Brody will have to wait until I take Erik down for good.
I left Brody napping in the hotel. He’s got to get ready for a day full of media before the skills competition tonight. He’s
assured me that while the day is filled with press and promotion, the real party starts after the skills competition ends.
He thinks I’m headed to the pool to work on freelance data research while I bask in the sun. Little does he know, I’m double-booked
this weekend. I pull my giant sun hat down over my face and secure my oversize sunglasses to the bridge of my nose as I make
a beeline through the busy hotel to get to Quinn’s room unnoticed.
Winded from taking the stairs, I bang against her door in a pattern mimicking the tune of a previously agreed-upon song until
she opens the door and pulls me in.
“That was not Beyoncé’s ‘Run the World,’ ” Quinn says, shutting the door behind me.
“Then you should have picked an easier song for me to knock along with.” I sit down on the end of her bed. Making myself comfortable,
I ditch my disguise and fluff out my hair.
Quinn drags out the mascot duffel bag from the corner of her room and plops it down at my feet. “We don’t have time to go
through Beyoncé’s legendary catalog spanning over two decades and numerous genres right now. You’re late. You need to be dressed
and in the lobby for the Mascot Showdown in ten minutes.” She checks her watch. “Nine minutes,” she huffs.
I made a promise to Quinn that I could manage this weekend, and I plan on keeping my word. I dive into the bag and start sorting out my suit.
“This Mascot Showdown, it’s like the WWE, right? It’s about putting on a show for the audience, there’s an agreed-upon winner,
people are having fun and playing safe?” I say, fiddling with my tail.
Quinn erupts into a startling villainous laugh. “Is that what that loser Ava from Dallas told you? I keep telling her she
needs to take Hubert the Horse out back and shoot it because she’s never going to beat us. We’ve won it five years and counting,
baby!”
A hot flash engulfs my face. “Do you have money riding on this?” I drop the tail.
Quinn steps up on me. She brings me to my feet with one forceful tug of my arm. Face-to-face, inches away, she says, “I have
so much more than money riding on this. I didn’t want to tell you the rich history Chilly has with the All-Star Mascot Showdown
because quite frankly, I knew you’d find a way to screw it up. And you have, in an interesting way I couldn’t have predicted,
but that’s not going to stop us from once again winning this showdown. Because if we don’t get out there today and kick some
furry ass, I’ll tell Brody.”
Her finger is still in my face. It’s a side of Quinn I’ve never seen, a side I’m not trying to disappoint. And I’d be lying
if I said I wasn’t a little bit fired up to kick some mascot ass. Quinn’s an incredible pep-talker.
She turns, giving me privacy to slip into Chilly’s main body piece.
“You wouldn’t. That’s mascot rule number one.” I antagonize her a bit, perhaps feeling too revved from the weekend’s excitement.
Quinn turns, mustering a smile both terrifying and sexy. In her signature raspy voice, she says, “Oh, I won’t tell him you’re Chilly. I’ll tell him you’re Kevin Hinckley’s daughter.”
My jaw unhinges. Damn, she really is pissed I double-booked myself this weekend.
Quinn shoves her finger in my face. “I knew it!” Her rejoice is short-lived. “You’re up to something.”
“I don’t see how my last name is relevant. I usually keep it hush because once people find out what happened to my dad, they
start acting weird around me.” I stare her down for a beat. Maybe she’ll take the hint. “Obviously, Brody and I are cool with
each other.”
“So cool you’re Icy Hot?” she says. My throat burns with bile. “I told you I see everything. I also found Brody’s sticks stashed
in a janitor’s closet. Then they oddly went missing. Maybe you know about that too.”
Fighting back tears, I slip into more of the costume. “It’s not your place to say anything.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to be mad at them—the Parkers.”
“It’s complicated.” I search my bag for the mascot head. When I can’t find it, I start scanning the floor.
“I bet,” Quinn says, cradling the missing costume piece in her hands. “But it can’t affect your job, and really can’t affect
this team. Got it?” Quinn adds, handing me my head. The force from her firm handoff pushes me back a full step.
There’s the guilt again, as subtle as a bowling ball in my stomach. “It hasn’t yet, has it?” I shrug it off.
Quinn ditches the intimidation approach and settles her face into something a bit less angry, but equally as annoyed. “Just
make an effort today. I won’t tell him, but you really should.”
Quinn’s warning shakes me to my core. Thoughtfulness is being demanded of me but wasn’t gifted when my family needed it most. The feeling reminds me of the last time I watched my mom iron.
She pressed an old game-day ribbon shirt for my dad to be buried in.
She warned me that the iron was hot before stepping out of the room to answer a phone call, but I had to touch it just to make sure.
To see for myself. To feel my skin melt.
There’s pain in lies, but there’s pain in truths too.
“I’ll give it my all today,” I say. “And I plan on telling Brody everything after this weekend. I promise.” I slip on my mask,
attempting to hide from another empty promise.
Inflatable gladiator jousting wasn’t listed in the job description when I signed my contract. Neither was arm wrestling an
eagle, tug-of-war-ing a hog, or Hula-Hooping with the devil, but I beat them all and now the only thing standing between me
and that championship is a very sturdy-armed moose.
Midway through the first challenge, it became painfully obvious that I should have stretched—fear and determination are the
only things keeping me going through this championship round. Every deep breath is accompanied by a stabbing pain to my lung.
My biceps feel like they’re ripping off the bone. And yet, I plant my numb feet on the tiny pedestal beneath me and brace
my noodle legs for balance.
Sweat drips off my brows and stings my eyes. NHL rinks are deceptively warm, and this one is hot. My electrolyte balance has
been shot since the flight in, and an hour of physical events isn’t helping with my dehydration. If I stare long enough, Biscuit
the Moose blurs into a bright shining light. Gitche Manitou, the Great Spirit? Am I dying? Biscuit pulls back on his baton and whacks me across the stomach. I dry heave as I’m brought back down to Earth.
The crowd of bloodthirsty children screams from the stands. I tighten my grip. As soon as this is over, I’m petitioning for
an event name change because the Mascot CrossFit Olympics of Doom is a much more accurate depiction of what’s transpiring
today. I’d like to have these mascots tested for PEDs. They’re all on the juice, every single one of them—athletic freaks!
Quinn’s voice is loud enough to cut through the noise. “Think like a car, Chilly!” she yells.
I momentarily worry she’s referencing something from the handbook, but then my Northern instincts kick in. Everyone knows
hitting a moose with your car is so dangerous because of their anatomy: long legs and a heavy body. You slam your car into
their knees and the body is going to come crashing down on you.
Biscuit tries to shake me with a quick jab to the chest, but a cat always lands on their feet. I jump back a half step and
avoid contact. Before he sees it coming, I pull back and land a devastating sweeping blow across his ankles. Biscuit topples
over, falling dramatically off the beam.
“We’re having moose meat tonight!” I shout into my head covering.
With the little strength I have left, I raise my hands and fan my arms for the crowd. They go nuts, but the relief that it’s
over is far sweeter than any victory. The same cannot be said for Quinn.
“Six years and counting!” Quinn hollers as she guides me back to our dressing room. “You’ve got to celebrate with us tonight.
Last year, Rink Rat dropped molly and was caught streaking through the hotel in nothing but the rat head.”
Away from the crowd, I shed a layer. The cool air is nice on my face, but I’d still dip my face in a snowbank if I could.
“So that’s why everyone calls him Naked Mole Rat.”
I hand Quinn the trophy; it’s ours to share. She laughs giddily and brings it into her arms in a tight embrace.
“They’re already calling you Puss in Boots. What do you say, Puss? You coming out tonight?”