Chapter 4
Four
Olivia
I haven’t been to the rink this early in the morning since my last year of collegiate hockey. As a yawn engulfs my face, it’s
obvious that I’m still not a morning practice person. With the Freeze’s home opener quickly approaching, I’m here bright and
early before team practice for mascot orientation. In the email, I was instructed to wear athletic clothes and comfortable
footwear, which was ominous enough to consider quitting before my first day. It was the bold and highlighted last line of
the email that ultimately got my ass out of bed: “Social media content needed with players after practice.”
The shadow of a dark arena paints the ice a cool purple tone. Thousands of empty seats tower over me. The clock hits 7:00
a.m., but I’m still sitting alone on the bench.
“Chilly!” a voice bellows from behind. It echoes up into the stands.
I turn and wave at the approaching shadow. As she gets into focus, her face drops with disappointment. “You just failed your
first test, rookie,” she says, embarrassingly loud.
“I thought . . .” I begin to stutter as I rise to my feet. The bedazzled employee badge around her neck says Quinn Wilson, Talent Management. She’s the mascot handler, the one I’m here to meet for my orientation.
“Aren’t you Quinn?” I ask, pointing at the badge.
“Of course I am, and I’m here to teach you everything you need to know about sports entertainment.”
“Just the basics will suffice,” I mumble.
Quinn anchors her hand to her hip. “There’s no use in being cute with me. I have the hearing of an owl. Can even spin my head
a full three-sixty when needed.” She forces her eyes real wide as she gives me an intense look.
I gulp.
She bursts out laughing. “Grab your things. We’re already behind schedule,” she says, pivoting on her platform sneakers. I
jog to keep up.
Quinn leads me to the team’s gym and the pit in my stomach grows at the sight of my past life. Weight racks, exercise bikes,
ropes, medicine balls, and any other piece of equipment needed to train for the CrossFit Olympics are stocked and ready to
use. My old hockey injuries prematurely ache at the sight of what’s to come.
“Before you can become Chilly, you must first become a cat.” Quinn says it like it’s an old proverb.
“I’m actually more of a dog person,” I say jokingly.
“We’ll need to fix that.” She blows the whistle around her neck and starts pointing a laser pointer around the gym. “Chase
it, Chilly,” she shouts.
The neck strap of Quinn’s whistle is thoughtfully decorated with baby blue, pale pink, and white beads. The speed in which
she whipped it out and started blowing lets me know she keeps that thing on her and that she isn’t afraid to use it.
“Let’s go, girls!” She meows at me.
She has the energy of an overzealous camp counselor.
One who knows how to braid the shit out of some gimp plastic and run a game of capture the flag like a drill sergeant.
Her hair is tied up in a tight spunky updo like the quirky best friend in a Disney channel show and her outfit is vibrant enough to steal the spotlight from Chilly’s fur suit.
I don’t know if I fear her or want to be her best friend.
On the second whistle, muscle memory takes over and I chase the red dot around the room. The faster I get this orientation
over with, the faster I’ll have access to Brody. After a tiring game of laser tag, Quinn makes me get in a cardboard box and
tear my way out. When I think I’ve experienced the worst of it, we play a variation of dodgeball with yarn balls. The entire
thing is as humiliating as it is tiring.
We finish off with a snack. Quinn feeds me a breakfast of milk and canned tuna while we grab a seat on a couple of exercise
balls. I pass on the tuna, but sip the milk. Quinn sits, wobbling around on her exercise ball, giggling to herself. She wipes
away a milk mustache with the back of her hand.
“What?” I ask. She giggles harder.
She sets her milk saucer down next to her on the rubber matted floor. “I can’t believe you did all that. Most people quit
the initiation when they’re told to get in the box.”
I finish my milk with one big gulp. “Initiation?”
Her eyes bulge. They’re as green as the team-spirited forest-green-and-gold glitter she has coating her eyelids. “Did you
really think brushing your hair with a metal pet comb was part of your official orientation?” She laughs again, this time
almost rolling off the back of the exercise ball.
I knew coming back to this arena was a bad idea. I don’t have a single good memory in here. I’ve been through team initiation before, but Quinn was so committed to the bit that it was believable. Who was I to question what she called traditional mascot values?
“Ha ha,” I mockingly laugh. “Very funny. Forgive me for actually trying.”
Quinn’s laughter dries up. “Oh, you better try. I know you only got this job because you’re a Hinckley.” My body stiffens.
Quinn looks down at my balled-up fists. “Relax, I won’t tell anyone. I mean, technically I can’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks,” I say, relaxing my knuckles. “Derek’s like an uncle to me.”
“Which is why I promised him I would take good care of you. It’s also why I’m overlooking the fact that you showed up the
same week as Brody Parker.”
I flinch at his name. “I don’t follow.”
Quinn doesn’t skip a beat. She’s as fearless as a fourth-line fighter. “I know everything about this team. I’m a mascot handler.
I see everything, even the unseen.”
What does that even mean?
Quinn reaches into her bag and pulls out a thick spiral-bound book. The cover reads Official Mascot Handbook.
“This is my actual orientation?” I ask. My balance shifts as she hands it to me.
“It’s your everything. Study it. Know it. Live it.” Quinn goes digging in the bottom of her bag again and for a second I worry
she’s about to pull out some catnip. Instead, she gifts me a handful of glitter gel jars. “Sorry I tricked you into being
a cat. Yarn dodgeball was really fun.”
“Yeah, I was pretty good at it too,” I tease. Her laugh is so contagious even I join in.
I get to the second page of the handbook when the sound of sticks tapping the ice and pucks crashing into the boards interrupts
my reading.
“We have to get out of here,” Quinn says, gathering her things.
From the top corner of the stands, Quinn gives me the game-day rundown while I watch practice. Periodically, I nod my head
in agreement so she thinks I’m listening, but I’m watching Brody. He’s as good as they say he is and it’s maddening to witness
in person. He’s even faster than last season and hasn’t missed a shot on goal yet. Practice how you play—that’s what my dad always told me. Looks like Erik gives his son the same advice.
“And then if the third period ends in a tie, you and the other team’s goalie will meet at center ice to fight to the death,”
Quinn explains.
“Great,” I reply mindlessly. Brody effortlessly snipes bar down and I have to stop myself from giving it the reaction it deserves.
Quinn huffs. “You’re not even listening to me.” She kisses her teeth. “You’re watching him, aren’t you?”
I pull up from my hunched-over lean and scoot my butt back from the edge of my seat. “I’m watching practice,” I reply.
We sit and listen to the game. Blades carving in ice, sticks slapping pucks, and bodies crashing against the boards; it used
to be my favorite song, but now I hardly recognize the melody. I look up at the banners hung from the rafters—two Stanley
Cups and three Cup Final appearances in five years is no easy feat. While my dad’s name was never etched onto the prized trophy,
he was there for the growing pains that preceded a well-functioning dynasty.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your dad and his career,” Quinn says. There’s a genuine glimmer of sadness in her eyes.
The first time I heard the word CTE, I thought it was a local news station’s acronym.
I would come to learn that in death there are lots of acronyms. My dad had chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a neurodegenerative disease linked to repeated trauma to the head.
Apparently, brain injury increases the risk of cardiovascular disease—a fact I wish I hadn’t learned my senior year of high school.
They said he endured approximately twelve concussions throughout his hockey career.
Two were documented by the NHL. One was the hit that would send him into early retirement and end his hockey career entirely—the one that would have him locked up in a dark room for my formative years, unable to escape the ringing.
My whole life I’ve been told how much I remind people of my dad. His eyes. His smile. His drive and determination. When I
watched him begin to unravel, I worried I would start to splinter at the same soft spots to the point that I began writing
everything down on Post-its so I wouldn’t forget. I didn’t want my memories to fade the way his did. For a month, I ate as
many carrots as I could get my hands on because I didn’t want my vision to blur; I have his eyes, after all. It never did
but my skin started to turn orange and my mom made me stop.
I can’t do this with Quinn. Not now. Not here. “Let’s go over the in-game routine again.” I stare down at the ice in a trance.
“His teammates should be watching him as attentively as you are.” Quinn points to a group of players gathered by the bench
for a water break. They’re leaning and kneeling while Brody goes back-to-back on the drill. “Look at them. Probably talking
about the home-opener party when they should be getting ready for the game. Going to be another long season if they don’t
come together as a team.”
“What party?”
“It’s been a Freeze tradition for the last ten years,” she says. “I’ve only heard rumors about what actually goes down after the game. Matching team tattoos, sushi served on naked bodies, a camel entrance. I’m sure it’s even crazier than that, but everyone is really secretive about it.”
“Does Chilly ever make an appearance at the party?” I kick my feet up on the chair in front of me, but Quinn is quick to bat
them down.
“Nice try,” she says. “But no.”
Coach blows his whistle and gathers everyone at center ice. Quinn jumps out of her seat and gives me a playful punch that
nearly knocks me over. With much pleasure, she says, “Practice is almost done. Let’s get you in that suit.”