Chapter 6
Six
Olivia
When I got to work today, I didn’t think I’d be dangling thirty feet in the air like a pinata above seventeen thousand screaming
hockey fans. I feel like a human sacrifice to the hockey gods. Don’t look down. Thankfully, with my head stuffed inside this comically large lynx head, no one can tell that my eyes are squeezed shut and
my face is twisted into a petrified wince.
Despite the layer of protection the mascot suit offers, I’m still doing my best to refrain from shitting my pants—an act which
would surely crack SNN’s Not a Top Ten and solidify my place in internet-fail meme history.
The crowd cheers as the MC introduces Chilly. This suit is so hot that beads of sweat are dripping down my back and slipping
between my butt cheeks. I gulp as I begin my descent. If I can work retail through the holidays, I can do anything.
It’s not until I feel the firm ice pressing against the soles of my feet that I open my eyes.
I’m ice-level in front of way too many people.
It’s like a nightmare except I’d prefer being naked in front of my entire high school over this scenario.
Before I have time to bail and scurry off with my tail tucked between my legs, someone’s shoving a pole into my paws.
A huge Freeze flag unravels and I start waving it back and forth like the white one I wish it were. The crowd roars.
Not soon after, I hear the MC begin to introduce the team, which is my cue to get off the ice. I yelp as I bang my bruised
hip on the edge of the boards on my way out. My plan to jump in front of Brody’s car went south when he didn’t stop in time
and ran me over like an indecisive squirrel.
I pictured a classic rom-com situation where he slammed on the brakes in the nick of time and the momentum sent a gust of
wind blowing my hair back elegantly. Except he ran me over like it was Fast that guy is so full of himself he doesn’t even give pedestrians the right of way.
I hobble down the tunnel after my keeper, Quinn. We’re briefly huddled—tucked away in a corner at ice level—while she looks
me over to make sure Chilly is picture-perfect and ready to hit the stands.
“If Chilly is ready to rock the Dome say, yeahhhh,” she screams musically, throwing her arms up. This woman definitely knows
her way around a megaphone.
I don’t reciprocate the energy. It’s taxing to move my arms in this fur suit and I need to save my energy for my big drum
number in the second period. Being a mascot takes much more athleticism than I anticipated. I thought looking like a climate
change–stricken abominable snowman covered in grass stains would be the biggest hurdle. Instead, it’s remaining limber and
rhythmic despite the size sixteen shoes and five-inch acrylic nail claws.
“I said, if Chilly is ready to rock the Dome say, yeahhhh,” she cheers again, this time giving me a nudge. The stack of rainbow
bracelets jangles around her arm.
I pull up my mask and the cold air hits me with a much-needed breeze.
My face-framing layers are stuck to the sweat of my brow as I pant in the unrestricted air.
“Hey, when do I get a T-shirt cannon?” I ask.
I’ve always wanted to fire a T-shirt across an arena into the gut of an unsuspecting spectator.
“Are you crazy? Why isn’t your head covering fastened properly?” Quinn shrieks in terror and slams the mask back on my head.
She makes quick work of the straps I found far too confusing to deal with. She snaps me in and gives a pull to make sure nothing
pops off. “And as far as a cannon goes, thanks to that killer whale up in Vancouver, never.” She grabs my arm and drags me
into the elevator before I have time to ask any follow-ups.
It’s Quinn’s job to make sure I know where I’m going and that I make it there on time. I have a strict game schedule to follow.
Plus, if anyone gets too handsy with me, she swoops in and escorts them away. She says since the Philly incident when Spunky—the
beloved gremlin of a mascot—punched that kid in the face, handlers across the league had to up their level of protection to
a Denzel Washington defense. Quinn is never more than six feet away with a wide smile ready to make a citizen’s arrest.
In the elevator ride up to the main concourse, Quinn turns to me. “From now on, use the secret mascot hand signals as outlined
in the handbook to communicate with me.” She frantically throws up what can only be described as flagrant hand gestures.
That’s what those were? I thought it was a how-to on the basics of sign language so I could offer a more inclusive mascot experience. Either way,
I didn’t read it. I flip her the one hand gesture I know by heart. She swats my paw down as the elevator door dings open.
I follow her through the stands, high-fiving kids with ice-cream-stained mouths, playfully messing up the receding hair of men chugging their thirty-dollar beers, and giving an overexaggerated thumbs-down to the opposing team’s fans.
I thought I would hate this job, but I kind of like being the menace of the rink.
It’s a natural role for me to step into, considering my dad was a known menace on the ice.
Thinking about what could have been stings more than the bruise on my hip.
Early in the third period, while I play an animated game of got-your-nose with a young fan, the goal horn sounds. I look to
the ice and see Brody using his stick as a bow to shoot an invisible arrow into the crowd. One of his many cocky goal celebrations—and
a staple in the meticulously crafted Parker branding.
The replay shows him splitting the LA Stars’ defense with a move so nice those guys are going to lose sleep tonight replaying
it over in their heads. Then he fakes out the goalie and sends the puck flying over his blocker into the back of the net.
It’s the first Freeze goal of the season and it belongs to Brody Parker.
Everyone is on their feet cheering for him, chanting “Parker” over and over. I press my eyes shut and can almost hear it morph
into “Hinckley.” The last time I was in this arena for a live hockey game was years ago. I was young enough to be pissed I
was missing my own minor league hockey practice for the occasion, but old enough to know attending it was important to my
family.
The team invited us to a Freeze game to honor my dad and a few other players from the golden era.
We were put up in a fancy owner’s suite and given Freeze jerseys and hats to wear—forced team spirit.
As if the gesture would soften the blow of cutting my injured dad and leaving our family without health insurance all those years ago as he began the hardest journey of his life.
My dad needed help; he didn’t need suite tickets to a hockey game.
The free jersey was no tourniquet—he still bled out.
While my sister and I preoccupied ourselves with the ice-cream bar, my dad sat politely enduring three periods of play. During
a TV time-out, the spotlight shone on him for the last time in this rink, his red eyes wincing under the bright lights. People
cheered. He smiled and waved that night like a good sport while the image of the once-heroic Freeze players played on the
jumbotron. At home, the confusion, paranoia, and headaches took over. The next time any of us mentioned the Freeze’s golden
era was at his funeral.
When he died, so did my passion for the game, and no play, no matter how nice, is going to have me on my feet cheering for
a Parker goal. My dad didn’t deserve the ending he got—none of us did. He didn’t belong in that dark spiral, like the Parkers
don’t belong here.
I feel a tug on my arm and the word “Chilly!” follows. Quinn is at my side, motioning me to our next stop. I let the salty
tears spill down my cheeks and soak into the collar of the suit as she pulls me along.
I disassociate long enough to get through the game without crying again, and eventually the final buzzer sounds. The Freeze
game might be over, but mine is starting. Right now, Brody feels bad for running me over with his car, and I need to leverage
this opportunity. I need to snap out of my grief and put on my game face. Us Hinckleys have been called plenty of names, but
unmotivated isn’t one.
Instead of reading my mascot handbook last night in prep for tonight’s home opener, I scoured the internet for any information I could find about Brody’s private dating life.
There wasn’t much to uncover, besides a few blogs questioning his sexuality.
The Parkers are as obsessed with their squeaky-clean reputation as they are with hockey.
Through an FBI-level deep dive of all of Brody’s social media, I discovered that he too has an Aunt Lisa, he’s passionate about ocean conservation, and he got really into RollerCoaster Tycoon one summer.
It took some sleuthing around the dark web (Tumblr and Reddit) and a lot of sifting through gay rumors (since when is he cool
enough for those?), but I eventually found what I was looking for. A handful of conventionally attractive young women on social
media claiming to have had interactions with him. These women were all mildly internet famous, sharp-jawed, perfectly physiqued
with hair as blond as a show poodle. They all seemed to eventually come to their senses and realize they were out of his league,
or they didn’t meet the Parker standard. Either way, Brody doesn’t bring girls around his family.
Discovering that Brody’s “type” was teen beauty queen turned niche microinfluencer should have intimidated me. All my socials
are dedicated to my freelance business and I have no special talent. But what I do have is female rage—blinding rage for revenge—and
it’s all the confidence I need.
So no, his fling this summer with Paige on yachts in Italy doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest. In fact, it’s all the reassurance
I need to know I stand a chance. She never made it to an Erik Parker introduction; Brody is looking to bring something different
home to meet the parents.
Safe in the privacy of the mascot’s locker room, I finally unlatch my mask. I sit there steaming like a kettle. Slick with
sweat, I lick some salty drops off my top lip. Before I can get a look at myself in the mirror, Quinn comes barging in.
Fired up and shiny with a sheen of sweat, she says, “That was an all-timer of a home opener. I’ve never seen such a triumphant display of athleticism in this building.
” With her arm propped, she leans against the wall.
Sweat is pitting out at her armpits, but I’m in no shape to judge—I look like a drowned rat.
I knew hockey was physically demanding on its players, but I didn’t realize it would be so taxing on the employees. Where’s
our postgame chiropractic adjustment and therapeutic massage?
I can’t deny that Quinn’s passion for this team reminds me why I fell in love with the sport in the first place. Pure delusional
support no matter the effort—it’s admirable, almost.
“The Freeze lost,” I say, souring her enthusiasm. “They were outshot, outworked, and outplayed the entire sixty minutes. If
this game was any indication of the season to come, they’ll be golfing in April.” I tilt my head back and squirt some water
into my open mouth. A few dribbles trickle down my cheek. I need to shower. My swamp-ass sweat is starting to chill, and my
lips are getting cold.
“I’m talking about us, baby!” Quinn throws her arms open and for a second I worry she’s about to embrace me in some celebratory
huddle. “You’re a natural-born Chilly. A purrfect entertainer. A cat of the people!” She dances in place.
I’ve been called worse. “It was something to build from.” The bottom half of my suit drags as I waddle over to the door. Opening
it, I tuck myself on the inside to remain hidden from arena workers passing by. “Now if you don’t mind, I don’t need a handler
to help with my shower.” I motion Quinn out.
“But we haven’t done our postgame debrief or mascot meditation!” she shouts as the door shuts in her face.
There’s no time for a postgame debrief tonight, not when the real game is about to begin: Facing off against the NHL’s hottest
center and most eligible bachelor will take my full focus.