Chapter 10 #2
“And you forgot you weren’t actually a cat? Get out of there!” Quinn hastily motions me over. “Someone else will catch it.”
I dart out of the room, unscathed and innocent.
On the walk back to the mascot locker room, Quinn eyes up my full hands. “Whatcha got there?”
“What? This?” I hold up the skate sharpening stone and drag it back and forth over my trimmed nails. “Just a nail file. Gotta
keep the claws looking nice.”
“And the Icy Hot?” She reaches for the tube, but I pull away. “You’re not injured, are you?”
“No, healthy as a . . . cat.” I force a chuckle. “It’s for my muscles. Loosens them up so I’m ready for game time.” As we
pass a trash can, I toss in the empty bottle.
“It is a long season, and rough on the body,” she agrees.
Inside my locker room, there’s a comically large space bun wig sitting on top of the mascot head.
Star Wars night. I’ve got to start reading those emails with the subject line READ ME.
Next to the wig is a new costume. I’m thankful to see they went with Princess Leia’s signature white robe and silver belt
look for tonight’s game.
“The furries are going to love this cosplay. I’m going to end up on Reddit before puck drop.”
“Well, do or do not, or whatever that ugly little green diva said,” Quinn says with a sewing needle between her teeth. She’s
always tinkering with something up until the absolute last minute. No detail too small, and tonight she’s making sure my boots
are perfect.
As the last of my adrenaline spike leaves my body, what I’ve done to Brody sinks in.
I slowly slide down the wall and fall cross-legged on the floor with a heavy sigh.
Have I done too much? Does the jock take it too far?
I fiddle with the gold locket and chain around my neck, a gift from my dad for my fourteenth birthday.
I wanted a new hockey stick, and at the time I didn’t appreciate the sentiment. I’ve worn it every day since his death.
I shake off the guilt. What’s done is done because it had to be.
“Are you okay? You seem despondent, even for you.” Quinn startles me.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Hopefully the team can win a game soon. The fans are starting to get restless.”
“Any mascot can be entertaining when the team is winning, but it’s a great mascot who keeps entertainment alive when the team
is losing,” she says. “It’s in the . . .”
“Mascot handbook,” I finish her sentence.
Having completed the boots, Quinn looks to me and says, “We’ve got some free time before we have to get out there. Want me
to braid your hair?”
“It looks fine,” I say, dragging my fingers through a lot of resistance.
“Come sit.” Quinn gets up from her chair and swings around to the back. She taps, motioning for me to take a seat.
I sit down and let her twist and pull my hair into a cute and manageable style. “Thanks. This will be much more comfortable
under the mask.”
She places both hands on my shoulders. “The correct term is head covering. Page ten of the handbook.”
“You really love that thing don’t you.”
Quinn nods. “Some of us are going to Hattricks after the game if you want to join.” She gives a few finishing tugs to my hair.
“Doesn’t that go against some mascot code of conduct?” I take a look at myself in the mirror. Quinn discreetly added some
of her green and gold glitter gel to my hair.
“Yes, rule number four.” She says this like it’s canon. “But rule number twenty-three says you’re welcome to join as long as I introduce you as my friend. What do you say, friend?” Quinn extends a tiny canister of hair spray.
“Count me in,” I say, letting her spray me in place.
Brody finishes the game with three goals, an assist, and a plus-five rating. It’s a natural hat trick, featuring a goal even
sexier than his Bare campaign stills. The team barely wins, but it’s finally their first win of the season and the media names
Brody the first star.
It’s like Brody’s dad said on SNN during the second intermission, he’s shooting harder, skating faster, and his muscles are
relaxed and loose. Erik even used his airtime to take credit for Brody’s improved play, saying his recent sit-down with Coach
Carol was to thank for this incredible display of Parker greatness. Quinn dragged me out of the bathroom before I could hear
the rest of his report, but I had heard enough to know my plan B was a failure.
Now I’m hunched over my phone in my locker room watching the postgame presser in disbelief with half the Chilly suit discarded
in a frantic mess around me.
Brody takes the first media question of the night. “Parker, your gameplay has been stellar as of late but tonight you were
able to find another level. What was the secret to tonight’s success?” a faceless reporter asks from the crowd.
“Brody. Parker’s my dad,” he says, uncharacteristically shaken up.
“Um, and I guess you could say the Force was with me tonight.” Brody bounces back, quickly finding his signature cocky charm.
Pausing for the media crowd to laugh at his joke, he leans back in his chair and takes a drink.
The crowd howls. Brody runs his hand over his new buzz cut, exposing his flexed biceps.
He’s like a parched sponge soaking up every second of the attention and admiration.
I almost don’t recognize him as the same Brody from our dates.
The game ended, but he’s still putting on a show.
I grab the mascot head and plop it on. Into the foam and fur, I let out a loud scream of frustration.
Quinn pops her head in the locker room. “Don’t tell me you saw the mouse again.”
“Out!” I point the way.
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the bar,” she shouts through a shutting door.
I take the mask off and white-knuckle my way through the rest of the press conference.
“Tonight’s game was the best I’ve ever felt out on the ice,” Brody says. “I could sit here and say that it’s because of all
the extra practice hours I’ve clocked, or my dad’s help breaking down game tape, or even the fresh start I’ve taken with my
career, but this win wouldn’t have happened without a full team effort. We all showed up to play tonight.”
It’s the perfect answer. And he delivered it with no hesitation. No searching on his face to gauge anyone’s reaction or opinion.
He’s confident because he knows it’s the perfect answer. Erik Parker has taught him well.
A media member asks what the team has to do to build off tonight’s win. After regurgitating another PR hockey answer about
playing a full three periods, he adds, “And not for nothing, I hear there’s a mouse running around our locker room. Hammer
thinks he’s a lucky mouse—you know how goalies get—maybe he’s right.” Brody flashes his perfect smile and the media members
all laugh because actually getting on their hands and knees to kiss his ass wouldn’t be appropriate for broadcast.
I can’t stomach any more. I hate losing.
My phone slips from my grip and I hang my head between my legs.
This family is unshakable. Brody’s only been with the Freeze for a couple months, but he’s quickly become a fan favorite.
As fans have come to expect a loss from this team, Brody is the sole reason to show up and watch.
He’s won over the media, the infamously impenetrable Coach Carol, and even the most skeptical Freeze fans.
With each passing game, Brody embeds himself further into the fabric of this team. The Parker name is becoming synonymous
with the remaining memory of my dad’s legacy. Erik Parker is on intermission reports taking credit for all of it and will
continue to do whatever it takes to get his way into the Hall of Fame. I know it because that’s exactly how he played the
game.
My dad never quit. He battled through a lot. A concussion that spiraled into depression, unemployment, anger, and eventually
heart failure. I’m not a quitter either; I’m a Hinckley.