Chapter 30
Thirty
Olivia
Today was supposed to be my day off, but at the last minute there was a Chilly appearance request, one we couldn’t turn down—whatever
that means. Who could possibly need Chilly on a Sunday afternoon?
I should be meeting up with Brody right now to attend a team get-together before the dinner-and-movie date we’ve had planned
for weeks. The Uncrustables and juice boxes Quinn packed will have to suffice.
Of course, I tried to get out of this appearance. I faked food poisoning, texting Quinn an hour ago that I was violently spewing
out of both ends. She told me to chug some Pepto-Bismol, strap on a diaper, and suck it up.
I’m told in 2015 Chilly came down with a terrible bout of food poisoning from a pregame street meat vendor outside the rink
but still pulled through the overtime shoot-out win. The strength and stamina cemented Chilly in the mascot community as somewhat
of a legend. She calls it Chilly’s “flu game.” To which I reply, Gross.
I slam another Uncrustable and Quinn says, “For someone complaining of a tummyache, you sure are housing those sandwiches.”
“Don’t shame me,” I say through a mouthful. “I should be at a party right now eating expensive charcuterie.”
“And I should be at my bungee fitness class, but I have to spray your butt with aerosol deodorant and make sure you don’t
walk into any doorframes. Getting called in on your day off sucks, I know how you feel.”
Quinn rolls up the tinted windows of the team’s sprinter van and I roll my eyes. It’s officially time to go incognito mode.
Which is ironic because pictures of Chilly are plastered all over the outside of the obnoxious green-and-gold vehicle. It’s
as subtle as a puck to the face; I feel like I’m driving around in the Mystery Machine.
I eye my costume sliding around in the open back as we take a sharp turn, self-loathing coursing through my veins while Quinn
sings loudly to Chappell Roan. Not even the OG Midwestern princess can settle my stomach into a melancholy clap-along car
ride karaoke duet. I might not have food poisoning, but my tummy churns every time I see that mascot suit. I’m in the home
stretch of this mascot gig. The Freeze advanced to the playoff conference semifinals and Felix will soon be cleared to come
back to work. For me, the end is in sight.
Quinn takes a right turn so violently that we ride the curb. Disoriented by the turbulence, my head shakes like a paint can
being mixed. Quinn’s erratic driving is enough to make me vomit, but there’s no use in that—she’d still make me put on the
suit and give a show. Her driving slows as we coast down a quiet cul-de-sac lined with perfectly manicured storied houses
like the ones I would visit on Halloween as a kid. For a second, I feel a rush of déjà vu, but it passes by the time Quinn
pulls up to a house I recognize. We’re at Andy’s.
I almost snap my head off my neck turning to Quinn. “You didn’t say the appearance was for a player!”
She turns down the music. “It’s not. It’s for their son’s birthday party.”
“Who’s all going to be here?” I try to calculate the possibility of Andy’s teammates showing up to the kid’s birthday party
in my head, but all I can think about is my dad and the five Freeze players who crashed my hockey practice on my seventh birthday.
I feel sick.
“Ten little kids.” Quinn jerks the van into Park. “Should be an easy afternoon compared to the school visit last week with
five hundred high schoolers. You won’t have to perform any viral dances for social media this time.” Quinn shakes her head,
laughing.
Unbeknownst to me, part of the trending dance I performed was a reference to marijuana use, and the video went viral. “Chilly
does the ‘kush kick’ ” plastered all over the internet. A meeting was held. I don’t mention that the virality of the video
landed my fifteen-second clip on a popular late-night talk show and earned us tens of thousands of new followers. Instead,
I stare out the window at the familiar towering house and panic silently.
I hop out of the passenger door, something that still causes Quinn to gasp. She would prefer I crawl through the van into
the back, but I need to stretch my legs and get one last drag of fresh air before I retreat to my furry alter ego for a couple
of hours.
As I twist my spine, releasing a crack in my lower back, I see Brody’s sports car turn onto the street.
Panicked, I superman-jump through the open sliding side door.
My ungraceful landing into a pile of water bottles knocks the wind out of me and I lie in agony momentarily.
Quinn looks back, checking to see what caused such a dramatic reaction.
She turns to me and then again cocks her head up the road toward his approaching car until it hits her.
Confusion is quickly consumed with a flash of rage until the disappointment sets into her posture. It’s a roller coaster of
emotions and I’m ashamed to have taken her along for the ride.
“Let me guess, Andy’s wife makes a beautiful charcuterie spread?” she asks rhetorically. Before I can babble out an excuse
about not knowing the party connection, she says, “You said you were ending things with Brody after All-Star Weekend.”
“No, I said I would come clean about my intentions and family tree after All-Star Weekend.” I slowly prop myself up into a
sitting position, nestled in the mess of mascot necessities: baby wipes, aerosol deodorant, and butt powder (swamp ass is
the one true universal mascot weakness).
“Well, how did he take it?”
“I didn’t tell him.” My voice strains getting the words out. Quinn steps into the van, slamming the door shut behind her.
I tense up. “I came close a couple of weeks ago. He found some green fur on my shirt. I thought about telling him everything,
but instead I told him it was from a green fox taxidermy Ivy was working on.”
“There’s no such thing as a green fox.”
“I know, he’s so gullible,” I say fondly. “Which is why I’m waiting until the season ends.”
“As your coworker, I must say, I appreciate your dedication to protecting the true identity of Chilly. I’m not sure I’ve ever
seen a ’scot go to such lengths to not only sabotage themselves, but also somehow manage to deliver an incredible mascot experience
every time they put on the suit.” Quinn’s hand is a firm comfort on my shoulder.
“Wow, thank you.”
“I’m not done.” She drops her embrace as I go rigid under her touch. “But as your friend, what are you doing? You’re going to ruin this season for us, and I won’t take pleasure in saying ‘I told you so’ when you do.”
Quinn crawls out of the van. She turns back with an arm on the open sliding door. “Now get dressed. You’ve got five minutes,
Chilly.”
“Quinn, wait!”
She slams the door in my face. As I sit in the back of the van alone, I’m thankful she went easy on me because I know I deserve
so much worse.
Inside, the party is chaotic—far more than the last time I was here. Quinn leads me through the lobby while I pretend to not
know my way around the house. We pause in the kitchen, where a large group of players and their significant others gather
around platters of food. Quinn pauses to talk to Vera, Andy’s wife, when I hear a familiar deep belly laugh to my right.
It’s Brody. I freeze in place, listening to the conversation beside me without turning to look. I begin to break out in nervous
perspiration.
Someone asks, “Where’s Olivia? I thought she was coming today.”
Quinn looks back like someone shot a spitball at the back of her head in class, but represses the urge to do something impulsive
and pivots back to Vera, who is explaining the party’s itinerary.
“She got called into work last-minute. There’s a Disney on Ice matinee at the rink.”
The conversation pivots to playoff hockey.
The Tampa Storm also recently clinched a spot in their conference semifinals.
The looming possibility of a Tampa Storm and Minnesota Freeze Stanley Cup Final clearly has everyone on edge.
Brody reins everyone in, reminding them that first they must beat the Dallas Stampeders.
There’s no more time to eavesdrop as Quinn pulls me into the backyard. “Chilly, it’s time for a ball hockey game with Liam
and his friends out back.” I make a few overexaggerated hand gestures as I nod my head so hard I feel dizzy.
Andy’s backyard is as impressive as his house. The type of backyard where all the neighborhood kids congregate from dawn till
dusk. There’s a beautiful pool on one side of the yard surrounded by patio furniture and giant umbrellas for shade. A golden
number seven balloon sways in the breeze. The other side is landscaped with a miniature rink equipped with boards, nets, and
all. I assume it makes an epic outdoor rink in the winter.
As sweat burns my eyes, I desperately wish to be sitting in the shade sipping sangria with the other significant others. I
stare at them longingly as Quinn shoves a stick into my paws.
“Chilly is so excited to play with everyone!” Quinn’s camp-counselor voice shakes me back to reality and I turn my attention
to the job at hand. “Does everyone know the rules?” she asks.
“My dad plays in the NHL,” says the snot-nosed kid in the back.
“My dad plays in the NHL too. He’s not as good, but Mom says we have to love him regardless,” another speaks up.
“My dad sleeps on the couch.”
“Alright,” Quinn interrupts. “I’ll drop the ball.”
Initially, I drag my feet, getting in position for the face-off.
But as the game plays on, I can’t help but have a little fun.
I throw gentle yet devastating hip checks to seven-year-olds left, right, and center, getting them off the ball and passing it in the slot.
I’m stealing hats and tossing them over the boards.
I’m picking up the birthday boy and throwing him over my shoulder as I carry him for a victory lap around the rink after scoring a goal.
It’s in this moment that I love the game again. It’s not when I’m in the stands pumping up fans and running around taking
pictures. It’s when I’m at schools playing ball hockey or on skates at hockey clinics making appearances, or even this private
event where I get to set up a kid with the perfect pass to score her first of the game. Hockey hasn’t taken anything from
these kids yet, and the joy is evident as their arms shoot up in the air with pride. I’m going to miss this part of the job
once my assignment comes to an end.
As my team dominates, Brody approaches with a stick in hand and a mischievous smile spreading across his face. “Hey, Chilly!
Mind if I join?” He taps his stick on the hot pavement.
I snatch the stick out of his hands and toss it across the yard and into the pool like a javelin. Brody is stunned, the children
laugh, and Quinn gives me that look. The game continues, until Brody’s by my side with a wet stick like a dog retrieving a fetch. He steals the ball from
me, and I contemplate tossing him in the pool next.
Brody is in the game with a vengeance; I almost stop to wonder if he has a thing against cats. He took note of every hit I
laid and every stolen ball I took from these kids and is getting payback. Despite his undeniable skill and strength, I will
not let him beat me. I mean I won’t let him beat Liam, the birthday boy.
The score is tied, and the ball is on my stick.
As I run up the rink, waiting for Liam to get close enough to the net to set him up, Brody is at my side.
He’s battling to get the puck off my stick.
Like a scratchy tag on the back of my collar, he’s quickly becoming a lingering irritation.
He playfully gives me a shove, but I still get the pass off. Liam scores.
As we celebrate, I don’t notice one of the kids bent down tying his shoelace. With both my arms extended toward the sky—vigorously
pumping in celebration—I go tumbling over the child and freefall to the ground.
I belly flop on the pavement and the force of the impact sends my mascot head popping off like a cork shooting out of a bottle
of champagne. My chin hits the pavement with enough power to chip my tooth, and before I can cover my face with my paws, everyone
is shrieking.
The kids scream in terror as they point and gawk. You would have thought their family dog was picked up by a hawk and carried
off out of sight. They all gasp, refilling their lungs before exhaling another loud petrified wail. Am I that hideous? I run my tongue over my top teeth and feel the jagged edge, but there’s no time to search for the missing chunk.
“Chilly’s a girl!” one kid screams.
“Its skin is so sweaty,” another says.
“Kill it!” a kid shrieks, and I realize I’ve hit a new low in life—even for me.
Then I see him—Brody. Mouth agape like a child and stunned silent. He drops his stick and stumbles backward. This is my rock
bottom. My bottom lip quivers as I search for my head. I need to hide before all these kids see me crying.
“Olivia?” I’ve never heard Brody say my name with such disgust. He stares at me, searching for verbal confirmation as if the
entire reveal is so unbelievable that seeing my face isn’t enough, he needs to hear me confirm it out loud.
Everyone is silent and it’s so much worse than the screams of ten petrified children. Quinn is at my side covering my face with a team-branded sweater. “I can’t believe you didn’t fasten the head covering properly. Everyone’s traumatized,” she says.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Hammer is crying.” She drags me out of the backyard rink in what will surely be my last time in the Chilly suit.