Chapter 22 Winnie
WINNIE
The Fire & Ice Fest is supposed to be my crowning achievement as Huckleberry Hill’s Parks & Recreation director.
Instead, it’s shaping up to be a disaster covered in snow and topped with competitive grandmothers.
“My brownies have a secret ingredient,” Grandma Joyce announces, positioning her platter at the center of the brownie ice cream sundae station.
Judy Waples narrows her eyes. “So do mine. It’s called love.”
“Mine have that too. Plus espresso powder and cinnamon.”
“Well, mine have—” Judy leans in conspiratorially, “—lard.”
I step between them before this escalates into a full-scale brownie conflict. “Ladies, there’s room for both platters. In fact, why don’t we arrange them together? A collaborative display?”
They look at me like I’ve suggested they share a toothbrush.
Judy sniffs. “Fine. But mine go in front.”
My grandmother is about to employ guerrilla warfare.
“Alphabetical order. Joyce, then Judy.”
Judy mutters something about rigged systems, but they comply.
Crisis averted. For now.
I glance at my clipboard, currently showing seventeen unchecked items. The ice sculptures are melting faster than anticipated.
The hot chocolate bar ran out of marshmallows an hour ago.
And I just got a text from Cody, the high schooler who usually wears the mascot costume, that he has the stomach bug.
I stare at the message, willing the letters to rearrange and say something different. Gus’s appearance to debut all the merch is the centerpiece of today’s event since it’s all new. Mayor Barbie already announced it like we’re unveiling a royal heir.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Mindy this time, wondering where our man in the mascot suit is.
I reply that I’m working on it, but no solution comes readily to mind. At least, not one that I want to entertain.
I look around the community room in the transformed municipal complex.
It really is beautiful—ice sculptures catching the afternoon light, families skating on the outdoor rink, the smell of hot chocolate and brownies mixing with cold mountain air.
This is what I came to Huckleberry Hill to create. Community. Connection. Joy.
But none of it matters if we don’t have a giant squirrel.
I find the costume in the storage closet, staring like it might throw acorns at me.
Hey, stranger things have happened. Pulling it off the shelf, the chickaree squirrel suit is substantial.
The tail alone is the size of Oreo the dog.
The head looks like it could hold a couple of basketballs at least.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
But the clock is ticking and I’m the coordinator. When something needs fixing, I fix it. Even if “it” is me stuffing myself into twenty pounds of synthetic fur.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m waddling into the community room, vision limited to a pair of mesh eye holes. I’m already sweating despite the early March chill.
Mayor Barbie’s voice booms through the speakers. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! The debut of our new official Huckleberry Hill merch, Gus the chickaree!”
I try to wave enthusiastically. The tail swings around and knocks over a display of Fire & Ice Fest merchandise.
Keychains scatter across the floor. They’re tiny casualties of my humiliation, a glimpse at my coming failure.
Worry weaves through me that not only will I not be able to pull this off, but everything else that’s stitched together with thin thread is going to fall apart.
The crowd erupts in applause and laughter. Kids rush toward me, squealing with delight.
All I have to do is smile, wave, and bounce around. I’ve seen mascots do it plenty of times. Okay, once at a hockey game with my dad and brother, but still. This can’t be that hard.
I got this.
Then, Oreo the Dalmatian sees me.
The station dog, normally chill and friendly, takes one look at the giant squirrel invading his territory and loses his ever-loving mind. His bark is sharp, an aggressive warning that says, Intruder! Threat! Possible monster!
“Oreo, it’s me!” I try to say, but the mascot head muffles everything into what sounds like a cry for help. It very well may be.
The dog is not convinced and might suspect that the giant squirrel ate his favorite Parks & Rec Princess.
He circles me, barking frantically. I try to back away, but the tail throws off my balance. I stumble, windmill my arms, and crash into the hot chocolate station.
Cups topple. Plastic spoons clatter to the floor. Someone screams.
Through the mesh eye holes, Patton pushes through the crowd, already in his hockey gear. He crouches down by Oreo, calming him, then looks up at me.
Even through my limited vision, I can see him trying not to laugh.
Does he know it’s me inside this suit?
My already fragile nerves and fissured ego cannot handle the man I kissed—though briefly—in the snow to know that I’m wearing this ridiculous costume.
“Need a hand?” His voice is warm with barely suppressed amusement.
Without answering, I attempt to stand. The tail swings again, this time taking out a stack of napkins.
He grips my paw—hand?—and pulls me upright. “I know it’s you in there, Winnie.”
“How can you tell?”
“You make an impression.” He steadies me as the tail threatens to tip me backward.
“The show must go on,” I say in a falsetto.
His laugh is low and kind of cute, if I’m totally honest—or it could just be the restricted air flow to my brain in this suffocating costume is making me imagine things.
He adds, “Try to steer clear of small children.”
“I’ll do my best.” I always try.
As visitors talk about the snow coming down outside, the rest of the mascot’s appearance is a blur of posed photos, high-fives that nearly knock me over, and one terrifying moment where I slip on a patch of melted ice on the way to the rink.
Once more, Patton has to catch me before I face-plant in front of hundreds of witnesses.
“Graceful,” he murmurs, arms steadying me.
“The tail has its own center of gravity.”
“Sure. Blame the tail.” He chuckles.
After the National Anthem, I slide onto the ice, do a warm-up lap, waving at everyone, and wonder how the guys will play hockey since the snow is now really coming down. Volunteers shovel, and then the ref blows the whistle.
Mindy and Thomas usher me under the bleachers, where I still have a full view of the game, and can remove the mascot head without risking a child pointing and screaming that someone decapitated Gus. I slug some ice-cold water to cool down.
“That was something,” Mindy observes cheerfully.
Thomas says, “You made a lot of kids happy. That’s what matters.”
He’s right. Seeing those little faces light up was worth the humiliation. Mostly.
Then the puck drops, and I forget about everything else because Patton Cross on the ice is what’s impressive.
The man is fast, controlled, and powerful. Every movement is precise and purposeful. He anticipates plays before they happen, positions himself perfectly, and when he has the puck, he’s unstoppable.
I knew he was competent. I’ve seen him work efficiently, thoroughly, always three steps ahead.
But this is different. This is attractive. Dare I say hot.
Unless that’s the costume, which is entirely possible.
Then again, who am I kidding? The Patton Cross starter pack should come with its own fire extinguisher.
He’s intent as he skates, laughing when one of his crew members—James, I think—nearly crashes into the boards. When he scores, the crowd erupts with cheering and clapping.
“She’s got it bad,” Mindy sing-songs.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, feigning innocence. Is it really that obvious?
“The ear-to-ear grin,” Thomas supplies.
“I’m just appreciating athletic skill.”
“You’re drooling.”
“I am not—” I touch my chin. It’s wet. I jiggle the water bottle. “I’m hydrating.”
Thomas leans over. “You know you’re going to lose that bet, right?”
My stomach drops. The bet. I’d completely forgotten about it.
Get Patton to smile at the Fireman’s Ball. Prove he’s not as grumpy as everyone thinks.
Except he’s already smiled at me. Multiple times.
Real smiles that crinkle the corners of his eyes and make my heart do the kinds of leaps a real squirrel makes effortlessly between tree limbs.
But no one has witnessed those moments. As far as my coworkers are concerned, I’m a lost cause, and my feelings are unrequited.
I’m on a mission to win Patton over, that’s doomed to fail.
The Fire Department wins the hockey game and everyone goes wild. That’s my cue to put the mascot head back on and get out there. During the victory lap, as the snow turns heavy, Patton scans the crowd until he finds me.
He winks.
I smile back.
Meanwhile, I just look like a large, frenzied squirrel, but everything else fades away and I imagine us alone on center ice.
Afterward, he makes his way through the congratulations and backslaps, heading straight for me. He’s slightly breathless, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from exertion.
“You were really good out there,” I squeak.
Something in his expression softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Really good.”
We’re standing close, aware of eyeballs on us, but neither of us moves.
“What if we did a fundraiser game? Invite some Reno Rebels alumni, charge admission, donate proceeds to the fire department fund?” I ask.
His eyebrows rise. “That would be amazing.”
“I have my moments.”
“You have a lot of moments.” His voice drops lower. “More than you realize.”
My breath catches.
Then I recall that I’m still wearing this ridiculous squirrel costume.
The loudspeaker crackles and Mayor Barbie announces that the snow is getting bad. What had been light flurries a couple of hours ago rapidly turns into a full whiteout.