Chapter 1 #2
Mary waits a good few minutes for it all to sink in.
Then, when I’ve finally accepted there is no other option than me dressing up as our mascot, I snatch the head from the floor.
I swear, for the tiniest of moments, I hear the head yelp in excitement.
Yeah, I’m losing it. “Fine, I’ll do it.” I swivel on my heel, pointing my perfectly manicured finger down at her.
Still on her knees, she’s making me look like Aaron Judge standing next to José Altuve at second base.
“But just this once,” I emphasize. “You have to promise me you’ll find a solution for the next game. ”
She bites her bottom lip, giving me those damn puppy dog eyes again. “You know I can’t promise that, Cali. The next game is tomorrow, remember?”
My eyes widen as I throw my head back dramatically and swipe my face. Groaning, I let the full realization of what I’ve signed up for wash over me. “I’m going to have to do this for at least the next four nights, aren’t I?”
When I drop my hand, Mary smiles at me sympathetically and nods slowly. Could the world just open up and suck me into its hellish depths now? That would make all of this disappear and be marginally less embarrassing than what I’m about to do.
“Fine,” I yell dramatically, stomping off in the direction of the bathrooms. Then, with the giant fish head in hand, I grumble over my shoulder, “where’s my mini baseball cap?!”
Googly eyes. Whiskered nose. Giant bobbing mouth.
Catty’s oversized head rests on the bathroom vanity, staring at me like a man deeply in love. The unblinking gaze is eerily similar to the way Carl looks at Mary—desperate, longing, borderline unsettling.
The shimmering blue of the costume glints under the harsh bathroom light, forcing me to take in the full, humiliating glory of my reflection.
I hate to admit it, but Mary has a point.
This costume is huge, and no one else on the team would have been able to pull this off. Hell, I barely pull it off myself.
Turning to the side, I pat down the slightly protruding belly, surprised at how roomy the costume is.
I could smuggle an entire picnic under this thing and no one would notice.
But as Catty’s head stares at me, and I look at myself in the mirror, something strange happens.
It’s a strong emotion that radiates through my chest.
It feels a lot like pride. Pride that I wouldn’t admit I had outside this room.
“Oh my God!” Mary squeals, bursting through the door. She jumps onto her tiptoes, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me back to the mirror. “Take a good look at yourself, Cali,” she says, her eyes practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s like this costume was made for you.”
The gray speckles in the furry fabric glisten like a freshly caught trout, and Mary looks prouder than my mom did when I somehow convinced Gary Finnegan to take me to the Freshman Formal.
He was captain of the mathletes, wore a full headgear brace, and stood at a glorious six-foot-five, meaning I could wear heels without looking like a baby giraffe.
My mother, forever worried I’d be sentenced to a life of sensible shoes and slouching, nearly wept with joy.
“The fans are going to love this!” Mary twirls in the tiny bathroom space, radiating unearned confidence on my behalf. I might’ve joined her excitement if not for the thick, soul-crushing dread pooling in my stomach.
I’m not exactly the most graceful person in the world.
The last time I performed in front of a crowd, I was in college, dressed as Princess Blanca for a children’s birthday party.
It was supposed to be magical—long golden wig, sparkly dress, and a dramatic entrance meant to wow a room full of five-year-olds.
And then I tripped over my own braid.
One misstep, one flailing attempt to regain balance, and I went tumbling straight into the cake table. The kids screamed. The parents gasped. And Princess Blanca? She face-planted into a buttercream tower, taking down half the dessert spread with her.
The birthday girl cried.
And I still can’t look at cupcakes without flinching.
The moment haunts me to this day, and I’ve desperately tried to stay out of the limelight since, only choreographing dances to soothe my need to dance.
“The players will love it too.” Mary squeezes my arms, trying to reassure me. Every squeeze only serves as a reminder that Tate Sorenson will see me in this.
The Tate Sorenson.
The best thing that has ever happened to The Carolina Catfish. The five-time golden glove winner is the only reason we even get talked about on sports networks. The consistent and reliable franchise player. The backbone of the team.
Also, stupidly attractive. Those who know me might say I have the teeniest, tiniest crush on our team’s shortstop.
Okay, that’s a lie.
It’s a full-blown obsession, and now, the first time he sees me in person, I will be dressed as an overweight fish-man hybrid. Exactly the first impression I was going for.
“You’re going to kill it. I can feel it.” Mary grins. I attempt a weak smile back, but my body is already going into full panic mode. I try clenching my fists to ease the tension, but my fin-shaped gloves refuse to cooperate.
Scrunching my eyebrows instead, I don’t think too long about my next words. “Let’s just get this over with,” I grunt, shoving the giant head over my face and lettting Mary escort me down to the field. I will have to get used to the limited view I have out of this thing.
“You’ll do great.” Mary clutches my fin tightly, probably to prevent me from bolting out of the stadium.
When we reach the bullpen doors, she wraps my fins around our new blue ATV. “Are you ready for this?” she asks.
Throwing one leg over the seat, I take a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say through the fish head.
The organ music blares through the stadium, signaling my cue. My body locks up, my stomach twists, and I grip the ATV as tightly as possible with my awkward fin-hands.
Here goes nothing.