The Mascot: A Fan & Player Baseball Romance

by Ana Shay

  Nine years ago, I signed a minor league contract with the Houston Knights straight out of high school. Two seasons later, I was called up. Something about the team didn’t work. It was like I had slippery fingers, and I couldn’t get my game to click. Combine that with the constant trade rumors, my injury, and a very clingy girlfriend who wasn’t shy about wanting a ring on her finger; the pressure mounted. And I sucked.

  Finally, when I got traded, things started working in my favor. I fit in with the team, the trade rumors stopped, and my luck turned. My first MVP nomination was the first time I knew I was always meant to be a Fish, and I would retire a bottom feeder. There was nothing more I wanted in this world. Except maybe a world series ring. Yeah, that would be nice too. Maybe one day.

  With my foot on second base, I watched Grayson gear up for another pitch. Before he could throw, a honk diverted our attention.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ The deep baritone of the announcer hyped up the crowd that were already here. ‘It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Catty can’t wait to see you.’ The roar of the masses makes me laugh. Our fans have a love-hate relationship with the mascot. Personally, his googly eyes have always freaked me the hell out. I couldn’t look at him without thinking he was judging me with his haughty gaze. It made meet and greets tough.

  ‘He’s had a little makeover since you last saw him,’ Thank God. Maybe they got rid of those stupid eyes. ‘Are you ready to see him?’ The cheering confirms what we already know. Catty is going to come out onto the field any minute.

  I watch the dugout, expecting him to pop out there to greet fans but nearly jump out of my skin when a large door from one of the bullpens slams open. Confetti pops out, and suddenly Catty bounds out in a Charlotte-themed Catfish ATV. I had no idea we had one of those.

  Under the Sea plays as Catty dances and drives, a combination I didn’t know was possible, especially with such a large head, until now. Admittedly, he doesn’t look particularly great at either. The crowd roared at Catty’s dance moves, looks like he’s going to be the perfect hype man for the home games this season. With that, his entrance is our cue to leave.

  Standing at the side of the dugout with a bat stretched across my shoulder, I talked to our catcher Brian, ignoring Catty’s display because I wanted to focus on the game ahead.

  My attention is drawn to the fans when they become particularly raucous. ‘Tate. Tate. Tate.’ They chant my name, and I can feel the pride radiating through my body. I’m proud to represent them and this team. Dropping the bat from my shoulders, I wave towards the crowd, which only makes them yell louder.

  “Run! Run! Run!” One of the batboy’s yelled. It took me a second to realize he was talking to me. A second too long. Just like that, everything moved in slow motion. The deafening noise of an out-of-control engine gives me no time to comprehend what’s going on.

  A whoosh of air rushes through me as the ATV misses me by mere inches, sliding straight into the dugout wall. I blew out a breath, thinking about the dent it would leave. That was a close call. That is until pain ricochets through my back, and I’m thrown to the floor. All I hear is the cracking of my jaw as my chin breaks my fall. Pain throbs through my leg and mouth as I lie there eating dust. Yup. That’s going to leave a mark.

  Silence.

  I’ve never heard the stadium quieter. The low hum of Under the Sea still plays as the crowd watches on. I want to jump up, let the fans know I’m okay and ready for action, but I can’t. I can’t because I’m being pinned to the floor. I ignore the pain shooting through my back as I strain to look at what’s stopping me.

  A mass of blue, silver, and gray lies on top of me. Catty’s lifeless form lays there, unmoving. The costume’s so big, I can’t tell if he’s breathing. He looks just like a dead fish.

  After a few minutes, I make my move. “Catty, are you okay?” I asked, worried that he actually is dead. It’s been a good five minutes, and he hasn’t moved. A dead mascot wouldn’t be the best start to a season.

  Catty freezes up. My question must have gotten his attention. He lifted his head; the whiskered fish looked directly at me. Nose to nose. Damn it; the new googly eyes creep me out just as much as the old ones. The giant head slowly turned to take in the crowd and then back to me.

  Then he does something wholly unexpected. He jolted like he’d been struck by lightning. His body was undulating against me in a way that could only be described as humping my leg. Catty’s full weight bounced on my injured thigh, making it hard to move.

  When I finally managed to slither away, the fans and my teammates laughed and cheered because they thought it was all part of the show. I dusted off my pants and did my best to stretch out my thigh.

  Catty was still lying on the floor, convulsing, or maybe floundering? I’m not sure which it is. Maybe his dedication is strong, and he’s trying to look like a fish out of water. Or maybe he really did injure himself in the fall. Either way, I know it’s going to take a long physiotherapy session to get my leg in shape.

  I held my hand out, waiting for Catty to accept. “Tate, are you okay?” one of the medical staff ask, pulling me away from the injured mascot.

  “I’m fine,” She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

  “You’re bleeding from your chin, and you had a tiny limp when you got up.”

  I waved off her concern, spending the next five minutes assuring her that I all I needed was to see a doctor after the game. A little blood on my jersey and a bandage on my chin wasn’t going to stop me from playing opening day.

  Catty was met with taunts and cheers as he was lifted and dragged out of the stadium. The Fish was on a stretcher, waving his limp fin to his public while being pulled across the turf.

  Walking back to the dugout, I was so focused on hiding my lip that it barely registered that the incident was playing on the screen above me.

  Teammates slapped me on the back while I dealt with the repercussions of being mauled by a fish. I was checked over by three different doctors before the Owner, GM and Coach signed me off to play.

  Things calmed down when the game started, and everyone forgot about my throbbing thigh and aching chin. Everyone except for me. I didn’t care; I’d live. Besides, playing that game was one of the best decisions I’d ever made because I scored a walk-off homer in the 10th inning.

  Chapter 3

  “So, let me get this straight,” Phil, the first aid manager, laughed while he inspected my arm. I wish I could say he was surprised when he saw me limping in. “You slipped and lost control of the ATV. You couldn’t get to the break, and before you knew it, it was headed straight for Sorenson?" He shakes his head in disbelief. I'm not surprised he's confused. Normally, I come down here because I've whacked my head on the desk trying to get a pen, or I’ve tripped over my own feet and rolled my ankle walking down the stairs. Driving an ATV into the dugout while dressed as a fish isn't my usual MO. "I knew you were obsessed with him, but I didn't think you were the black widow type."

  Shocked, I stare back at Phil. "I am not obsessed with him." He cocked an eyebrow as he watched me blankly. I know he's silently referring to the Tate Sorenson calendar I have on my desk. The one I had to make myself because he doesn't have an official calendar. I showed the same one to the head of merchandising my first day here, trying to convince her there was a demand for it. She very politely declined my proposal. Obsession is a bit strong, though. I would say it's more a healthy adoration for the best player ever to grace our team. "It was an accident, I swear!" He gently wrapped my limp arm in a bandage. It was official; I looked and felt like the dying fish I had become. "Turns out driving an ATV with a giant fish head on is harder than you'd expect." I pouted, doing my best not to wince at the pain.

  "But why did you hump his leg towards the end?" He asks casually, keeping his eyes focused on the bandage.

  "How did you know about that?" I ask, shocked. One eye was twitching, and I couldn’t stop it.

  He met my eyes with a slanted mou
th. "I'm not gonna lie. The medical staff has been talking about it in our group chat all afternoon." His suppressed chuckle came out as a snort. "Also, the TV broadcaster may have it on replay every commercial break.” My heart stopped; this must be what it’s like to feel like death was coming because I was most certainly going to die of embarrassment.

  Sighing, I knew this was my worst decision ever. Even worse than the time I thought it would be fun to try perm and dye my own hair. Spoiler alert, I looked like Carrot Top for months.

  I couldn't look Phil in the eyes, too ashamed that my most embarrassing moment has been replayed constantly for the world's enjoyment. My mind wandered to all those blooper reels they do at the end of the season. I’d be lucky if that’s all it ends up on. I’ll never live down going viral as a fish.

  I silently watched Phil twirl the fabric around my wrist and, after a few minutes, quietly added, "It wasn't supposed to look like I was humping his leg. After I fell on top of him, I panicked. I thought for sure management would fire me, and I racked my brain thinking about how to make it better. The only thing I came up with was to style it out. You know, pretend that's what was supposed to happen?” He nodded encouragingly, “I thought that if I started wiggling like a fish out of water, it might make the whole thing look more intentional." Shaking my head, I still can't believe I thought that was appropriate. Tate’s gruff growls while I inadvertently violated him were playing on repeat in my head. I couldn’t stand it.

  "Only you, Cali." His eyebrows crossed as he finished up. "How many times have I told you to take things slow before?"

  "I know, I know. The stupid fish head made it tough to see the brake pad, and I couldn't grasp the handle because I was essentially wearing mittens. All in all, it was a terrible idea. I promise I will never drive an ATV while dressed as a fish again." Thankfully, after that performance, I think the opportunity may have sailed.

  Snorting, he says, "That's good to hear." He checked my wrist one final time before he looked up with a smile. "Well, it looks like you've slightly sprained your wrist. You’ll be fine in a couple of days, as long as you don't put any more pressure on it."

  I hopped off the table, surprised I didn’t hurt my leg. I may have had Tate break my fall, but he’s not exactly a soft landing. He’s pure muscle. "Thanks, P." I gave him a small smile, and my face reddened, thinking back to lying on top of Tate and how good it felt. Even dressed as a fish, I could feel the thickness of his thighs.

  The thing that wasn’t so great was that everyone watched me, laughing at my stupidity. I tried to pass it off as no big deal by waving to the fans. I was dying inside, not from pain but from sheer embarrassment. If the medical staff didn’t drag me out, I'm not sure my legs would have been able to carry me off the field. The laughter and shame I felt after I nearly killed our best player was too much. Out of all the players, why did it have to be Tate Sorenson that I hit? His perfectly sculpted body was the perfect landing. My chest tightened with excitement being that close to him. Hearing his deep husky voice ask me if I was okay made me love him even more (Sidenote: I didn’t know that was possible). I nearly killed him, and the first thing he did was ask if I was okay. At least it made me feel good about my choice of players to idolize. If I had hit Grayson Hawk, I’m sure I would have been sued.

  Biting my nails, “Hey Phil,” He looked up from the chart. “Can we keep the fact that I was Catty today between us?” Right now, only Phil and Mary know the truth. Everyone else thinks it’s Tim. Imagine if people found out it was me that was humping Tate’s leg. If my desk full of Tate memorabilia is anything to go by, they’d think I did it on purpose.

  Phil nodded. That’s what I liked about him. He didn’t ask too many questions. I whacked Catty’s stupid head off the bench where it was perched because I was frustrated that he was staring again. This time he was taunting me, which felt a thousand times worse.

  Still in the silky fabric, I was getting hot. No one told me neoprene didn’t breathe. I need to get out of it before I dehydrate from all the sweat. "Do you have a lost and found box in here by any chance? I can't go outside looking like this."

  He smirked, looking down at my costume. Damn you, Phil! I knew I looked ridiculous; I didn’t need reminding. His head tilted to the side. "Yeah, there's a bunch of stuff in there," He pointed to a box in the corner with overflowing clothes and flicked his wrist to check the time. "Ah, the game wrapped up ten minutes ago; I'm late for the player checkup. Is it okay if I leave you in here to get ready? You know the way out." He smiled.

  Waving him off, I barely gave him a second glance, already making my way to the spare items of clothing. "No problem. Thanks for the help. I promise next time I see you; it will be with donuts." He laughed as he shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with Catty.

  Peering into the box, I waded through the vast amount of clothing, trying to find something that wasn’t too small. Another annoyance of having long legs is that in this scenario, only men’s pants would work. Otherwise, I look like the worst early 2000’s trend ever; Gauchos. I tried it once, thinking I’d look hot. I didn’t. I grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants and the first shirt I could find, committed to wearing these until I got to my locker upstairs. With any luck, no one will see me in these rags either. Fewer witnesses, fewer questions.

  The cool air conditioning made rolling off the suit that much easier. Sweat dripped down my body as though I’d just taken a shower. I used another t-shirt to wipe the sweat away, thankful that I had a stick of deodorant upstairs.

  I made a mental note to talk to other mascots to see how they kept cool in those hot, heavy costumes. I could barely last twenty minutes, let alone the hours they spent in it daily.

  Throwing a shirt on and rolling the sweatpants up to my waist, I was ready to go upstairs and put this whole Catfish fiasco behind me. This was not how I planned my day to go. I thought we were going to watch Tim do his thing. I would take pictures, post a bunch of them online, and we’d get a bunch of new followers. I’d get a pat on the back for the great choreography, and the team would be happy with my marketing skills.

  Bang, all done.

  Instead, I’m now going to have to explain why I ended up humping Tate Sorenson’s leg. I’m scared if anyone in upper management has seen my desk, they'll think I did it on purpose. I knew I should have hidden the numerous (5, to be precise) Tate Bobbleheads I had sitting next to my chair. I needed them for research purposes. Or at least, that's what I told everyone when I brought them in the first day and got strange looks.

  As I patted the shirt down, the creaking door grabbed my attention. "Phil. I'm already a fragile mess after today. Please don't laugh at me. This is all you had that would fit." I say, resigned to the fact that I must look like a sweaty mess. Closing my eyes, I turned around, bracing myself for the jokes. Only nothing comes.

  I jumped when someone cleared their throat. It was way too deep to be Phil and way too manly to be any of the other doctors on staff. When I opened my eyes, I nearly fainted.

  Caramel and Heat.

  A very familiar pair of butterscotch eyes squinted at me. Admittedly, they were usually staring back at me from the paper they were printed on. Today, they glistened like poured honey as they took me in, making me catch my breath. It’s like his presence swallowed up all the air in the room.

  I wanted to die.

  There in front of me is the man I unintentionally humped this afternoon. My cheeks flared as Tate Sorenson stands there in his white uniform, covered in mud, smelling like grass and leather. It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I wanted to strip him down and lick that musky scent off him. I pursed my lips, keeping that thought to myself.

  He scratched the back of his head, giving me the once over. My spine straightened, hoping he overlooked my ogling. Judging by his crooked smile, he knew what I was thinking. "Hi," He drawled out, more of a question than a statement.

  I couldn't help it. I closed my eyes because, for some insane reason, I was worried he'd reco
gnize me as the humper. I know giant googly eyes covered my face, but you could never be too sure. I was a little out of it when I landed on top of him. Anything could have happened. He silently stood there, waiting for me to talk. I felt like his presence was swallowing me whole. I opened one eye. He was staring at me, watching every movement. "I'm sorry I bothered you. Phil told me the room was free." Of course, he did. He pointed his thumb behind him, "I'll just go and find another room if I’m disturbing you." His thick southern accent had me in a trance; it's such a turn on. Way better in person than on those countless interviews I've watched with him.

  Flailing my arms, I wanted to talk. To say anything, but nothing comes out. Is this what it feels like to be starstruck? Bringing my hand to my hair, I pull, hoping the pain would help me focus on anything except the cod piece resting between his thighs. That thing is enormous.

  No words come out. That's when Tate rested a hand on my shoulder, and I nearly wet my panties. He's touching me. He’s choosing to touch me. Unlike this afternoon when I forced myself on him. "Are you okay?" He asked concern etched across his face while I act like a skittish kitten. My eyes dart everywhere but Tate’s gorgeous face. Was he always this concerned about everyone else?

  Nodding like one of my Tate bobbleheads, I finally mustered up the courage to speak. "Don't worry." I squeaked, so high-pitched that I'm sure all the dogs in the neighborhood heard it. "This room is free. I was just leaving." I managed to get out as I tried to hurry out of the room as fast as possible. I needed air. Unfortunately, I was unlikely to get it anytime soon because Tate’s wide frame stood in front of the door, purposely blocking my exit.

  My eyes dragged from his feet to his legs. I stared a little too long at his incredibly thick thighs; they looked even bigger in those tight baseball pants. Looking around the edges, I noticed no boxer lines. Even in bright white pants, I’ve never seen a ballplayer with a visible panty line. My eyes widened. Is that because they don’t wear underwear? Is Tate’s jockstrap the only thing separating us?