Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Wrong, Samuels. It’s the daisy ones I dig.”
Ryker claps my shoulder. “Don’t fuck up the captain’s laundry,” he says, then he rattles off ten more laundry specs, it seems.
“And make sure to fold everything neatly and leave it by the stalls,” Stefan adds.
I don’t expect I’ll actually be washing anyone’s gear, but I understand how hazing works. I repeat the instructions and start toward the laundry room, but Ryker clears his throat. “And one more thing. You have to get the mascot costume. It’s being cleaned. Thank fuck.”
His relief sounds specific enough to make me wonder, “Why ‘thank fuck?’”
Stefan answers. “The last guy got busted for renting his sorry ass out to after-hours parties, making appearances in costume, then dealing drugs. Someone snapped a pic of him taking off the head of his costume to snort a line.”
I blink. “That’s a choice, I guess.” A bad choice.
“New one just signed on. For a couple months,” Stefan says. “Take the costume to Equipment Room A.”
“Got it,” I say and try again to leave.
But neither the current nor the former Avenger is done with me yet. “And listen, you’d better be a nice fucking guy when you bring it to her.” Ryker’s tone is stern. “And don’t hit on her.”
Stefan snorts, and I laugh in surprise at the idea of hitting on someone at work. “Not a problem.”
“No, seriously. Don’t,” Ryker says, staring sharply at me.
Stefan’s laughter grows louder. “Oh, man. We don’t have to listen to you anymore on that count, Samuels.”
I’m pretty sure I’m missing the joke, but I’m not going to let on.
They send me on my way, and when I enter the laundry room, Doggo shakes his head in amusement. “Why are you bringing me the laundry I was about to go collect? It’s literally my job, and no one takes Doggo’s job.”
“Wait till you hear what they want done,” I say.
Doggo rolls his eyes. “I can only imagine.”
“And I’m supposed to get the mascot costume,” I add.
“Yup. Let me grab Blob.” It takes me a beat to realize Blob is the name of the outfit. He rounds the corner and hefts a large, furry, purple thing into his arms, carrying it to me. “Here you go, kid.”
Kid.
That’s not bad. Well, from a guy twice my age.
“Thanks, man,” I say.
Carrying it down the hall, I run into Dev, who’s scrolling on his phone. He looks up and nods at the purple blob in my arms. “You taking Blob to Ryker’s sister?”
Um. I have no idea. “Does she work here?”
“She’s the new mascot,” Dev explains, then returns to his phone.
The don’t hit on her comment makes a lot more sense now. But when I reach the equipment room and see the woman waiting outside, I know it’s too late.
I’ve already hit on her. And now it looks like I’m working with her.
Yes, universe, the joke is on me.
6
MASCOT PATROL
Ivy
I gape at the dirty texter who stands frozen in the doorway of the equipment room, a purple furball of a costume in his big arms. “What are you doing here, and why are you bringing me Blob?”
I’m praying he says, I’m here from Mascot Patrol to seize this costume on account of it being hideous.
But Hayes stares back like he can’t believe his bad luck, either, “You work here too?”
Too. I deflate. There goes my hope he’s the Mascot Patrol.
“You play hockey?” That explains why he has all those muscles. Why his chest is so broad. Why he’s the height of a tree.
Of all the jobs in the city, why does my hot neighbor have to work with…me?
Having answered my own question, I answer his. “I’m the new Avengers mascot. You’re…?”
“Hayes Armstrong. I was just traded here from LA,” he says, tone as flat as the fur on Blob.
“I didn’t know you were a hockey player.”
“And I didn’t know you were a…mascot.” His gaze drifts to the heap of material in his hands. Before I can launch into the whole story of how I became the mascot, approaching footsteps and voices from the corridor grow louder, and I glance around for an alternative location to continue this personal chat.
Hayes shifts the costume to one arm and pushes open the door to the equipment room. Then he sets that hand on my shoulder and spins me around. “In there,” he says in a firm voice.
He’s got a firm touch too. He slides his free hand down my spine as he guides me. His hand is big and strong.
Hayes follows me inside and kicks the door closed. He flicks on the light and strides deeper into the room where there’s an empty shelf labeled Mascot Costume with masking tape and marker. He looks stupidly good in those jeans, and his T-shirt that shamelessly hugs his biceps and shows off his trim stomach. I can’t stop watching his ass, his back, his legs as he advances past a wall of sticks to set the blob of fake fur in its place.