Chapter 2: The Mascot

"Arms up. And don't rip it. This thing costs more than your tuition."

Marlon Gibbs says it without smiling. He's holding the mascot suit open like a body bag, and the smell that hits her makes her eyes sting. Old sweat, fake fur, someone else's bad decisions.

"That thing probably has its own ecosystem," she mutters.

"Quit whining. The mouth has mesh, you'll breathe."

"What about the rest of me?"

"You'll live. Game starts in twenty, let's go."

She steps into the suit. It swallows her legs, her chest, her arms. Marlon yanks the zipper up her spine so hard she stumbles, and now the wolf head is crooked and she can only see through the left eye hole.

"It's crooked."

"It's fine."

"I can't see half the hallway."

He sighs and jerks the head into place. "Better?"

"Not really."

"Good enough. Go stand by the tunnel and look happy. The crowd eats this crap up. And don't fall."

"Wasn't planning on it."

He nudges her toward the rink. The suit weighs a ton, and she nearly trips over the giant paws twice before she even gets to the tunnel mouth. Already her hoodie is sticking to her back.

The arena slams into her. Stomping feet, screaming voices, a wave of sound that vibrates right through the fur. "WOLVES! WOLVES!" The air smells like Zamboni exhaust and popcorn and the sharp Minnesota cold that leaks in through every door. Some kid points a foam finger at her and shrieks, "Do the thing! Do the thing!"

She has no idea what the thing is. She waves anyway and almost clocks a cheerleader in the face.

"Sorry! Sorry!"

Through the mesh, she spots Tinsley on her feet, waving her own foam finger, mouth wide open. Brooke is next to her, clapping politely, like she's at a tennis match.

"Go Wolves!" someone yells.

"Yeah! Go!" she yells back, her voice muffled inside the head.

And there's Lila Beaumont. Front row, VIP section, draped in a custom Heller jersey. Lacey Drumond and Maris Cole flank her like backup singers. Lila looks at the mascot and says something that makes both of them laugh. Lacey leans over, and Jessie can just make out the words: "That's the cafeteria girl, right? She looks so stupid."

Jessie flexes her fingers inside the paws. Not worth it. A guy nearby is filming on his phone. Great. She's gonna be on TikTok. Mascot fail compilation. She can see the caption now: New girl ruins captain's suit, gets furry karma.

The horn blares. The Golden Wolves hit the ice.

The noise changes. It's sharper now, the blades scraping, sticks cracking. Jessie presses up against the glass, fogging it with every breath. She's seen hockey before, back in Buffalo. This feels different. The way they cut across the ice, the way they know where each other are without looking. Weird.

Martins waits at center ice, helmet catching the lights, stick resting across his thighs. He wins the face-off before she can blink, and the puck is already down the ice, bodies slamming into the boards so hard the glass shakes. Her stomach does a weird little flip that she refuses to think about.

Probably just the heat. She's been standing too long, the fur trapping everything. Now she's lightheaded. That's all.

But it doesn't feel like lightheadedness. It feels like something inside her has rolled over and stretched, for the first time in a long time.

Second period, and she's burning up. Her hoodie is soaked through in patches. She does a little dance by the glass for a cluster of kids, and one of them shouts, "You're the best mascot ever!" which would be nice if she wasn't pretty sure she might pass out.

Maybe I'm getting sick. Maybe mascot suits are torture devices. Maybe I should've eaten more than coffee today.

Coach Rorvik waves her over. "Mascot! Get to the bench, do a bit during this timeout. Keep 'em loud!"

"On it!" She shuffles toward the home bench. The players are right there, breathing hard, gulping water, and the smell of sweat and ice and something sharp like pine hits her through the mesh. She stops at the boards and waves at the crowd. "Come on, let's go Wolves! Make some noise!"

Jonah Kline drops his water bottle.

He's mid-sip, and he just stops. The bottle slips, bounces on the rubber mat, ice cubes scattering. His nostrils flare.

"What the hell," he breathes. He turns his head, scanning the bench, then locks onto her.

"What's wrong with you?" Silas Vane mutters, not looking up from his stick tape until Jonah doesn't answer. Then Silas follows his stare. His hands go still. The tape rips in his grip and the roll drops to the floor. "Jonah. What are you…"

"I don't know." Jonah's voice is tight. "Smell that?"

Silas doesn't answer. His dark eyes are fixed on the mascot.

And then Martins. He's got his helmet half off, sweat darkening his hair, reaching for his drink when he freezes. His fingers curl into a fist on the rail. He lifts his head, slow, and looks right at the mesh where her eyes are.

All three of them. Staring. The band is playing. The crowd is screaming. Nobody else sees a thing.

Jessie's throat tightens. She tries to wave again, a little jerky motion, and then one of the giant paws catches on the boards and she stumbles, barely grabbing the railing. Nope. Absolutely not. Running.

She waddles, fast as the suit allows, away from the bench, into the dark tunnel. The noise fades behind her. Concrete replaces rubber. She rounds a corner and stops, panting, the wolf head crooked so she's mostly blind. She adjusts it, then rubs the back of her neck where the fur has chafed.

A door slams.

She spins around. They're there. All three. Jonah, water still dripping off his chin. Silas, tape residue on his fingers. Martins, helmet off, those ice-blue eyes locked on her.

Nobody says anything.

Jessie's voice comes out thin. "What do you want?"

Martins steps forward.

"Take off the head." Low. Not a request.

Inside Martins, his wolf snarled.

Mine.