The Bear Behind the Mask

Ryan's orange hair wasn't a statement. It was a tragedy involving expired box dye and a YouTube tutorial at 2 AM. Now, three days before freshman year, he looked like a traffic cone with trust issues.

"You could wear a hat," his mom suggested, like that would fix everything.

Ryan tried out for the baseball team because everyone did, not because he could hit anything. He couldn't. Coach Miller took one look at his swing—basically a confused flail—and redirected him toward the bear costume.

"We need a mascot," Miller said. "You're small. You'll fit inside."

So Ryan became the bear, sweating through three periods every game while the actual players got glory and girlfriends. At least the mask hid his orange hair disaster.

Then there was Maya, the team's first baseman, who kept leaving snacks by the bear cage. Gatorade. Granola bars. A goldfish in a bag from the carnival prize booth.

"For you," she'd say, slipping through the fence while Ryan was stuck inside the polyester furnace, unable to speak because bear mascots didn't talk.

He named the goldfish Slider. That was his life now: mascot duties, feeding his fish, hiding his hair, and falling for someone who thought he was literally a different species.

At the championship game, the zipper stuck. Ryan couldn't get out of the bear suit during halftime, and the temperature inside was pushing a hundred degrees. His vision blurred. He collapsed near the dugout, and Maya pulled off the bear head.

Her eyes went wide. "You're... Orange Hair Guy?"

"Ryan," he croaked, face to face with his crush while wearing a sweaty polyester bodysuit.

Maya grinned. "I wondered why the bear kept staring at me during infield practice."

She didn't run. She didn't laugh. She handed him her water bottle and sat beside him in the dugout.

"So," she said. "You and Slider want to come to my party Saturday? Since you're not actually a bear, I mean."

Ryan touched his orange hair. Maybe he wouldn't wear the hat after all.