The Bear Suit Incident

My palms were sweating so much they practically slipped off the steering wheel of my golf cart. Another Thursday night, another shift as Reggie the River Raider – our campground's mascot. Which meant wearing a foam bear head that smelled like three years of teenage B.O., while awkwardly waving at families whose kids would inevitably burst into tears.

"You've got this, Leo," I whispered to myself, though my voice cracked mid-pep talk.

I'd been crushing on Maya since orientation week. She worked at the snack shack, looking effortless in her oversized tie-dye shirts, while I was stuck mascot-ing in 90-degree heat. Last night, I'd accidentally soft-stalked her Instagram for forty-five minutes (I know, I know) and almost double-tapped a photo from 2019. That's when I decided: tonight, I'd actually talk to her. Outside the bear suit.

My shift ended at 9 PM. I peeled off the bear head, my hair flattened into helmet-shaped submission. My heart was doing that thing where it felt like a bird trapped in my ribcage. I parked the golf cart near the snack shack, where Maya was closing up.

"Hey," I managed. My voice came out all weird and strangled.

She looked up, and I swear my palms activated like mini waterfalls. "Leo? You look... different without the head."

"Yeah, that's the idea," I said, attempting a casual lean against the counter but sliding slightly because my hand was so slippery. "So, some of us are going to the lake tomorrow night. After hours. You should come."

Her expression shifted. "Wait, is this a thing?"

"Could be," I said, trying to channel confidence I definitely didn't feel. "Unless you'd rather not."

Maya studied my face for what felt like three years. Then she grinned. "I'll be there. But only if you promise not to wear the bear suit."

"Deal," I said, and as I walked back to my golf cart, I realized I was practically skipping. The bear costume could stay in the closet. Tomorrow night, it would just be me, Maya, and hopefully, considerably drier palms.