The Mascot Incident

Marcus's palms were sweating. Again. Like, actual dripping-down-his-fingers sweating, which was exactly why he'd spent the last two weeks strategically avoiding handshakes, high-fives, and basically any human contact.

"Dude, you good?" Maya asked from the bleacher beside him. "You look like you're about to throw up."

"I'm fine," Marcus lied, wiping his hands on his jeans for the fiftieth time. "Just... nervous about the game."

The baseball championship. The biggest game of the season. And somehow, he'd gotten stuck with the responsibility of being the team's unofficial mascot handler because his older brother, the actual starting pitcher, had "too much on his mind" and Marcus had "voluntarily" agreed to help.

His job: Keep the team bear costume ready for the seventh-inning stretch. Simple. Idiot-proof.

Except Marcus had hyperhidrosis, and nothing about his life was idiot-proof.

The bear costume—a oversized, fuzzy brown monstrosity with dead eyes and an inexplicable smile—was currently sitting next to him, radiating heat like a furnace. Because apparently, wearing it for three innings had made it essentially a portable sauna.

"Mascot's up!" his brother yelled from the dugout, barely glancing his way.

Marcus's stomach did a nervous flip. He had to put that thing on. His palms, already slick, were now practically dripping.

"You got this," Maya said, elbowing him. "Just don't trip over your own feet. Again."

"That was ONE TIME,"

He thrust his hands into the bear costume, desperate for something to dry them on, and—CRUNCH.

Marcus froze.

Slowly, he pulled his hands back out. Stuck to his palm was the bear's plastic nose, completely snapped off, leaving a jagged hole in the mascot's face.

"Did you just..." Maya started, then burst out laughing. "Did you just break the bear's nose?"

"It was an ACCIDENT!" Marcus hissed, face burning. "My palms were sweating and—"

"Bro!" His brother jogged over, frowning. "What's taking so long?"

Marcus stared at the bear's severed nose, now resting ridiculously on his palm like some weird, fuzzy trophy. His life was over. Social suicide. He'd forever be known as the guy who decapitated the mascot with his bare hands.

"Give me that," his brother said, grabbing the bear costume. Marcus just stood there, nose in palm, like the world's saddest magician.

But then—his brother just shoved the broken nose back into place, where it hung crookedly, giving the bear a decidedly deranged expression.

"Perfect," his brother said, grinning. "Now it's got personality." He clapped Marcus's shoulder—sweaty palms and all. "You coming to watch?"

Maya was still laughing, but not mean-spiritedly. "That bear's gonna haunt your dreams, Marcus."

"Shut up," he muttered, but for the first time all night, his hands were finally dry.

The bear, now permanently crooked-nosed and vaguely unhinged, waved to the crowd. Marcus sat back down, and somehow, impossibly, he was okay.