Emerson shrugs, and I try to take a step back, but she grabs my arm, holding me in place. “You don’t want to miss this.”
The guys scramble to move out of Chippy’s way, and just when it looks like he’s going to bowl them over, he drops like he’s sliding into first, his giant head propped up on his hand. He skids to a stop at the feet of the two dozen gobsmacked hockey players.
What is even happening right now?
It’s then that I realize Chippy’s face is different, his happy grin replaced by a decidedly mischievous smirk. That isn’t theonly change. A black bandana has been fitted over his eyes like an old-fashioned cartoon villain.
The mascot pops up, dusts off his jersey, and swaggers toward Emerson and me.
McGinnis throws his hand up for a high five, but instead of slapping the proffered hand, Chippy face-palms him, catching the forward completely off guard.
Fontaine lets out a low whistle. “That’s stone cold.”
Chippy turns to him, grabs the ball cap off his head, and makes a show of throwing it down the hall.
“Hey!”
Chippy ignores him, and when he turns to Knox, I stiffen. Which is ridiculous. He’s a flying squirrel. And not even a real one.
He pulls something from his sleeve, and before any of us can react, he blasts Knox in the face with a stream of whipped topping.
Bates cackles, clutching his stomach. “Our boy is a menace!”
The guys go nuts, their hoots and hollers filling the hall.
It’s completely unhinged. I don’t know how Emerson managed it, but the guys are eating it up.
Well, all of them except Knox.
He’s too busy scraping whipped topping off his face. When he can finally see again, our eyes meet, and I mouth, “You and your sweet treats.”
He smirks, and when the team finally settles down, Emerson explains that Chippy’s mischievous new persona will complement the sweet one fans know and love, showing up in unexpected places at unexpected times to keep fans—and players—on their toes.
It’s an effective compromise. One that shows the organization is listening.
“You guys did good,” Bateman says, his gaze ping-ponging between Emerson and me. “But what’s it going to take to get us in red and black like the rest of the Atlanta teams?”
Emerson smirks and reaches up to pat his cheek. “Why would y’all want to blend in with the other teams when I’m here to make sure you stand out?”
Later,I’m working in my office, trying to finish up some administrative work, when there’s a knock at the door. I look up to find Adam watching me, a crooked grin on his face.
“Got a minute?”
“Of course.” I gesture to the chair I use for individual coaching sessions, and he sits down. “What’s up?”
It isn’t every day that he comes to my office. In fact, I’m not sure he’s ever stopped by without an invitation.
Whatever he wants to talk about must be important.
“Rumor has it Chippy got a makeover.”
I blink. This is what he came to talk about? No way.
“Is it actually a rumor if it’s true?” I force a smile, trying to figure out where this discussion is heading. “Chippy got a new costume and a new personality. Or maybe it’s a persona. Either way, it was a double whammy.”
He shakes his head. “When I played, it was all about the game. We didn’t care about the bells and whistles, and we didn’t have to worry about social media.” He flashes me a wry smile. “In my case, that was probably a good thing.”
I make a noncommittal sound because really, what can I say?