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I pace back and forth in front of the café display case. Every second feeding my anxiety. I should have forced myself into the men’s bathroom and dressed him myself.
As much as Devon has shown glimmers of competency when it comes to his barista duties, he’s still a tripping, stumbling, uncoordinated man. Surely, he can dress himself without smacking his head against the hard porcelain sink. Did he knock himself unconscious and flood my mascot head with blood? Red doesn’t go with my carefully crafted color design.
My frenzied fingers drum across the top of the display case. I’ll count to ten, then I’m going to barge into the men’s bathroom. 10… 9…
“Ready?” His voice down the hall does little to calm me. It’s not coming from the men’s room but outside Mrs. Whitehead’s office. When did he move? “Stay where you are.”
“As if.” My feet move on autopilot, stepping to the center of the café so I can catch a glimpse of Devon coming down the hallway. I don’t see him. He’s back in the office.
This is killing me. I take a step toward the hallway and stop when a creak of the office door opening hits my ears. I hold my breath.
The crackle from the café speakers should have been warning enough, but I’m too focused on Devon making an appearance down the hall. I ignore the instrumental soul jazz music just as I do every day sitting in the café. It’s Mrs. Whitehead’s favorite coffee shop playlist. The tune stops abruptly after four beats, replaced by the thunderous rumble of giant kettle drums.
No freaking way.
“Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?” The instructions blast from the speakers, a voice I know well. Michael. This is the mascot soundtrack he and I worked on with a music producer we found online.
I cup my hands in front of my chin and force myself to breathe. Devon continues to hide behind the door as I allow myself to get lost in the infectious beat as I imagine giant white-hot stadium spotlights swinging wildly in a packed auditorium. Fans on their feet, screaming their lungs out.
The spotlights would synchronize on center court. Micheal’s impersonation of a stadium announcer returns, his voice lowered, and the bass of the track amplified. “Here he is. The one, the only, Mister Magic.”
Cymbals crash, and trumpets blare through the speakers as Devon steps down the hall, and I exhale. The uniform is tighter than it ever was on Michael, and, as a woman, I appreciate whatI see. He poses, arms lifted to the sky, and I take in every inch of this magnificent man.
My tongue licks across my lips as he profiles, twisting ninety degrees. The specially blended Lycra-silk-cotton material is stretched so tight, I can count each pack of his six-pack abs. When he twists another ninety degrees to show me his back, my hand lifts to cover my mouth. I ignore the Mister Magic font which I spent three days designing—my eyes are drawn to his rear. A vision from the heavens. I make note to banish Devon’s entire wardrobe of loose-fitting jeans for indecent biker shorts as tight as this.
He twists again, and I forget all about the dance routine that should accompany this music piece. I could stare at Devon in this outfit for days. If only the owner of the volleyball team were female, my pitch would be a slam dunk.
Devon does an awkward spin, and I raise both hands, palms facing him, to stop moving before he trips and breaks the head again.
“I was just about to break out a dance move,” he jokes.
“Please don’t. The only word in that sentence you’re prepared to deliver on is the word break.” In my head, the line is meant to match his joke, but released into the evening air, I hear the harshness of its tone. I leap to an explanation. “Stacy and Michael had choreographed the mascot dance routine based on Michael’s dance skills. Don’t take offense, but I scrapped it the minute I saw you trip over your own shadow. You may have the heart of a dancer, but your clodhopper two left feet say otherwise.”
Devon positions his feet in a kickstand and crosses his arms across his chest. “What do you think?”
I take a slow stroll around him while the song continues to stream in the background. This time, I focus on what I should have the first time. The uniform.
“How poor is the visibility in that thing?”
He wiggles the head. “Not bad. Between the mesh and the enormous eyes, I can see pretty well. It’s lightweight and thus far hasn’t gotten too warm in here either.”
I nod. “Good. I talked to over twenty mascots, and those were their biggest complaints. That and the smell.” I laugh at some of the stories that were shared.
I complete my inspection, stopping in front of him. I signal for him to remove the head. He rips off the blue Mickey-Mouse-sized gloves and lifts the head off with two hands, holding it underneath his arm.
“I see you found the walk-up music.” I point to the corner ceiling where the song is nearing its end. “Stacy, I assume.”
He chuckles. “I cannot confirm nor deny.”
I can’t halt the smile that grows on my face. Having the two of them plot together on my behalf brings me a new sense of satisfaction. Stacy is skeptical of every guy I’ve ever dated. I know she has reservations about Devon, but the fact that she reached out to him and trusted him with this surprise lets me know she sees that he makes me happy.
My arms cross in front of me, and I take another look at Devon in the uniform and exhale. “This is going to work, right?”
He places the head and gloves on the glass counter. He walks directly to me, both of his hands resting on the top of my shoulders. “You’ve done it.”
His smile is filled with a confidence I embrace. He’s right. It’s been a long journey, one filled with hard work, frustration, imposter syndrome, and pitfalls. But I’ve persevered. Stacy had my back from day one, and Devon has been a godsend in more ways than one. “We’ve done it.”
His tender gaze flits down to my lips, and I feel it too. The moment is perfect, despite what we’ve promised each other. I tipup on my toes to close the distance as the walk-up soundtrack ends. Another song immediately follows.
