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“What the fuck?”
Ben Solo, tactical wunderkind and current star point guard for the Toronto Raptors, looks up from tightening his laces. His teammate, Armitage Hux, is pointing off somewhere in the stands where the crowd is milling about. It’s Game 7 of the finals, at the end of the third quarter and they’re behind six points, so he’s really not in the mood to engage in whatever bullshit Hux is wanting to blab about but, in the spirit of teamwork, he stifles his groan and looks.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing out of the ordinary here. In most locations, a six foot burgundy dinosaur dancing enthusiastically to “You Can’t Touch This” by M.C. Hammer would be extremely bizarre, but here it’s just the Raptor, doing their duty to hype up the crowd.
“It’s...the mascot,” he says, unamused.
“He just did a bloody backflip off the sixth row!” Hux spits. “That’s insane! Is he always this insane?”
“Don’t know.” Ben brushes his sweaty bangs out of his eyes and tries to focus on something other than how much he wants to throw the yappy forward into the nearest wall. “They don’t pay me to sit around and watch the mascot all game.”
“Oh har har har. Look who’s too important to look at the mascot. Too busy being a star, wah wah wah.” Hux readjusts his ludicrous purple sweatband. “If that’s the case, then why aren’t we still holding our lead from last period?”
Face flaming under drips of sweat, Ben turns away under the pretense of retrieving his water bottle. “I don’t know,” he deadpans. “Maybe you should ask the guy who tripped over his own laces at the end of the second quarter.”
“Fuck you,”
Hux flips him the bird and then they’re off. Ben’s focused, laser sharp, on the ball; everything else falls away, the crowd, the players, the squeak of their shoes on the hardwood floor. All he sees, all he knows is his goal. He’s a machine, parts all working together in perfect harmony to dribble, pass, dribble, lay up, rinse and repeat.
Before he knows it, there’s seconds left on the clock, and they’re down two points. The ball is in his hands and he’s not even at the free throw line. He scans the court for his teammates and no one is free. The closest is Mitaka, their hopelessly short shooting guard who is being virtually swallowed by his rival counterpart, and all Ben can make out of Hux is a shock of red hair over another player’s shoulder.
So he takes a breath. Steels himself, readies his limbs, feels the electricity of over two decades of training flow through his veins, then he aims, coils his muscles and jumps, simultaneously releasing the ball in a perfect arc.
He holds his breath until he sees the satisfying swoosh and then–
The buzzer sounds, and his heart thumps, and all he can hear is screaming.
Then it’s all a blur. He’s being lifted up, at least half way lifted up until his teammates groan under his weight and quit trying, and there’s confetti and balloons and water bottles being thrown. He watches, dazedly, as Hux’s six foot three WNBA playing girlfriend picks him clean off the ground and squishes him in a bear hug, peppering his face with kisses. His heart clenches, and he looks away, instead choosing to focus on how the Raptor has spent the last few minutes doing one armed cartwheels and fistbumping everyone in their proximity.
Then there’s photos and pomp and ceremony. There’s a blur of faces, reporters, stakeholders, Drake, all clamouring to shake his hand or thump him on the back. He blinks and he’s in the locker room, surrounded by his teammates who are still screaming even in the showers while the fucking Raptor stands on the benches and does the Macarena. He blinks again and he’s dressed in a plain black hoodie, hunched behind a table at the press briefing, spouting some bullshit about their ‘magic lineup’ and ‘synergy’ and ‘athleticism’ then he’s carted off for more photos where his manager makes him hold his sweaty jersey and smile.
And in the rush, all he can think about is how tired he is, how hungry he is, how he can feel every tendon in his body screaming for him to run home and soak in his tub for eight hours. Hux is yelling about some club or whatever, and he just nods in a daze until they all trickle out of the arena and he’s left leaning against the wall, holding his water bottle in one hand, and his phone in the other.
And just like that...he’s alone.
Mostly alone. There’s a small army of janitorial staff sweeping and mopping the stands, and he can hear management popping a bottle of champagne in some executive office five doors down, where they’ll most likely take some pills and dissolve into a puddle of debauchery by the end of the night. But other than that...no one.
Ben groans and lets his legs go lax, sliding his numb body down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, feet propped out in front of him. He should call his mom. He should call someone, but the only people he knows who actually care were here tonight, playing by his side, and he’s hardly the type of person to go on Tinder just to find someone who will tolerate his mournful bellyaching. Besides, he’s a notorious sex-crier, and that really isn’t something he should be worrying about tonight of all nights.
He’s about to himself to his wallowing and drive home when he hears a weird irregular shuffling noise from down the hall.Intrigued, he looks over just in time to see the mascot trudging over towards him, brushing confetti and popped balloon fragments from their upholstered arms.
“Hey, you’re still here.”
The Raptor looks up at him and gives him a small wave with their chunky paw. Ben chuckles, despite himself.
“You know, a real raptor would have three claws, not an actual hand.”
They stand there, staring at him with lifeless reptilian eyes.
“I mean...forget it, that was stupid.” He sighs, and leans his head back against the wall. “It’s fine, you can say it. ‘Shut up Ben, no one needs to you to mansplain dinosaur physiology to a mascot.’”
Tilting their head, the Raptor examines him for a moment, then points to a notice on the wall for a hospital visit some of his teammates were planning on attending. Specifically, the mascot points to the image of a female physician, then moves their finger to another notice with an old version of the team logo.
Ben frowns. “You’re going to the hospital? You need to go to the hospital?”
They shake their head, then point at the logo again, their stubby finger resting right on the hand of the cartoon raptor who, significantly, has three claws. Then once Ben nods, they move their finger to the female physician then, most disturbingly, they mime exaggerated humping motions in the air.
“You, what? You--oh!” Finally, Ben gets it. “Your dad fucked a human. That’s why you have five fingers.”
Ecstatic, the Raptor jumps up and down and gives him a thumbs up.
Ben chuckles. “Is that backstory approved by management, or was it something you made up on the spot?”
They throw their hands up in an over exaggerated shrug, and he laughs. “Cool, cool. Well, you made your parents proud tonight. I saw those cartwheels.”
Twisting to the side, they mime bashfulness like Bugs Bunny used to on the old Saturday morning cartoons, with a cocked hip and a limp wristed pat of the hand. Then, abruptly, they jump in place and perform a perfect layup, pointing at him once they’ve followed through.
He shrugs. “Just doing my job. But thanks, I guess.”
The Raptor shrugs again, and spins in the abandoned hallway, as if to point out how bizarre it is that he’s just sitting there, his back against a cold cinderblock wall.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s weird, right? That I didn’t go out?”
They nod, their oversized burgundy head wobbling back and forth on their disproportionately skinny human neck.
“I just...I’m so tired. Tired of people, tired of practice, tired....even tired of the game, at this point.” Pursing his lips, he absentmindedly picks at an ingrown hair on his kneecap. “I just want to sleep, but I can’t. I feel all weird and jittery. Adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet, I guess.”
Nodding, the Raptor shimmies over next to him and leans up against the wall, tapping their head like they’re lost in thought. Ben sighs; the taste of Powerade still sticky in his mouth. He hasn’t eaten in 15 hours, but his stomach isn’t settled enough to actually feel hungry. Frowning, he punches his fist into his other hand over and over, as if he could pummel away his frustration. “This fucking sucks. I should be the happiest person alive right now, and look at me! I’m pathetic! Probably the most miserable son of a bitch in the entire galaxy!”
Ben’s not sure how a foam headed mascot with a static expression is able to look skeptical, but the Raptor manages it quite well. He snorts. “That’s such an asshole thing to say, eh? I mean, I wouldn’t feel sorry for me. What do I have to feel sorry for? I made 32 million dollars this year. I’m in peak physical condition. I own a condo on Yorkville Avenue. I go offroading in a Porsche.”
The Raptor gives him another exaggerated shrug. Ben sighs.
“Yeah, I know. None of it matters without someone to share it with.”
They nod, then wag an oversized foamy finger at him.
“I know, I’ve been selfish. Chasing money, chasing...fame, I guess, I don’t know. Did you know that I almost ended up in politics?”
They shake their massive head no.
“My mom is a politician, was a politician, sorry. She’s retired now. I got accepted into law at Stanford, but ended up going to Duke for ball instead, and she never forgave me for it. My entire family hasn’t forgiven me, probably never will.” He slumps his head into his hands and groans. “I would bet you a million bucks that they didn’t watch the game tonight. Probably didn’t even know it was on.”
He feels a strange, warm weight on his shoulder and looks up to see the Raptor patting him gently, their gaping, toothy maw just centimetres from his head. “Uh, thanks,” he mumbles. “Y-you don’t have to just sit around and be nice to me, I’m sure you’ve got better places to be. Out partying or getting stoned or beating up other mascots or something.”
They clutch their sides, shaking, to mime full bellied laughter, and Ben smiles. “Or all three, I guess. I don’t know. You must have something better to do than listen to a spoiled point guard bellyache in the hallway about how lonely he is. About how it sucks to be on an NBA championship team, to pretty much have the world at your fingertips. Well...it does suck. I’ve put in all this work, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. I have no friends, my family hates me, and the only person left who tolerates me is a six foot tall dinosaur. No offence.”
Suddenly solemn, the Raptor stands up straight. Stepping back slightly, they extend a hand and beckon him forward. Ben complies, hoisting himself up from the floor and over to the mascot, a frown of confusion on his face. Once he’s a foot away, they motion for him to stop then, with a flourish, they break out in the lamest, most cringey dance he’s ever seen, complete with jazz hands and as much ass shaking as they can muster. It’s terrible, and it’s probably the best possible thing for him to see at the moment.
After a minute or two of the dance, the Raptor stops and motions for Ben to join them. “N-no, I can’t,” he insists, holding his hands in front of his body defensively. “You’re doing so well, I don’t want to wreck it.”
They put their hands on their hips, obviously disappointed. Ben sighs, peeking around the locker room to triple check that it’s deserted, then gives his butt a halfhearted wiggle. The Raptor jumps with joy, wiggling along with him, which motivates Ben to wave his arms in the air and spin in place.
Despite his previous ennui, he manages to chuckle at himself, which eventually develops into full bellied laughter. The mascot is laughing too, real laughs muffled by the fabric of their costume.
“T-thanks,” Ben chokes, pulling up his shirt to dab at his tears of joy. “I needed that.”
“You’re welcome.”
He freezes, his shirt still pressed against one of his eyes. The voice is clear, accented, and distinctly feminine. Slowly, he lowers the hand holding his shirt and blurts out, “Y-you’re a girl.”
The Raptor, the girl, rests the freshly removed foam head under one overstuffed arm and cocks her real head to the side. “Last time I checked, yeah.”
She’s...really pretty. Too pretty to be hidden in a mascot costume that probably smells like feet and corn chips. She’s tall, for a girl, with sparkling hazel eyes and nut brown hair pulled back in a sweaty ponytail, her freckled cheeks glowing from exertion. Her face is like an actress or a model’s, with a gorgeous bone structure and deliciously delicate lips, and for a fleeting second he wonders what she looks like under that lumbering felt dinosaur body.
His heart thuds. He’s not a furry, even though part of him wants to run his fingers through the burgundy fur at her waist so he can tug her closer.
“Have you always been a girl? I mean–” Wordlessly, he gestures to her costume, and she laughs.
“As far as I’m aware I, personally, have always been female, but no, the Raptor is usually a man. My friend Finn actually, but he’s sick tonight, along with Poe who is normally the alternate. They thought that the night before the final would be the best time to go out for all you can eat sashimi, and both ended up with food poisoning, so…” She shrugs. “...they asked me.”
“Is that how it normally works? There’s no official procedure for this?”
“Well there is, but I’m not sure whether you’re aware of this, but athletes and coaches can be very superstitious. Finn was worried that you would all get off your game if you knew there was someone else in the suit, so he asked me off the record.” She grins. “And I had a blast!”
Ben shakes his head, sure that he’s in some sort of adrenaline fueled fever dream. She’s too beautiful to be here, smiling with him and comforting him while dressed as a giant burgundy dinosaur. It’s just not natural.
“Wait, you were– you were in the locker room!” he spits. “You saw–”
“I work as a lifeguard, I’ve seen my share of dicks already. I wasn’t scandalized in the slightest” She gives him a cocky, crooked smile that coaxes a set of dimples from her cheeks. “Don’t worry, I didn’t see yours.”
His gut twists as his face burns with embarrassment. “I—I wouldn’t have cared anyway,” he sputters.
“Right.” She nods, matter of fact, then wiggles her eyebrows. “You seem like you’re used to it.”
His cheeks flame even brighter as his mind flips its way through all of the permutations and connotations of those words. “I’m not really. I mean, you heard me; I don’t have anyone I’m close to me who sees me like that too often. Or really at all, at the moment.”
Nose wrinkling in the most adorable fashion, she steps forward and pats his arm with her paw. “I, um, didn’t mean it like that, but thank you for trusting me enough to be so open.”
“Oh.” He wants to die. He wants the earth to crack open and swallow him whole because he just admitted that he doesn’t get laid often to a gorgeous girl in a dinosaur costume. “Shit I—, sorry, I thought you were implying that I sleep around a lot, and now I realize that you just meant that I’m used to being, uh, in locker rooms, since I play… a lot.”
Forget the earth swallowing him, he wishes he could strap rockets to his shoes and shoot himself directly into the sun because he’s not making any sense, and now she’s laughing him, her eyes crinkling up and her nose wrinkling and ugh–
“S-sorry, I work with all guys,” he attempts to joke. “Don’t often get to talk to a pretty girl.”
“A pretty girl?” she snorts. “What are you, ten?”
“No, I’m just...an idiot.”
A lonely idiot. A stupid idiot. Ben suppresses the urge to bash his forehead against the whitewashed cinderblock wall and instead focuses on how the girl’s eyes are sparkling in the jittery fluorescent hallway lighting. She’s staring back at him, head cocked to the side, appraising him with a coy little stare that seems too wise for her unadvanced years.
“D’you want to hang out tonight?” She smiles, and picks a tiny piece of lint off of her furry arms. “There’s a hoodie in Finn’s dressing room that’ll probably fit you, and I have some sunglasses. We could go downtown to watch the celebrations, or just go somewhere quiet, if that’s what you want.”
He feels like he’s frozen, gazing at her with what must look like a dumbstruck expression on his face. “I-I guess?” he hears himself say. “As long as you didn’t have other plans.”
“I was planning on celebrating.” She fixes him with another dazzling smile, and he shudders with the force of it. “I’m a fan too, honestly...and this is really exciting. Oh!” She laughs, and extends her burgundy paw. “I’m Rey, by the way.”
He reaches out and shakes it, suppressing a wince at how damp it his. “Rey. Hi, I’m, uh, Ben.”
“I know.”
“Right.”
Then his stomach lets out an almighty, wall shaking growl.
Rey looks up at him and grins. “You sound hungry. Wanna go to Fran’s?”
Ben frowns. “Who’s Fran?”
“The owner of Fran’s, I’m assuming.” She rolls her eyes and taps her fist against his muscled arm. “It’s a restaurant for those of us who don’t make fifty billion dollars a year.”
“Thirty-two.”
“‘Thirty-two’” she mocks back at him.
“Yeah, and my take home is barely that.” He shrugs and throws her a shy grin. “Taxes.”
“Ooo my condolences. How unfortunate that you have to pay for road maintenance with the rest of us peasants. C’mon.”
She grabs his hand in her paw and tugs him down the hall. Letting himself be led, he’s struck by how surreal it all is, following Rey down into the bowels of the arena while she’s still in her mascot costume. For the first time in his recent memory, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. Will this be a date? Just a quick chat over late night pancakes, or will it end up at her place or his? Maybe she’s an eccentric stalker who’s luring him into a closet so she can off him? Maybe they’ll hook up in her dressing room and scandalize the security guards? Or maybe this girl, with her vibrant smile and electric eyes, is The One, and tonight will end up being a night that they tell their grandkids about?
Whatever the outcome may be, Ben’s more than happy to follow her, squeezing her paw in his hand as a carefree grin erupts on his face.