The Mascot Has My Phone Number

How it begins

The mascot texted me at midnight to ask whether a person could resign from being cheerful.

I answered before considering how a foam dog had acquired my number.

Depends who's paying for the teeth.

A photograph arrived. The costume's enormous head sat on a workbench beside a mug. Someone had balanced a pair of safety glasses on its nose.

For three weeks, messages had appeared after matches. Small complaints, excellent jokes, a surprising knowledge of the stadium's broken lifts. I assumed the sender worked in promotions. I had not asked a name because anonymity had become part of the rest.

At work, I spent my days asking athletes to describe pain accurately. At night, someone let me admit I was tired without turning it into an assessment.

The next morning, the new accessibility designer stopped me outside the training room.

“The temporary ramp blocks a fire route.”

Theo Collins. Precise, patient and deeply unimpressed by meetings that ended with another meeting.

“I've reported it,” I said.

“To whom?”

He waited while I searched my phone.

The late-night conversation was still open. A new message sat beneath the photograph.

Excellent teeth. Terrible management.

Theo looked down at the screen. His expression changed by almost nothing.

I looked at his mug.

Same blue chip beside the handle.

For a moment the corridor seemed to become a room with too few exits.

“You're the dog.”

“Occasionally.”

“You could have told me.”

“You could have asked.”

Neither sounded angry. That made the conversation harder to hide behind.

From the training room came a call for help moving equipment. Theo stepped aside so the route remained clear.

I had liked the messages because they arrived without a face attached. Here was the face, waiting for me to decide whether liking someone in private required a different kind of courage in daylight.

“Coffee?” I asked.

Theo considered me.

“After we fix the ramp.”