Chapter Eighteen
Lucas felt ridiculous,suited up like a reject from King Arthur’s court. The equipment staff helped him into the screen printed tunic and pants, sprayed metallic with a stupid heraldic insignia. They then strapped on metal shoulder, elbow, leg, and foot guards. And the coup de grâce? A helmet.
Honestly, that was his favorite part, except for the nasty, stale sweat stink that clung to every piece of equipment, worse than any locker room stench. But at least with the helmet, no one could identify him and, at this point, that was the most important part of this whole fiasco.
Hammonds walked in the small locker area and smirked. “Looking pretty, Wainright.”
“Screw you, Hammonds. I know you set this up. Didn’t you tell this guy to take a shower and clean his costume once in a while?” Lucas swore as he shifted to walk and the metal leg guard banged his balls. Now he knew why he needed the cup. He irritably waved the attendants away. With a glance at Cole, they slipped from the room.
“Wayne does Renaissance reenactments, so he believes in authenticity. I think he put it together himself, making allowances for the Georgia heat in summer.”
“There’s nothing authentic about this costume. I think I saw the price tag still inside.” Lucas grumbled, adjusting the leg equipment so he could walk.
“Well, think of it this way. Miranda will be so grateful. If she ever finds out.”
“If I don’t unman myself in this contraption.” Lucas glared at Cole through the slats in the metal helmet. “Are you jealous and hoping I’ll die in this thing?”
“Jealous of what? You and Miranda? Nope, but if you hurt her, that sword and shield won’t be enough to save your ass.”
“Sword and shield? Oh, shit. I have to hold that stuff, too?” He spied the sword and shield laying against the wall and groaned.
“Suck it up, buttercup. Wayne complains less than you do, and he’s in it for the whole game. Your role will be simple. Trot on out on the field, wave the sword and shield a little bit. Rouse the crowd; get them excited. Take a few pictures with the kids by home plate, and you can come in. Oh and ham it up a bit okay? Wayne has a good time with it and the crowd loves him.”
“Where the hell is Wayne anyway, if he loves this gig so much?”
“God, you whine more than those kids out there. Wayne’s home with food poisoning. He wouldn’t be able to get out of the suit fast enough if he has another attack, if you catch my meaning.” Cole clapped his hands together, the loud sound echoing in the small space. “Ready? Good! Let’s kick off the season. Oh, and if we win the game? We might need you to be our Opening Day mascot every year. Wayne was considered kind of a bad luck charm.”
“We wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Lucas grumbled under his breath but followed the other man into the tunnel and towards the dull roar of the crowd.
He had to lift his feet high to walk or risk stumbling and looking like a clumsy oaf. The metal foot guards clanged every time he took a step, and his arm guards kept getting caught with the metallic sprayed tunic. He had to hold his arms out like a strutting peacock, or an overbuilt body builder, to be able to walk without looking like an idiot. Of course, only an idiot wore this get-up voluntarily.
“It’s for the kids. And Miranda.” The mantra he kept repeating with every step.
He was a consultant, not a team pet. Somehow, he thought his status had taken a tumble with this stunt, unless Hammonds could keep his trap shut.
The crowd roared as he stepped onto the field. He almost fell up the steps, still adjusting to seeing between the horizontal eye slits in the helm, or whatever this thing was called.
“Wainright!” A voice hissed behind him. A sword and shield were thrust at him. “Now go!”
Kind of feeling like he was a soldier facing mortal combat in the arena, he trudged onto the field, resigned to his fate.
“Look alive, Wainright!”
One voice shouted louder than any others and he whirled around to glare at Hammonds, pointed his sword threateningly. “No names!”
Miranda appeared in the dugout next to Hammonds, a group of kids lined up next to her. She wore a Knights jersey with her name on the back. He sighed then lifted his sword and shield to the crowd, shaking them both above his head. The crowd went wild, cheering and yelling.
Miranda and Cole escorted the kids out to the microphone at home plate. Hammonds glared at Lucas and motioned him into place behind them. Lucas obligingly settled in next to them, occasionally waving his sword to the crowd, motioning them to get excited.
A knocking on the metal leg grip had him looking down. A young boy, maybe eight years old, stood there looking up at Lucas, saying something. Lucas spread his legs and awkwardly bent down so he could hear the kid.
“Mister, can I hold your sword?”
Lucas hefted the metal sword. Yeah, probably not a good idea. The thing weighed almost as much as the skinny towheaded kid next to him.
“I think I’d better hang on to this. But have you heard of a knight’s squire? Well, he helps the knight out, holds his shield and stuff. So, you want to be my squire?”
The kid’s eyes were wide like a baseball, nodding cautiously. Lucas handed him the shield, showing him the straps to hold it. “Now, you be careful, okay? No waving this around, just hold it in front of you.”