Britches Get Stitches

by Elicia Hyder

  Britches Get Stitches

  A Music City Rollers Novel

  Elicia Hyder

  Copyright © 2019 Elicia Hyder

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental, except where acknowledged in the credits.

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  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  ISBN: 978-1-945775-16-1

  Inkwell & Quill, LLC

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  Cover Illustrations by John Woolley

  www.derbygirlart.com

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  Edited by Nicole Ayers

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  For More Information:

  www.eliciahyder.com

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Derby Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank You

  HYDERNATION

  Show Your Team Spirit

  The Soul Summoner Series

  The Bed She Made

  About the Author

  Special Thanks to everyone who made this book possible:

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  To Lady Fury, Electra Cal, and Mista Cal for your wealth of knowledge and help while writing this.

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  To Bleeding Heartland Roller Derby in Bloomington, IN for letting me borrow the B-Cup for this book.

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  To the Name that Dog! contest winners: Sue Lopp, Debra Hetland, Leisel Tuck, Carolyn Redden, and Terry Bregin. Jackie’s dog’s name is Freckles!

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  To Michele Hartley for naming Grace’s parents Graham and Sheila Evans.

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  To the world’s greatest office manager, Jenni Vaught. Thanks for helping me keep my sh*t together so I can write.

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  To my own badass, sexy, third-shift cop. I love you, Mr. Spouse.

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  TO MY AWESOME LAUNCH TEAM, THE BOOK SUMMONERS. Thank you all for showing up time and time again to help me get these books off the ground.

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  To my Fan Club members, HYDERNATION. You guys make my job so much fun!

  And as always, thanks to all my readers who show up time and time again to enjoy my hard work. YOU are the reason why I do this. Well…you and bills. ❤️

  Derby Disclaimer

  For current skaters:

  I’ve worked really hard to keep this book derby-factual, but some parts have been embellished or stretched for the sake of fun fiction. Just wanted you to know that I know.

  Also…if I tried to keep up with all the rule changes each year, I’d go mad. Am I right?

  So read. Have fun. And know…YOU are a badass.

  — eL’s Bells, a.k.a. Author Elicia Hyder

  Other novels in the Music City Roller series:

  Lights Out Lucy: Roller Derby 101

  Accident-prone Lucy Cooper puts her life and her heart on the line to catch the attention of the Music City Rollers’ top sponsor—construction tycoon, West Adler. But will she skate off with the heart of Nashville's Most Eligible Bachelor? Or will she get herself killed in a sport that promises, "It's not a matter of if you'll get hurt—but of how bad and when."

  For Addy.

  * * *

  Be Brave.

  Be Strong.

  Be Badass.

  * * *

  Love, Mom.

  One

  The whole house smelled like eggs.

  Not the best way to start off girls’ night. I pushed open the window letting the cold Nashville night air rush into the house. Sure, the gas heat was going right out into the neighborhood, but did I care? Nope. No longer my bill. No longer my problem. I threw open the sliding-glass door too.

  Heavy paws thudded down the hallway as the sliding wheels of the patio door announced canine freedom throughout the house. Bodhi bounded past me, water dripping from his golden snout. He’d probably been drinking from the half-bath toilet again, his preferred water bowl over the expensive filtered fountain I’d had installed in the laundry room.

  As I drank the last drop of the 2013 Chateau St. Jean Cinq Cépages we’d been saving for a special occasion, I watched Bodhi romp unbridled through our backyard. Well, Clay’s backyard. Err… Make that Clay and Ginny’s backyard.

  Dr. Virginia “Ginny” Allen, MD—or as my friends and I had taken to calling her, “Dr. Vagina”—was the cardiologist, quite obviously, now occupying my bed. Lab coats and mall-bought dresses hung in my closet, and a PhDiva mug sat by the coffeemaker.

  Bitch. I hoped she was a diva.

  In hindsight, I should’ve seen the affair coming. But to my embarrassment, I’d sexistly assumed “Dr. Allen” was a man for the first few months my husband rattled on about her.

  “Grace, you would love Dr. Allen in the new TennStar office.”

  “Dr. Allen told me the funniest story about a patient today.”

  And, oh let’s not forget: “Grace, you and Dr. Allen would really hit it off. You’ve got so much in common.”

  Yes. The same shitty taste in men, apparently.

  I tried to drink from the glass again, but alas, empty. I leaned on the doorway for support. Emotional and vertical.

  Bodhi lifted his leg on the corner of Clay’s toolshed. I appreciated the canine solidarity.

  The backyard had always been my favorite part of the house. With the vintage lights strung between the ancient oak trees and the vine-draped pergola built by my father’s own hands, it could have been a fairy’s paradise. Ripped straight from the pages of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Our first year in the house, Clay and I had spent the warm summer evenings snuggling on the wicker chaise lounge under the pergola. Me sprawled against his side, my head on his chest as he read to me.

  The Martyr’s Wife by C. E. Frost had been our favorite. That wine-soaked memory now so acute I could almost feel the warmth of his breath against my blonde hair as he’d read aloud. “This moment in time is ours, completely ours. Even if for but a moment, I will hold you as though the light of the sun may not burn tomorrow.”

  We’d made love right there without bothering to go inside.

  Only happy meant-for-each-other couples do that sort of thing, right?

  I wonder if I can strap the pergola to the roof of my car?

  Except for the victorious holes it would leave in the sod, Clay wouldn’t mind, even if the pergola hadn’t been listed among my assets in the divorce. The happy couple would probably need the room for a swing set or a sandbox anyway. For the baby.

  Their baby.

  I could steal bungee cords out of the garage.

  I needed more wine.

  Pushing back from the door casing, I stumbled a half step. Maybe more wine wasn’t the best idea. I had practice the next day,
and the team had a strict policy about sobriety on the track. Which, in all honesty, was probably the only thing that saved me from going full-blown Amy Winehouse during my divorce.

  Thank God for roller derby.

  I also couldn’t afford to be sloppy. Not this night. My very last night in the house I’d worked so hard to make a home. The house where I was now a guest, only allowed in to gather the last of my things.

  Seven years, gone.

  “Bodhi!” I whistled, and the dog froze on the grass, letting the tennis ball he’d found drop from his mouth. His big head flopped to the side as he stared at me. “Come on. Let’s go inside!”

  He picked up the ball again, slung it sideways across the yard, then fetched it.

  “Come on, boy!” I slapped the side of my leg, and he ignored me.

  The doorbell rang.

  Bodhi jerked to attention, then charged, nearly knocking me out of the doorway like a bowling pin. He barked all the way to the door. I followed, depositing my empty glass on the marble countertop with a scraping clink as I passed. The bell rang again.

  “I’m coming!” I grabbed Bodhi’s collar with one hand and pulled open the heavy wood-and-iron door with the other. It was a vintage piece we’d found in Franklin during the house’s remodel.

  A party horn sounded in my face, followed by the flash of a Polaroid camera. Then my friends began to sing off-key. “Ding! Dong! The jerk is gone! Ding! Dong! The jerk is gone!”

  “Oh my god!” I was laughing as they carried in fuchsia and black balloons, champagne, and a cake. I released Bodhi, letting him sniff and tail-whip my friends who were all in matching black T-shirts with different sayings scrawled in pink.

  Monica’s shirt: I NEVER LIKED HIM ANYWAY.

  Zoey’s shirt: SHE’S FREE AT LAST.

  Lucy’s shirt: GOODBYE, MR. WRONG!

  Olivia’s shirt: SHE GOT THE RING. HE GOT THE FINGER.

  Tears spilled down my cheeks. “You guys!”

  “Wait, we have one for you too!” Monica thrust a bright fuchsia shirt toward me.

  I held it out as everyone read it aloud. “We now pronounce you single and fun!” I pulled it to my chest. “I love you guys.”

  They all gathered around me for a group hug, Bodhi tangling himself in the middle of our legs. “We love you too,” they echoed back.

  After a second, Olivia sniffed over my shoulder. “Grace, why does it smell like eggs in this house?”

  I wiped my eyes as we all stepped back. “It’s a long story.”

  “And I’m sure it’s a great one.” Monica held up a bottle. “But first, champagne!”

  Lucy grabbed my arm. “No, first, Grace has to put on her shirt.”

  “Yeah, we all changed in the driveway,” Olivia agreed.

  “OK, OK.” I unzipped the Music City Rollers hoodie I was wearing and slipped the T-shirt over my camisole.

  Monica twisted off the cork’s metal cage and handed me the champagne. “Grace, you do the honors.”

  “Smile for the camera!” Lucy said, holding up the Polaroid again.

  I smiled, and she snapped the picture, then grabbed it when the camera spat it out. Gripping the bottle by its neck, I put both thumbs on the cork and pushed.

  Pow!

  The cork zoomed across the living room, catching a lampshade and knocking the three-hundred-dollar mouth-blown glass lamp off the end table. It shattered on the floor.

  The girls gasped. Bodhi barked and ran a lap around the kitchen island.

  Laughing, I handed the bottle back to Monica and grabbed Bodhi’s collar as he passed so he wouldn’t run through the shards. “Clay got that in the divorce. Oops.” They all cackled behind me. “Who’s thirsty?”

  I let Bodhi back outside, and Olivia helped me sweep up the glass while Monica poured the champagne. When we were finished, Monica held her flute high into the air. “A toast, shall we?”

  I smiled and raised my glass with the others.

  Monica, my best friend, smiled gently. “To Grace, may this be the beginning of the very best years of your life. I love you.”

  I mouthed the words “I love you” back to her as everyone shouted, “Cheers!”

  Without pause, I drained the champagne, then punctuated the moment with a tiny burp. The girls laughed.

  The best years of my life…who knew I’d be in my thirties before those would roll around?

  “Where’s your mom? I thought she’d be here.” Monica was looking around like she might spot my mother hiding in a corner.

  “She offered to come. So did Garrett, but I told them I would be in good hands with you guys.”

  Lucy sat down at the island in the kitchen with her camera. “Who’s Garrett?”

  “My brother,” I answered.

  “He owns a badass brewery out near Nolensville,” Monica added.

  “Which one?” Olivia asked as she nosed around my kitchen.

  “Battle Road,” I answered. “What are you looking for?”

  “I serve Battle Road at the restaurant. They have a beer called Hops on Pops.” Olivia lifted the lid of the pot on the stove, and her eyes widened as if to say, “Ah-ha!” She looked over at me. “Grace, are we dyeing Easter eggs?”

  Not a bad guess, actually.

  “Sort of.” I joined her at the stove and moved the pot off the burner. “I’ve decided to have a little fun with that hateful, cheating ex of mine.”

  Olivia cocked an eyebrow as she sipped her champagne.

  “I’m going to write a message on them and hide them all over the house.”

  Champagne dribbled down Olivia’s chin when she laughed. “That’s epic. I want to help.”

  Zoey gasped and covered her mouth. “You’re not really, are you, Grace?”

  Lucy’s head tilted toward our friend. “I don’t think she’s making egg salad, Zo.”

  I picked up my sewing kit off the floor and plopped it down on the counter. “I’m not just hiding them around the house either. I’ll sew them up inside the furniture. That way, when he finds them a few months from now, they’ll be nice and ripe with mold and maggots.”

  Olivia laughed.

  Lucy made a vomiting noise.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get into trouble?” Zoey asked.

  I patted her head, which was soft with the regrowth of her post-chemo curls. “You gotta live a little, my tiny friend.”

  Olivia pointed to the mocha-colored sofa. “You could put them in the couch pillows.”

  Monica walked over and lifted one of the cushions. “No, you need to put them inside the frame so they won’t break.”

  Olivia had an evil grin. “Ooo, that’s good.”

  “The only room that’s off limits is the nursery.” I refilled my champagne one more time. “It’s not the kid’s fault her parents are assholes.”

  “Her?” Monica asked.

  “Judging from all the Pottery Barn pink in what used to be my home office, it’s either a girl or they’re really bucking the gender norms.”

  Monica visibly deflated. Her shoulders sagged, and she lowered her glass down by her thigh. “Grace…”

  I aimed the rim of my glass at her, slowly shaking my head with a warning. “Don’t. I refuse to be sad.”

  Monica blinked and forced a fake smile. “I was just going to ask if we can close the windows. It’s freezing in here.”

  God bless her.

  In the six months since Clay had dropped the bombshell on our breakfast table in the form of a positive pregnancy test sealed in a sandwich baggie, I’d cycled through a lot of emotions. Hatred. Betrayal. Devastation. How could he have done this to us? To me? Seven years, and he threw us away. Threw me away.

  But resentment was the reigning feeling as of late, especially since I was practically toeing the poverty line. The divorce settlement barely covered the cost of renovating my new home—the tiny apartment above my couture children’s boutique, Sparkled Pink. And I’d blown my entire life savings on one failed round of IVF. Now Dr. V
agina had the baby and my house. Where was the justice in any of that?

  “Who wants cake?” Zoey’s question snapped me back to the present, and I realized despite Monica’s attempt to change the subject, angry tears had pooled in my eyes. I quickly blinked them away before they spilled.

  Lucy raised her camera. “Let me get a picture before you cut into it.”

  “Why? What does it say?” I asked.

  Lucy snapped a photo, then turned the cake around for me to see. I read the bright pink icing out loud, “Better to have loved and lost…than to be stuck with an asshole.” I laughed, just what I needed. “Amen to that. You guys are the best.”

  Zoey picked up a knife. “Who wants a slice?”

  “Me!” Lucy said.

  “Me too,” Olivia echoed.

  “Me three.” I put my glass down on the counter. “I need something to soak up all the booze.”

  Monica went to where she knew I kept the plates in the cabinet.

  Lucy fanned her face with the photo to help the picture develop. “Aside from the Easter egg hunt from hell, what’s on the agenda this evening?”

  Monica handed the plates to Zoey and retrieved a knife from the drawer in the island. “Yeah. Did you say you need to move some more stuff? What’s left of yours? You haven’t lived here in months.”