Britches Get Stitches

by Elicia Hyder

  Jackie beamed at all of them. “Thank you all so much for coming. We really appreciate your support, and we are so excited to finally have our jerseys.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” Ben told her. “I’m Ben Sinclair-Hoyt. We spoke on the phone. This is my mother, Sylvia Sinclair.”

  “Hello, Sylvia. Welcome to the Sweatshop,” Jackie said, shaking her frail hand.

  “We recently found out our mother used to play the sport,” he added with a smile.

  “Yes. She skated on a banked track,” I said.

  “Really?” Jackie asked, surprised.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Sylvia Sinclair was blushing. They continued to chat while I went over to greet my family and Monica. She and Derek were there with both girls.

  “Maisie, how are you enjoying junior derby?” I asked, sitting down beside her.

  “It’s really fun.”

  Monica leaned toward me. “It really is. And the extra practice? Don’t even get me started on how great that is.”

  “Really? You’re skating six days a week now. Aren’t you tired?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I’m exhausted. But it’s great. I still think you should try it.”

  “You and everyone else.” I looked over at my nieces. “I am seriously thinking about it. We’ll see.”

  Finally, Jackie returned to the table. “Good evening, everyone. Welcome to the Music City Rollers’ Sweatshop. We have a lot of new faces here tonight, so in case we haven’t met, my name is Full Metal Jackie, and I’m honored to be one of the coaches of this fabulous team. Thank you all for coming to our very first jersey presentation!”

  Everyone clapped.

  “Before we get started, I’d like to thank a few people who made this evening possible. As most of you know, our team relies heavily on the generosity of its supporters. Tonight, we are honored to have the Sinclair family, who have donated our new jerseys in honor of Lexi Sinclair.”

  Clapping my hands, I smiled over at Sylvia. She caught my eye and motioned me over. I happily obeyed.

  “I’d also like to thank one of my fellow Music City Rollers, Britches Get Stitches, who has been working tirelessly the past few weeks to create our new look,” Jackie said.

  I waved to the group as they applauded.

  “Who’s ready to see your new jerseys?” she asked.

  The whole room cheered.

  “When I call your name, please come up to the front.” Jackie reached into the box. I knew which name was on top. “Hellissa! Unlucky number thirteen!”

  Sylvia reached up and took my hand. I smiled down at her and squeezed her fingers.

  When the ceremony was over, and all the girls (and coaches) had changed into their new jerseys, we took a huge group picture with the whole Sinclair family. Sylvia and Miss Taylor were right up front.

  Afterward, I said my goodbyes to the family.

  “Lexi would’ve loved this,” Ben’s wife said, looking wistfully around the room.

  Ben put his arm around her. “Yes, she would have.”

  Their other daughter, Mia, smiled. “I think her name would have been Lex Lethal.”

  Her parents smiled.

  “Or Lexplode!” The boy, Luke, fanned out his fingers dramatically.

  We all laughed.

  “No,” Sylvia said.

  We all turned toward her. I expected some defiant variation of Alexandria.

  There were tears in Sylvia’s tired eyes, and her hand trembled as she brushed them off her cheeks when they fell. “Her name would have been Lexceptional.”

  The next night, I was gearing up with Monica and Lucy when Susan and Shamrocker skated over. “Britches, got a second?” Shamrocker asked.

  I double-knotted my laces and stood up. “Sure.”

  “Last week, Doc Carnage told us about those new jerseys you made for the junior’s team,” Susan said. “That’s why I showed up last night when they were handed out.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course. They are amazing, Britches. That fabric is so soft and cool. Does Velcro really not stick to it?”

  “That’s right. It’s a fabric the Sinclair family created specifically for roller derby.”

  “We want it,” Shamrocker said almost before I could finish speaking.

  My eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Really. The board has been discussing updating our jerseys for a long time, and after last night, I called an emergency board vote. Your jerseys are lightyears better than what we have now,” Susan said.

  I smiled. “I think so.”

  “Shamrocker needs to order new jerseys for you and the other newbies to be here for the B-Cup Tournament in March. If we give our business to you, think you could have them done by then?” Susan asked.

  I was surprised my skates didn’t slip out from under me. “Wow. What date is today?”

  Shamrocker looked at her phone. “Today is the eighth, so you’d have about five weeks to do them. I know that’s cutting it close. Would it be enough time?”

  I held a bubble of air in my mouth while I did the math in my head. “How many skaters do we have in the league?”

  “Sixty-two this season,” Susan answered.

  My mouth dropped open.

  Shamrocker jumped in. “But we’d only have to have the jerseys for the B-team skaters who are going to the tournament by then. The regular season wouldn’t start until our first home bout on Saturday, April first.”

  “How many are going to the B-Cup?” I asked.

  “There are fifteen of you, but we might need a couple more just in case someone has to fill in,” Susan said.

  “So less than twenty by the third weekend in March?”

  They both nodded.

  “I think I can do that. Can I give you a definite answer next week? Monday, maybe sooner?”

  Before committing to anything with anyone, I needed to make sure I wasn’t going to jail. A meeting was scheduled with my lawyer on Friday to see about the plea bargain.

  “Monday would be perfect,” Shamrocker said.

  “OK. I’ll let you know.”

  On Thursday morning, I drove back to the warehouse to pack up the rest of the supplies I’d left there in my scramble to finish the last jersey the day before. When I was finished, I carried the box of stuff out to my car. That was when a familiar silver SUV pulled into the parking lot.

  I turned my face toward the sky and closed my eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

  Clay pulled up behind me and rolled down his window. “Hi, Grace. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  He looked better than the last time I saw him. His face was clean shaven, and his hair was meticulously groomed the way it used to be. Looking in the car, I could see he was alone. But in the middle of the back seat, a car-seat carrier base was strapped in with the seatbelt.

  My eyes darted away from it and back to him. “Pretty brave of you showing up here. You know my brother wants to kill you.”

  “I was in the area. My attorney’s office is just down the road.”

  My hands twitched at my sides, but I refused to ball them into fists. Silently, I was counting, One… Two… Three…

  “I wanted to get a message to you. It seems you’ve blocked my phone number and my email address,” he said.

  “Why would you need my phone number? You’re trying to have me thrown in jail.”

  “I’m not trying to have you thrown—”

  “Whatever. My attorney has advised me not to speak to you. I suggest you go talk to yours.”

  “Grace, I just wanted you to know I’m sor—”

  “You’re sorry?” I asked with wide eyes.

  “Ginny was pushing me to press charges. It wasn’t me.”

  “Clay, your signature was all over that document.”

  “Yes, I know. But the baby was due any day. We were so stressed out from moving. I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly, but Ginny insisted we call the police. I nev
er thought it would get this far. And I never thought they would charge you with a felony.”

  “Well, they did. Or, I should say—you did.”

  He stared ahead over his steering wheel off into the distance. That was when I noticed the sun glint off a ring on his left hand that was draped over the window frame.

  “Nice ring.”

  After a quick glance at the wedding band, he pulled his hand back inside. “How’s Jason?” he asked with a smirk.

  I crossed my arms. “I honestly don’t know. He’s not speaking to me thanks to you. Do you know what that did to him? He works there, Clay.”

  He took a deep breath and was silent for several minutes. “I am really sorry, Grace.”

  “Tell it to somebody who gives a shit.” I opened my car, got in with a huff, and slammed the door behind me.

  My attorney’s office was in downtown Franklin, Tennessee. I drove there on Friday after a morning meeting with my therapist.

  Garrett was waiting in his truck in the parking lot when I pulled in. I got out, almost melting at the sight of my big brother. “You came,” I said when he got out.

  “Of course I came. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

  I hugged him. “Thank you, brother.”

  “I figured we could go out and get drunk after this. Either way this goes, you’re probably going to need it.”

  “Probably. I’m still planning on pleading guilty, or no contest, whatever they recommend.”

  He stuffed his fists into his jacket pockets as we walked toward the building. ”Hypothetically, if Clay were to meet an untimely demise before the hearing on the fourteenth, would you still be at risk for going to jail?”

  I laughed. “I am a thousand-percent positive that the new Mrs. Clayton Byron Maxfield the Third would see to it.”

  He sighed. “I thought it was a pretty good idea.”

  “Oh, no one is questioning that it’s a great idea.”

  “So has he already married her then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “He showed up at your bar yesterday when I was leaving the warehouse.”

  Garrett stopped walking. “Seriously?”

  “Yep. He said he was going to see you so he could get a message to me.”

  He laughed as he started toward the door again. “God, he is stupid. What was the message?”

  “He wanted me to know he was sorry and that it was Ginny’s plan to have me arrested for the eggs. Not his.”

  “What’s his deal? Does he have a penis ring that she’s got a chain hooked up to?”

  I laughed. “Who knows? I think he was feeling guilty yesterday because he was on his way to his attorney.”

  Garrett held the door for me as we walked inside. “What a dick.”

  “I know.”

  The lobby was bright and airy, furnished with expensive chairs and a leather sofa I’d sat on plenty of times before. My new defense attorney was within the same legal group as my divorce lawyer.

  I had jokingly asked about a two-for-one discount. Nobody but me thought that was funny.

  I walked up to the receptionist’s desk, and the woman looked at me expectantly. “Grace Evans to see Frank Holbrook, please. I have a meeting with him at one thirty.”

  She glanced toward the waiting room. “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Garrett fixed a cup of coffee for each of us at the table full of refreshments. He poured mine full of creamer and carried it over to where I’d made myself comfortable on the sofa.

  I smiled as I accepted it. “I really appreciate you coming.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t want Mom or Dad here.”

  With the sigh, I curled my hands around the warm paper mug. “There’s something about criminal charges that makes a girl not want to look her daddy in the face.”

  He nodded. “I get that. For what it’s worth, they wanted to come.”

  “It’s worth a lot.” I shifted uncomfortably. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. When are you going to get your shit out of my warehouse?”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure. The Sinclair’s said they have the lease on the equipment for two more months. They said I’m welcome to use it if I want to.”

  “Do you want to?”

  That was a good question. “Maybe. My team asked me last night if I’d be interested in making their jerseys this season.”

  He turned toward me. “Really? That’s awesome. Look at you getting clients without even trying.”

  “If I do it, I might need to stick around as a squatter for a little while longer. Is that OK?”

  “You know it is. I’m just giving you shit about it. Why wouldn’t you do it?”

  “Well, I might be going to prison.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Grace, you are so dramatic.”

  “Grace Evans?” the receptionist said. “You can go on back to Mr. Holbrook’s office now.”

  Garrett and I stood. “Thank you,” I said and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

  Frank Holbrook’s office was the first door on the left. It was sad how well I knew that building. We walked in and sat down in the padded chairs that faced his cherry desk. Frank looked up from the stack of papers he was reviewing.

  He offered me his hand. “Hello, Ms. Evans. Nice to see you again.”

  “You too. This is my brother, Garrett Evans.”

  The two men shook hands also.

  I sat back in my chair. “Well, Frank, what do you have for me? Am I headed to the big house?”

  He laughed and closed the folder in front of him. “Not hardly. I worked out a nice deal with the district attorney for a year of probation and the cost to have the furniture cleaned and the sofa replaced.”

  I straightened. “That’s great, right?”

  “Not as great as your ex-husband dropping the charges.”

  If I hadn’t been sitting, I would have fallen down. “Clay dropped the charges?” I reached and grabbed my brother’s hand.

  “His attorney called me this morning.”

  Garrett squeezed my fingers. “Yes!”

  “How? Why?” I asked.

  Frank smiled. “Does it matter?”

  I covered my face with my hands and squealed. “So what do I do now?”

  “Pay me and get out of here.”

  “Really?”

  “There will be some paperwork for you. Janice will take care of it. Aside from that, I suggest dating better men.”

  “Amen to that,” Garrett agreed.

  Frank leaned toward me. “Or if you don’t, at least leave the camera at home.”

  Twenty-Three

  I accepted the job of making the Music City Rollers’ new jerseys for the season. Production began the next week.

  Surprisingly, I heard nothing more from Clay.

  Or Jason either, not surprisingly.

  B-team practices were grueling as we neared the B-Cup Tournament, even more so now that the new class of Fresh Meat had started. Medusa had made their practices mandatory for Rising Rollers like me, who were headed to Indiana.

  It was fun, though, being part of Fresh Meat again, especially since Zoey was back skating with us. And there was something bizarrely satisfying about being the veterans around the newbies.

  They all looked at us like we looked at Medusa, Maven, and the others.

  At Fresh Meat on Wednesday night, two weeks before the B-Cup, we were about to start the weekly 27 in 5s, when I stopped for some water and to check my phone. I had a missed call from Ben Sinclair-Hoyt and a simple voicemail asking me to return his call.

  Maybe it was his tone.

  Maybe it was intuition.

  But I knew before he answered, Sylvia was gone.

  I took a break from making jerseys and made myself a new dress for the funeral. It was a simple black wrap-around with tiny periwinkle stars.

  Kiara and I attended the funeral on Saturday together
. She picked me up at the store, and we drove across town to the largest church I’d ever been inside. There was a closed casket visitation with the family before the service, and we waited in line for over twenty minutes just to see them.

  When we finally reached Ben at the end of the greeting line, he was holding Miss Taylor. When I went to hug him, she didn’t even growl at me. She just laid her head in the crook of his arm and stared somewhere across the room.

  I’d held it together pretty well until then.

  Ben hugged me as I burst into tears. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, as I pulled away, sniffling.

  “Thank you. And thanks for coming. You meant a lot to my mom.”

  “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “It was fast in the end. I’m glad she didn’t suffer.”

  I dabbed the corners of my eyes with a tissue. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. Is it okay if I bring some things by your place soon? Mom wanted you to have something.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Of course. Anytime. Text me or call and let me know when. I’m working outside the office a lot these days.”

  “Will do.” Another man in a black suit came and spoke quietly to him. Ben turned back to me. “Please excuse me, Grace. The service is about to begin.”

  Kiara and I found two empty seats together in the crowded sanctuary. There must have been a thousand people there, at least. It wasn’t a particularly long service. A choir sang a few old hymns. Andrew delivered the eulogy. And a pastor gave a short message.

  While the choir sang another song, a photo slideshow scrolled on a screen that hung from the ceiling. There was a picture of her at the beauty pageant. There was a recent picture of her and Miss Taylor.

  There was a picture of her on her skates.

  At the end, the pastor invited everyone to a graveside service.

  “We can do what you want, but I’m not gonna lie,” Kiara whispered. “Graveyards freak me the hell out.”

  I chuckled softly and looked at the time on my phone. It was almost three o’clock. “You know what? I have a better idea. Something I think Sylvia would appreciate.”