by Elicia Hyder
“Good job. Now switch to your right skate.”
I put my weight on my right skate and lifted my left.
“Great!” she said. “Switch again.”
I switched to my left skate.
“Switch.”
I switched.
We continued this all the way around the track. Olivia lapped me twice with her perfect crossovers.
“Excellent,” Kraken said. “Now, this time when you pick up your right skate, I want you to bring it all the way across far in front of your left skate. Really overexaggerate the move.”
My eyes darted up to meet her.
She smiled gently. “You can do it.”
That time it worked. I probably looked ridiculous, like I was doing drunken lunges around the corner, but I didn’t fall. “Good,” Kraken said. “Keep doing it and make those steps smaller and smaller till they feel more natural.”
I swallowed hard again.
“Take your time, Lucy. There’s no rush.”
We rolled slowly, side by side, around the track, my Fresh Meat counterparts bobbing and weaving their way around us. Stretch. Step. Push. Stretch. Step. Push.
“Good. Start reining those steps in,” Kraken said.
My right foot came down just a handful of inches in front of my left.
“Good. Again,” she said.
Closer. Closer. Step. Push.
My legs found a rhythm, and I sailed out of the far turn, pushing faster and faster.
There was clapping somewhere across the track. I looked up to see Styx applauding, smiling at me—at me!—with approval. Excited, I straightened a little too much and flailed like a madwoman as my skates flew out from under me, sending me ass-first onto the track. Kraken stopped and offered me a hand up. Surprising no one more than me, I realized I was laughing as I got back up on my wheels.
“Come on,” she said. “Do it again.”
And do it again, I did. Again. And again. And again. And you know what? Between getting up and Shamrocker blowing the whistle at the end of the drill, I only fell one more time—and onto my knees and elbows, no less! I was still as steady as a giraffe on roller skates, but I didn’t die either, so you know, silver linings.
Kraken smiled and patted my back. “I’m proud of you. You’ll master it in no time.”
I wiped the sweat off my face with the tail of my T-shirt. “Thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Stick with it. You’ll get there, Lucy.”
As she skated off to join the other vets, I almost believed her.
I dusted the dirt from the floor off my shorts and scanned the faces in the group Kraken was talking to.
“Are you looking for someone?” Olivia asked, stopping next to me.
“I was hoping to see Medusa today,” I admitted, lowering my voice.
I obviously didn’t lower my voice enough because, in front of us, the Jolly Green Giant looked back over her shoulder. “Medusa won’t be here. She’s taking some time off.”
Her short friend looked up at her. “Do you know why?”
“I overheard she’s got some family stuff going on,” the giant replied.
The other girl looked back at me. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”
“Totally,” I agreed.
Our chitchat was cut short by Styx. “Next we’re going to cover how to stop.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, that’s good.”
Olivia laughed.
Styx and Maven demonstrated the different types of stopping techniques. The first was the T-stop, placing one skate sideways behind the other and dragging it to a stop. Next was the plow stop, widening the legs and pointing the toes inward to slow a quick speed to a grinding halt. Then hockey stops, turning slightly and pushing the outer skate out on its inside wheels. And last was the stop I knew would get me killed—the tomahawk stop, or the turnaround toe stop.
Maven skated around the track, then spun completely around and slid backward up on her toe stops. My mouth was hanging open. “Oh no. I see trips to the emergency room in my future right now.”
The girls around me chuckled.
Fortunately, we only practiced the T-stops that day. I sucked at them, of course, while Olivia mastered them right away. The bitch. Each time, my back skate stuttered across the floor like it was tapping out Morse code against the concrete. Maybe it was a subconscious distress call. Maven encouraged me to put my weight on my back leg, but when I did, I fell on my ass. My most efficient stopping method proved to be catching the wall before slamming into it.
After that, they moved on to teaching us how to fall. I tried to not take it personally. But surprisingly, there was a right and wrong way to bust your ass on roller skates. The right way was to not bust your ass at all, but to fall forward, utilizing those trusty knee and elbow pads. We were supposed to be mindful of our surroundings and “fall small” to prevent as much collateral damage as we could, like tripping other skaters or crashing into anyone else. And finally, we were supposed to get back on our skates as fast as possible, because we were no use to our team if we were out of the game.
Not getting killed didn’t seem to be the point of the endless falling drills, but a byproduct I was certainly thankful for. My knee pads and skates were thoroughly scuffed by the time Shamrocker blew her whistle at the end.
“That’s all for today. Stretch out before you leave!” she shouted. “If you’re coming back, our next practice is Monday night, right here at seven o’clock. Good job, ladies!”
I collapsed on the floor, panting up toward the ceiling. My T-shirt was drenched with sweat, and I could no longer feel my legs. Even Olivia sprawled out beside me. “That sucked ass,” she said, her breath raspy with exhaustion.
I ripped off my wrist guards. They were damp, and my nose curled at the thought of what they’d smell like soon.
Olivia rolled onto her side to face me, propping her head up on her elbow. “Well, was it everything you hoped it’d be?”
Smiling wildly, I nodded. “Yes, but I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.”
“For real,” she said with a groan. “And I’ve got to close the restaurant tonight.”
The girl beside me was in worse shape than we were. She was puffing on an inhaler and trying to slow her raspy breaths.
“You all right?” I finally asked, concerned I might need to call an ambulance.
She looked at me, her pale face red and blotchy. “Yeah. I will be. Some workout, huh?”
“I know.”
She pulled off her helmet, displaying the short layer of dark hair beneath. “What’s your name?”
“Lucy. And that’s my roommate, Olivia.”
Olivia waved as she stretched her right arm.
The girl tapped her breastbone and coughed. “I’m Zoey. You’re really good at this.” She was talking to Olivia, not me.
“Thanks,” Olivia said. “You might not say that when we start knocking each other around. I’ve never done that before.”
“You,” a voice boomed behind me. “What’s your name?” I turned and looked up, but Maven was talking to Olivia.
Olivia squinted against the halogens above. “Olivia Barker.”
“You’re solid on your wheels. Are you coming back next week?” Maven asked.
Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know. My work schedule is pretty nuts. I only came as moral support.” She gestured toward me, and I was tempted to run hide in the bathroom.
Midnight Maven looked at me like she’d never seen me before. Maybe she didn’t recognize me since I wasn’t running into stuff or falling into anyone. I gave a little wave. “Hi, I’m Lucy.”
Her eyes scanned me from helmet to sweaty socks. “Nice to meet you.” Her flat tone said otherwise. “Try and talk your friend into providing moral support again next week.”
My shoulders wilted. “Sure thing.”
When she skated away, Olivia laughed, and I threw a knee pad at her head.
S
ix
On Sunday I’d intended to skate the paved trails at Shelby Park, but my legs were stiff and burning like someone had poured them full of molten concrete. So instead, I curled up on the couch, popped a bag of popcorn, and downloaded the movie Whip It. That counted for something, right?
Dad called halfway through the movie. I paused the movie. “Hello?”
“Is that my Lulabean?”
No matter how old I got, I was sure I’d always be Dad’s “Lulabean.”
“Hey, Dad. Are you back at home?”
“Yes, ma’am. We got in late last night.” His gruff voice from a thirty-year, two-pack-a-day-habit had the gentle drawl of a vacation hangover. Like all of his stress was still floating on a wave somewhere in Costa Rica. “How are you, kiddo?”
“I’m good. How was your trip?”
Geez, I couldn’t even bring myself to say the word “honeymoon.” I thought of my brother, his tone extra impudent in my head. You suck at it, indeed, Lucy.
“It was wonderful. If you ever get the chance to go, I highly recommend it.”
“What was your favorite part?” I asked.
He was quiet for a moment. “Eating breakfast every morning with Katherine. I swear the sunrise is prettier in Central America.”
My mother had not been a morning person. At all. I doubted she and Dad ever saw the sunrise together unless they had never gone to bed the night before. Which was a real possibility. Up until she got sick, their date nights were mandatory, not to keep some dying spark of their marriage alive, but because even after two decades and two kids, they were still that in love. Or at least, so I’d thought. He sure had found her replacement awfully fast…
“I also enjoyed zip-lining.”
My brain snapped back to the conversation. “You went zip-lining?”
Dad laughed. “I know. Me! At my age!”
“Dad, you’re only fifty-six,” I reminded him. “You don’t exactly need man-diapers and a walker just yet.”
“I guess,” he said with a chuckle. “I hope you’ll come over soon and see all the pictures Katherine took.”
“I’d like that,” I said, trying so very hard to mean it. “Did she have a good time too?”
“Why don’t you ask yourself? She’s right here…”
My heart leapt into my throat. Leave it to Dad to pounce on any effort where Katherine was concerned. Before I could politely decline, a syrupy-sweet voice floated through the speaker. “Hello, Lucy.”
And that was the thing about Katherine. She was syrupy sweet, all the damn time. And genuinely so, which nullified every reason I wanted to have to hate her.
I had thought Dad was joking the day he told me he signed up for SilverLinings.com, a dating site for singles of a certain age. Mom had only been gone four months. I hadn’t even finished moving her clothes out of his closet. Oh, but he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t joking even a little bit. He went on two miserable dates, which I’d wrongly assumed would scare him off the premature dating scene, and then he met Katherine.
Katherine Woodville—57, non-smoker, from Waynesboro, TN—squelched any hope I had of slowing my father’s freight-train speed through the grief process. Katherine was beautiful in a classic sort of way, with a smooth complexion and her hair cut in a frosted golden-gray bob. She was a volunteer at the senior activity center, and her hobbies included tennis, swimming, and playing with her new granddaughter.
The baby’s name was something floral…Daisy? Daffodil? I couldn’t remember. But pictures of her were splashed across Katherine’s dating profile. It was the only fault I could find with the woman, putting pictures of her grandchild on a dating website. Didn’t she know that sickos lurked online these days? But of course, she didn’t.
Katherine was also a widow—another point firmly in the We Can’t Hate Her column of their relationship. And she was an excellent cook, which my mother had never been. Dad was lost to us after tasting that first stupid casserole. Poppy Seed Chicken, I believe it was.
I straightened on the couch. “Uh…hi, Katherine. How was Costa Rica?” I tried to sound bright and inquisitive, but my emotions were toppling like dominos in my head.
“It was beautiful. Everything was so green and lush, and the flowers were still blooming, even well into August. It was like a postcard.” She gave a melodic sigh. “But we’re also glad to be home. We’ve both missed our kids. How have you been? I hope your new job hasn’t been too stressful.”
“Ask her if she’s met any big country-music stars yet,” Dad said, so close to the phone that Katherine needn’t repeat his query. He honestly didn’t need to ask it either. This question was a staple of every conversation with my father since I moved to the city. A true product of Small Town, USA, Dad was easily impressed by all things that glittered in Music City.
“Tell him I got invited to a party at Jake Barrett’s house next month,” I said.
Katherine parroted my answer back to Dad.
“Jake Barrett, no kidding?” he asked. “Ask her if she can get me his autograph.”
“Tell him it’s a work thing, but I’ll try,” I said.
I realized I was still talking to my dad through Katherine, but that counted for me making an effort, right?
“See if you can take a peek inside his garage. I saw on CMT that he’s got one helluva hot rod collection.” Dad’s voice was no longer muffled by distance. He must have snatched the phone back from his new wife. “Take some pictures if you can.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“When are you coming home, Lulabean?”
“Soon, I promise. Though I won’t be able to come for a whole weekend for a while. My Saturdays are all booked up at the moment,” I said.
“Yeah? Got’churself a boyfriend now?”
“Oh no. Nothing like that. Just a new hobby. I’ll tell you all about it when I come visit.”
“Sounds mysterious. Nothing illegal, I hope.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
I grinned. “You know me, always teetering on a life of crime.”
He chuckled. “I miss you, kiddo.”
“I miss you too, Dad.”
“See you next weekend?” he asked, hopefully. “We can fire up the grill. Maybe make s’mores and drag out the cornhole boards. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a weekend cookout.”
My heart twisted. It had been a year, almost exactly. Because family cookouts had been Mom’s thing. She loved to be out back by the river so much she’d insisted Dad pour the concrete for the patio, and she’d laid the rocks for the fire pit. Before cornhole became the tradition, it was family baseball, but that ended the day I knocked myself unconscious with the bat. Ethan had started calling me Lights Out Lucy, which would make a hell of a derby name, come to think of it.
How would we ever do any of that without her?
My jaw clenched. “I’ll see what I can do. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
*
Nashville traffic during rush hour could be ranked among the rings of hell on a good day, and Monday morning was not a good day. There was a collision at the I-65 and I-40 split bringing the entire city to a screeching halt. Thankfully, I heard about it on the radio as I pulled out of my apartment complex, so I took the backroads, carefully following the directions of my GPS navigator, Christopher Walken.
“In three…quarters of a mile. Turn left. Onto…Blackman Road.”
Even digital Christopher Walken was a badass.
I wound my way through the neighborhoods of Crieve Hall, Berry Hill, and Wedgewood until I finally turned onto Fourth Avenue, which would carry me almost the rest of the way to my office. I stopped for a red light, and a chain-link fence covered in a white banner caught my attention, or the logo on it did, anyway.
Adler Construction.
My heart stuttered.
Behind the fence was the bare steel frame of a two-story building. No workers. No black trucks in sight.
A car behind me honked. The light was
green.
When I got to the office, Claire was booting up her computer at the receptionist’s desk. She frowned when she saw me, always a great sign first thing on a Monday morning. “Audrey’s looking for you. Wondering why you’re late. Peter was just verbally decapitated.”
I glanced at the clock behind her desk. Despite the traffic, Christopher Walken’s zigzaggy directions, and my lingering at traffic lights, I was still five minutes early. “It’s twenty-five after eight. We don’t open till eight thirty.”
She shrugged and flashed me a pained don’t-shoot-the-messenger smile.
I sighed and started down the hallway. Audrey’s door was wide open. “Knock, knock,” I said, stepping in the doorway.
My very own Devil in Prada swiveled around in her office chair. She had that look in her eye, the one that told me a lecture was imminent. There were file boxes stacked next to her labeled Lawson Young. Dark circles weighed heavy under her eyes.
Ass out. Tits up. The thought popped into my head so randomly I almost burst out laughing. Thank you, Roller Derby 101. This was certainly the time to brace for a big hit. Or better yet, come up with a solid defense maneuver. Fast.
I held up my wristwatch. “Wow, Audrey. The office isn’t even open yet. You must have a lot on you. Burning the candle at both ends, and all.”
She opened her mouth to say something harsh, no doubt, but then shot a confused look at her own watch. “Oh my,” she stammered. “It is quite early.”
I kept my voice low. Soothing. “Is there some way I can help you?”
She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. Stress was etched in the deep lines on her forehead. “No rush, but when you get settled, can you please bring me a copy of Lawson’s advertising expense report for this year to date? With receipts and invoices, if possible.”
It was cute when she said things like “no rush” and “please.”
“Sure. Is there a problem?” I asked.
“They’re saying they never received it,” she said.
“That’s not true.” I knew because I’d personally gone over some of the billing charges with his new webmaster.
She nodded. “I know. His new management is just being difficult. About everything.”