by Casey Hagen
“No climbing my bar, missy,” Patti warned as I backed away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said with a wink.
I spotted Rita in the opposite corner with her husband, Len. “Did you have a hand in getting those kids cleared to go out to the farm today?” I called to her.
She winked as Len took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “That might have been me.”
“I owe you, huge. Thank you.”
Rory let out a whistle, snagging Patti’s attention. “A round of Banked Tracks—”
Tilly watched all the commotion with a cautious look on her face. I knew she wouldn’t like our usual, but I also knew she probably felt just awkward and out of place enough, she’d never say so after taking the first sip and would just suffer through it to fit in.
I had her back.
“Pick something else tonight, guys. Tilly doesn’t like root beer. Besides, we could use a special drink for tonight to celebrate.”
“That’s cool. What do you like?” Zara asked as she passed the drink menu to Tilly.
“I’ll be right back. That big ass bottle of water I sucked down on the drive here is knocking.”
I ducked into the bathroom, did my business, washed my hands, caught my face in the mirror, and froze.
Clear, bright eyes stared back at me. A healthy pink hue glowed on my happily flushed cheeks. My chin tilted with confidence, my chest out and shoulders back.
I didn’t recognize myself.
And it’s exactly what I kidded myself into thinking I looked like all along.
This was the look I wanted Rylee to have on her face.
Well, shit. My team would just have to win some money and make sure I got to stick around long enough to help Rylee achieve it.
I headed back to the derby booth and spotted Tilly’s empty seat. “Where’s Tilly?”
Rory shrugged. “She said she had to go. Guess we can order those Banked Tracks after all.”
22
“Jackson left his dad in charge of the cash register so he could be here helping us today. Let’s make it worth it,” Priest said from the edge of the track as we got ready to go for a full day.
Fucking weekend practices were the worst. Long hours, packed lunches reminiscent of days without the less discerning palates we needed to actually find them awesome, and sun shining over fresh snow crystals blanketing the ground from the night before whispering to us to come out and play.
I need a playday so freaking bad.
In true Jackson form, he’d managed to snag a pink tank top for his stint reffing from the infield. He’d even gone so far as to scrawl Beautifully Brutal over the chest in thick Sharpie. And on the back, the number 6-6-6 with a scribble of the grim reaper wielding a scythe, his evil laughter spelled out in a word bubble over his head.
Rory watched him skate by, spotted the back of his tank, and choked on her coffee. “We should see if he’s willing to be one of our officials.”
“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Sean said as she clicked the buckle to her helmet. “Then, if anything happened to our deal with Sid’s, we’d have a direct line on somewhere else to play…you know, since Jackson would have a vested interest and all. He’d make a great skate mechanic too.”
I pulled on my wrist guard and glanced up at Jackson and Priest, their heads together as they scanned their notes. “I’m kind of digging this plan.”
“Or we could use Sid’s for our very own banked track and use Rockabilly’s for flat track,” Marty said. “I’d be up for it.”
My fingers froze and my heart perked up its tired little head after the wave of adrenaline and pure fucking joy from having the kids here to watch us waned far too fast. Not that I wasn’t still driven. I was. I just wanted my kids. Wes could totally drive them here every few days for mandatory hugs, couldn’t he?
“What do you mean, start our own league?” I said as I tucked a nonstick gauze pad on the inside of my elbows. Anything to help soak up the buckets of sweat coming my way today. If I could get out of this unchafed, it’d be a damn miracle.
“We could. If we really wanted to,” Marty said, her crooked grin telling me she was latching on to the idea.
The money girl, guys. The money girl was latching on to the idea.
She never got all tingly for ideas that cost a bunch of money. Or meant more paperwork for her.
This definitely sounded like a recipe for paperwork.
And attorneys, permits, insurance companies, basically any entity designed to both protect you by making you all legal like and make your eye twitch.
I dropped down to the bench and glanced up. “But what about the WRDF?”
“We can still do that and this. And if that doesn’t work out, maybe we could just do this,” Marty said with a half shrug.
But there was no reason for it to not work out, unless the WRDF took issues with us working with Priest, even if that working was only temporary. Unless Marty was thinking about him staying which she shouldn’t, because he wasn’t.
Tilly skated past without a hint of interest in what we were talking about and tossed my wristguards with a barely audible “thanks” before she skated off to the other side of the infield.
My stomach plummeted to my toes, a familiar apprehension creeping in on me. A hesitance that would unfold on the track and have Priest tearing me a new asshole.
“What’s up with her?” I asked as I watched her go.
Rory shook her head, her mouth grim. “She’s been weird ever since last night.”
“Did she get a call or something while I was in the bathroom?”
“Nope. She just got really quiet and said she had to go,” Rory said, giving Tilly a dose of side-eye.
I watched Tilly out of the corner of my eye as she pulled on her elbow pads, followed by her wristguards, and a gave a firm tug to the strap under her chin to tighten her helmet. She stood alone, avoiding eye contact, her mouth tight, and a crease between her eyebrows.
“Okay, ladies, round up,” Priest called. He waited for us to skate in a circle around him and glanced down at his notepad. “On team one: Hate Puck, Spread ‘Em, Wall of Duty, and…Come Queen.” Priest scratched his head. “And they say guys are pigs.”
“I don’t know, I kind of like them,” Jackson said with a grin.
“You would,” Priest said, scoffing at him. “Team two: Anarch-Eve, Hazy Eights, Tilly the Hun, Mayhem, and Hot West. Get on the bank and let’s do this.” He skated past me, his palm landing on my hip. “Hey,” he said quietly, his lips brushing over my temple, sending a shot of pure fucking lust straight into my shorts. “Kick some ass.”
I leaned into him, siphoning the feel of hot, hard, towering man pressed up against me for every second I could. “Did you at least wear underwear today?”
“I did,” he said with a laugh. “Didn’t want any injuries up there.”
“What, like poking an eye out?” I said with what I thought would be a snort but came out a hell of lot more like a whimper.
“Sounds like you might be about ready to get rid of that no kissing rule,” he murmured as he dragged a lazy finger along the edge of my collarbone over the word “belonging” tattooed in script there.
“Or maybe you destroyed it when you got all manhandley with me out on the track the other day,” I said, forcing the words when his touch had sucked all the air out of the room, but enjoying the way he opened up ever since I managed to avoid steamrolling my own player on the track.
The rigid set of his shoulders had eased. He didn’t tunnel his hands through his hair in frustrated spurts quite as much, and he smiled showing off that deep dimple along the edge of his cheek I didn’t get to see nearly enough of.
Happiness looked damn good on the man.
A hot, promising grin curled his lips. “Don’t give me any ideas, Mayhem. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
“Hey, I’m not the one all reaching out to touch someone,” I said despite doing just that when I swatted his ass as
I skated away, giving him a firm squeeze while I was at it.
We started out slow, not because he had us start out that way, but apparently now that we were actually doing this in full force, we’d gone all duh on putting the moves together. We’d turned into a nightmare cheesy montage of 1980’s bloopers from Cocoon full of agonizingly slow exaggerated movements and unsure glances.
Followed by the surprised look you get when you trust a fart only to have it betray you.
Gerald almost melted the vinyl of a bar stool one day with one of those.
I had to do something about what was unfolding here. I was a jammer. I set the tone with my takeoff in a way. If I just came in hard, fast, and confident, they’d follow.
Clearly the anaconda smuggler on the infield agreed since he started pacing alongside us, shouting the entire time.
“Go harder!”
“You’re not one team on the bank now, you’re opponents. Act like it!”
“Push, push, push!”
“Mayhem, don’t make me come up there!”
That one got everyone’s attention.
If he was going to stomp around like that, he should just wear his sneakers, it’d be better for his arches.
Two hours in, we finally managed to blast past the awkwardness and go for it. Bodies crashed into rails, players slid down the track and hopped back on with ease, gaps opened and closed, and I managed to shoot through the pack and zip around the corner to battle Carmen for lead jammer position several times over.
By lunch, the jitters gone, we sat on the infield benches, grabbing more water than food, our feet tapping to the beat of the music Priest pumped into the barn.
He stood by the front office with Jackson, their heads together, while Jackson scrolled through his phone. In the few quiet minutes, I could actually study him, so I took full advantage.
But studying meant wanting, if it was possible to want more than I already did.
I’d developed a taste for a bit of self-torture.
How did I know? Because my yearning went way beyond the physical. I wanted him here. In Galloway Bay. I wanted him to take his power back and stay.
Finally beyond the monotony of constant repetitive footwork and finally dipping our toes in the fire that came with real derby, my body hummed with energy. It skittered under my skin, making it nearly impossible to sit still.
My brain latched on and turned that energy into fantasy.
What if?
What if Priest had followed me up to my apartment the night we mauled each other in my hallway?
What if he hadn’t brought Tilly onto the team without warning me?
That was easy—I would have set fire to the no kissing rule in the first week no doubt.
I’d spent almost three weeks staring at his buffet of broad shoulders, arms corded with hard muscle and thick veins, and a rather spectacular ass, round, solid, and so damn out of reach at the moment.
“You look like you want to bite right into his ass cheek like it’s an apple,” Marty said next to me.
I sighed, my quiet moment all too brief. “I bet he snaps like a Red Delicious. The clear, crisp pop, and not too sweet.”
“You should just do something about that already. When you guys sniff around each other with so many white-hot glances that you have the rest of us taking cold showers, it’s time. Past fucking time,” Marty said. “I mean, my down below is on permanent vibrate at this point so hop on that and give us all the details.”
“Would you think less of me if I admitted I was afraid of falling for him only to watch him go?”
“Oh, girl,” Marty said with a wince. “You already fell for him so you might as well take the time you have. You never know, he may surprise you. Or you’ll surprise him.”
“Lunch is over! Hustle up, we’re switching up teams,” Priest called out as he hopped onto the track along the straightaway where it was lowest to the floor. His skates never once slipping from the grip he made by digging in his edges.
There really was something to be said for a guy who had so much control on wheels.
“Okay, team one: Mayhem, Anarch-Eve, Dixie Dom, Lick-Or-Treat, and Sleeping Booty. Team two: Hazy Eights, Lowe Bar, Rory Highness, Tilly the Hun, and Get Hussy. Get out there and push it!”
We skated into position, the blockers stepping in and around each other. One of their blockers moved, one of our blockers followed.
Right now, Eve stayed pressed to Tilly, moving with her every adjustment, never letting her break away.
My stomach rolled, the old instincts, old fears trying to creep back.
No.
Not this time.
We were teammates and I didn’t crush her to dust with my skate the other day. We’d evolved.
All the old shit, it was over.
The starting whistle pierced the air and I dug in my edge taking off at a run on my toe stops. Three steps and a stride had me reaching the pack. In a tight cluster of bodies and legs I fought to get through, trying to wedge into small openings to push my body through and break them apart.
I spun out reaching around the high side along the rail, but Rory was right there to close the gap and send me toward the bottom of the track. I found another gap along the bottom, took advantage of the coping, only to have Tilly plant her left skate in front of mine and drive me out of bounds.
Whistle after whistle, play after play, Tilly didn’t stop. She never once threw an elbow, she even managed to avoid an illegal hit when I dipped and gave her my back, but she never backed off of me either.
Like there were two different jams going on out there.
She and I.
And everyone else.
Eight jams in and I just couldn’t pass her.
It was me. All me.
She’d gotten in my head again, and I’d let it happen. Here we were, on the same team, no more bullying, no more spite, and she was still fucking with me.
With one final drive of her hips, she sent me into the infield and the whistle blew. I rolled along the inside, mumbling to myself, my fingers steepled over my head while I rested my hands on my helmet.
It’s not the same. Let it go. Just let it go.
“Praying to your dead mother?”
The whispered sneer slithered over my shoulder. A second later, Tilly skated past me, the smirk right back on her mouth, every bit of progress we’d made obliterated and fuck if I knew why.
I’d never escape this. As long as we coexisted in this town, I’d never escape this or her. She’d find a way to steal every piece of joy I carved for myself.
Every safe place.
My sport.
Even my kids by sabotaging our chances at the exhibition.
My heart hammered behind my ribs, the blood stampeded through my head, and my control snapped.
Memories cascaded through my mind like a stack of pictures slipping from slack fingertips.
My mother tossing the end of her broken and frayed green lace in the trash the last time we skated together.
Waking up alone in our shared room, shivering under a blue flowered quilt the morning she died.
The police at the door telling me I had to go with them.
Every night from then on in a bunkbed, my scratchy standard issue blanket jammed against my ear to drown out the melody of employees' shoes squeaking on the linoleum, screams of kids lashing out in pain and fear, and the sobs of lonely, heartsick girls in the darkness after the lights went out.
The echo of a lifetime collection of her words all came flooding back, cracking open the recently sealed tomb of my pain.
The taunts, the insults, relentless everywhere I turned until she snatched away every bit of comfort I managed to find in a scary world where I was well and truly all alone.
No mother, no father, no family to speak of.
No family friends.
Just me.
Never belonging.
A haze covered my eyes and all I could see were my hands wrapping around her throa
t. I cut my edge into the concrete, pushed off, and lunged for her, a scream of fury tearing from my lungs. The minute my forearm slid over her shoulder, I bent my elbow, wrapping around her neck.
She grunted right before I squeezed the sound right from her throat as we crashed into the cold, hard ground.
The roaring in my head only grew when I rolled her over under me and met her wide eyes. I drew my hand back, my fingers clenched into a tight fist and punched her. Pain exploded in my knuckle when it caught the edge of her helmet, but I didn’t care. Blood burst across her skin over her eye and I drew my hand back and hit her again to spill some more.
“Oh shit!”
“Grab her!”
Hands reached out for me, but I threw them off.
I wrapped my fingers around the strap of her helmet and shook her. “Don’t you ever talk about her again! Ever!” I screamed, my skin tight, my lips peeled back from my teeth. My heart exploded in my chest, my thighs squeezing her waist as I tried to crush her right here on the concrete while I pulled my fist back a third time.
Powerful fingers locked on my forearm. “Maisy, stop!” Priest’s commanding voice cut through the voices of my team, but not through the haze of violence rioting inside me.
His fault.
I spun around and met his narrowed dark eyes, the flicker of disappointment there—that was his fault too. A storm of animosity burst from somewhere deep in my heart. I wanted to hurt him the way he hurt me.
For how this one mistake continued to hurt me.
Drawing back my other hand, I swung at him.
The gasps of my teammates cut through the haze filling my head. His eyes widened as he ducked my hand, and when he straightened, he pierced me with a cold, hard glare. “You took a swing at me.” His tone dropped impossibly low, his words lethal and deathly calm.
I couldn’t speak, I could only lash out again, but this time, before I could even pull my hand all the way back, he lifted me clean off the concrete and threw me over his shoulder.
“Put me down, you son of a bitch! I hate you.” I beat on his back as I tried to twist out from under the arm pinning me to his shoulder. I kicked my skates in the air and yanked his shirt. “Put. Me. Down!”