by April Ryder
"Running late. Gotta go. Nice to see you. Have a good game. Play hard. Win. Break a leg. Break someone else's leg. Bye."
I didn't stop until I was on the other side of the changing room door and it was firmly closed behind me.
"What a huge fucken' mess."
We were subjected to Pretty Vicious's pre-game pep talk and threatened with death if we fucked up and lost the derby. Dismemberment may have also been mentioned. Even though I had impressed her with my inventive way of getting off the bench for today's match, I had lost brownie points by skipping the last practice. Because of this the first round would be on me.
Pretty tried to add in a few more rousing words before Kilty could silence her. "All right everyone, let's go lop off their tits and force-feed them to their significant others—"
Ponytail Puller leaned over my shoulder and whispered, "My therapist gets a kick out of hearing what comes out of Pretty's mouth."
"You have a therapist?" I asked, surprised that someone would divulge that kind of information.
She nodded. "Yeah, she was the one who suggested I try out for the team. Said it would do wonders for my self-confidence. I can give you her name if you want. I get half-price session for every new referral."
I was about to pass on her offer but considering everything I had going on maybe talking to someone who had nothing to do with my life might be a good idea. "Sure. After we win."
Ponytail grinned and we skated out to the roaring, foot-stomping crowd seated around the rink. Jake was the first familiar face I saw as we started our warmup laps. He beckoned me over, and risking the wrath of Pretty, I obliged.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a reminder of last night's toe-curling kiss. "Good luck," he said before letting me go.
The spectators around him wolf-whistled as I zoomed away, my face beet red from the unwanted audience attention. I caught sight of Rick, who scowled deeply as I passed. What was his problem?
The shrill whistle from one of the refs snapped me back to the here and now. I hustled to join the rest of the Slammers on the bench and we glared at the Marauders as they took to the rink. Going by the crowd's reaction, our supporters vastly outnumbered theirs. Our supporters were also much more vocal of their dislike of the visiting team. I hoped for everyone's sake the crowd didn't get violent. Alcohol and sports fans never mix well.
I started the derby as part of the pack for the first few jams before being subbed off. Pretty was just as shrewd of a tactician as she was vicious. I never wanted to meet her alone on a dark street. At least she was keeping her verbal violence to a minimum.
Kilty veered off the rink and sailed to the bench, catching her breath and the spot beside me. She nodded her chin in Pretty's direction and said the last thing I would have expected of the demonic little woman. "You know she's an early childhood teacher, right?"
I dammed near fell off my chair. "What? They let her look after small children?"
She nodded while guzzling back water. "And teach them."
I was lost for words, which was fine because the teacher of the next generation of delinquents ordered me off the bench and back into the fray as our jammer.
My jamming opponent was a pro. The way she looped her leg around the front of mine in an effort to force me to change my beginning stance really pissed me off. I mimicked her movement and dared her to do it again. We fought a round of leg pea-knuckle before the ref blew the starting whistle. Unfortunately her leg was in front of mine when we pushed off, so I lost precious seconds waiting for her to get out of my way. As much as I wanted to trip her I didn't want to get sent to the sin bin. That was a sure way to get your limbs gnawed off by Pretty.
Fortunately the Slammers had control of the pack and I caught up quickly. The crowd roared in approval, encouraging me to push through. The Marauder to my immediate left used her voluptuous body to thwart my attempt. As I bounced off her behind, I thought I heard her say, "I slept with your boyfriend."
Another Marauder darted in front of me but I thrust myself into the opening they had left. Big mistake. It had been a feint and I gasped as two Marauders sandwiched me between them.
This time I very clearly heard what they both said, "We slept with him too."
Wait, what?
At last week's game I had been accused of sleeping with one of the Wicked B*tches of the West's boyfriend. That had been a misunderstanding that we had cleared up at the beginning of half-time—thank God. But what was this about?
"Paul?" I asked, dumbfounded as I struggled to free myself.
"Who?" one of them asked.
Okay, so it wasn't Paul. Wait, did they mean Rick? Had he also fucked their brains out? I don't know why the thought of the Dick being with other women—not counting his wife—annoyed me so much, but it did. I didn't know how much it ticked me off until after I had physically lashed out at the girl on my left.
I'm not sure exactly what happened next but I do know I was sent to the sin bin for ten whole minutes with a fat lip and holding strands of someone else's hair in my hand. That and Pretty was alternating between yelling obscenities at me and praise. Mostly the former as we now had no jammer on the rink for the duration of my stint in the bin. I really do fear for the kids in her care.
The Marauder who had taken a knee next to me in the sin bin muttered, "Bitch," under her breath. Why they thought putting us all together in one place after a three-way catfight was a good idea was beyond me. At least I wasn't sandwiched between them this time.
"You started it," I pointed out.
"You hit me!"
"You bit me!"
A ref skidded to a stop on his inline skates, effectively silencing our argument for the time being. He had the power to ban us from the rest of the derby. None of us wanted that. Seeing that we were being good he skated back to the match and the three of us exhaled our collective breaths.
"I've slept with that ref too," the one closest to me said.
What is it about roller derby that brings out the slut in everyone, I wondered.
"He's nowhere near as good as Jake though," the other said with a dreamy sigh.
"Jake?" I said.
They nodded in unison.
"But—I thought you'd slept with Rick."
"Who?"
"Number 13."
"You mean Mister Grumpy?"
"Ew, no."
"So," I said slowly, just to make sure I didn't confuse myself. "You're saying that you've both slept with Jake?"
Nods.
"Number 7?"
Nods.
"The one from the Selby Inline Hockey team?"
"What other dark-haired, perfect-smiled hunk of man named Jake would we be talking about?"
The other Marauder spoke up again. "Don't you just love the way he twirls his tongue—"
Indeed I did.
"All over your body?"
My mouth dropped open. We were talking about the same Jake. Not that he'd used his tongue anywhere other than in my mouth and behind my ear—although he had in my shower fantasy. If what they were saying was true I now knew how he had become so skilled with his tongue. Practice. Lots and lots of practice.
The whistle signalling half-time coincided with the end of my temporary incarceration, but I was more than happy to rejoin my team.
Kilty must have noticed my dazed and confused look because she took me by the elbow and steered me to the end of the bench. I was wrong though, she had something else up her sleeve.
"You're going to love this," she said as the team filed past us into the changing room.
"They've slept with Jake," I murmured. "Both of them."
"What?" she asks, distracted by the commotion at the commentators desk.
"The two Marauders I fought with. They've both slept with—"
"Pfft, is that what started the fight?" she said, ignoring my bug-eyed expression. "He's slept with a lot of derby girls. All of them do. Heck we do too. I mean with the hockey guys. It's just sex, Skids."
&
nbsp; "Well when you put it that way—" I said but stopped.
Did that mean Jake just wanted to use me for sex? Why was I questioning that? Wasn't I doing the same thing? Well, when I put it like that, I guess I was. But what about our date? Did the fact we hadn't gone home with each other mean I hadn't passed some kind of fuckability test? Wait, no. Jake had given me a good luck kiss before the derby had officially started. Sex with him was still a possibility. But what if I wanted more than just sex?
Kilty tugged on my shirt to regain my attention, and I frowned at what I was seeing. There, in the middle of the rink stood Adam, dressed in a slinky catsuit. If that wasn't enough he also wore heels and had on a blonde wig.
"What the…"
"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a huge round of applause for Mr T. Swift, our half-time show."
Kilty and I watched as my bestie pranced around the rink while lip-synching to TSwift's hit, Shake It Off. I had never laughed so hard in my life. Tears streamed down my face and I couldn't stop them. By the time Adam had finished I had doubled over in pain from a laughing stitch. He would never live this down. Not in a million years!
Before I could go and poke fun at Adam, Kilty's hand clamped on my shoulder. "Time to face the music," she said and pushed me toward the changing room. I gulped, but skated in to face whatever punishment Pretty deemed fit.
"All right maggots," Pretty yelled from deep within the Slammers ranks. "They may have scored a shit-ton of points while our jammer was in the bin, but this isn't over. Not by a long shot. I want everyone to pull up their big girl pants and kick some arse. Skids had the right idea but has too much dick on the brain to use subtlety. Keep your attacks short and sharp. They're harder to see outside of the pack. And up the verbal abuse. Shit like: 'Your mama so fat Maui fished her up instead of a whale,' or go for the boyfriend. Let them know you slept with him."
"Well shit," I said out loud. Had the two Marauders been using the same psychological tactics on me that Pretty had just outlined?
Every head turned my way and I froze—that animal-trapped-in-headlights look—as I waited for everyone to hate me.
Beside me Kilty started to clap. That slow golfers clap that I think people use to denote sarcasm, but it soon became apparent it wasn't meant that way. Others joined in. Wolf whistles and hoots rounded out the applause and I just stood there. Stunned.
Pretty shoved teammates aside to stand in front of me. She looked up while I looked down. I had no idea what was going on.
"Good job, Skids. Takes a lot of effort to get into the sin bin and you managed it on your second derby. Ten minutes sucks harder than donkey nuts though, so don't ever do that again."
She smacked me on the side of the arm then went back to shouting orders and tactics.
"Gotta check my phone," Kilty said before skating away to her bag.
It took a moment to remember I was waiting for an important text. I retrieved my cell phone from my bag and checked it. One new message, from a number I didn't recognise. It had to be the results of my blood test. The vampire had texted. I didn't have time to angst over it. I had to know. With a tap I would know once and for all what the stupid pee sticks couldn't tell me.
I jumped when someone's hand clamped on my shoulder. It was Kilty. "C'mon Skids. We gotta go," she said.
"Dammit, Kilty. You almost made me shit my pants!"
She snickered.
"I'll be right behind you," I promised and pushed her away.
The changing room was almost empty when I looked at the illuminated screen to read: hCG levels are less than 5. Result = negative.
"YESSSSS!!!!" I screamed, startling Ponytail Puller who was the last at the door.
"C'mon Skids, you heard Kilty. Pretty will kill you if you're late."
"I'm am so not late," I happily told her as we rejoined the team.
Out on the rink I decided to follow Pretty's advice and I'm sure everyone else did as well. We all pulled on our big girl pants. We would not lose to the Marauders. Not again. Not ever. Easier said than done though as half of our blockers ended up in the sin bin.
"Subtle!" Pretty yelled at them from her spot on the rink. "Subtle!"
I hid my smile as the Marauders' blockers shifted uneasily beside me. They were well aware of Pretty's reputation, no doubt having competed against her before. Not one of them wanted to be there while she was on the rink as our jammer.
Sucks to be you, I thought and readied myself for the starting whistle.
Each jammer likes to think they have a special tactic. A perfected way to get around the opposing side's blockers. So I've been told. Having been in the position only a few times I can't yet tell you what they might be. The only options I see open to me are to go for the gaps or force your way through. Pretty though had a more unique technique, and this was the first time I had been around to see it.
The whistle blew and the pack leapt forward. Pretty and the Marauders' jammer both approached, the latter hesitating as she looked for an opening. Pretty, however, bowled right up to the back of the pack and…screamed. An inhuman noise that could only be coming from the depths of hell escaped from the angelic demon's mouth. Everyone, the Marauders' blockers, their jammer, and even our blockers focused on covering their ears in any way we could to stop that terrible noise from assaulting our eardrums. Pretty took the opportunity to sail past. She scored a buttload of points by using the full two minutes her jam and when the ref told her the points wouldn't count and he threatened to ban her if she did that again, she threatened to make the sound again if he did any such thing. As a result the points stayed and Pretty remained on the bench for the rest of the game.
Pretty's stint as jammer had achieved what she had wanted: to gain points fast and to rattle the Marauders. We were all thankful—especially our eardrums—that she wouldn't going back on the rink.
Kilty stepped up to jam next. While Pretty's technique is raw and loud, Kilty's is subtle. Due to the noise in the sports centre and the distance we were from the jammers, I never knew exactly what Kilty said to her opponent. Whatever it was unsettled her as she shifted her weight from one skate to the other, her gaze flicking to Kilty and then away. She licked her lips several times before the whistle and even wiped her hands on her outfit as if they were covered in sweat.
After watching the two women work I wondered if I needed to come up with some special technique to throw the opposition off.
The whistle blew and Kilty left the other jammer in her figurative dust. Kilty was a fast skater, able to dart about and change direction suddenly. She did just that as she feinted right, then left, left further and then a sudden right when a gap opened, and she slipped through the pack and off to score points.
I bounced the other jammer off my hip when she dared try to pass me. It wasn't until after I realised it had been one of the girls who had sandwiched me earlier. Not the one I had punched, but at least now I felt we were even.
With mere minutes left until the final whistle, Pretty called a timeout. We coasted back to the bench and huddled around our brave leader, eager to hear her plan. It would be tough but if we won the next couple of jams, we could win. I hoped like hell that our last two jammers would be Kilty and the Ponytail Puller. They were two of our best.
Those of us who had come off the rink panted, gasping for air as we tried to recover from the last jam, while Pretty eyed us all individually.
"Ponytail," she finally said and we sighed in collective relief at the first choice.
Pretty's gaze settled on Kilty but the perennial prankster shook her head. "My Achilles tendon is playing up. I can't do it in that short a time."
"Shit," someone muttered.
"What about Skids?" Kilty suggested.
Pretty nodded. "Don't fuck up," she said as the timeout ended.
At least they let me sit on the bench during Ponytail's jam. I wasn't sure my panting was due to the workout or panic, but it gave me some time to sit back and watch the opposition. Not that I knew what th
e fuck I was going to do.
Luckily for us Ponytail raced past the pack several times during her jam. That wasn't so lucky for me, as it meant the win was riding on my shoulders.
Fuck.
Ponytail and I skated past each other. She handed over the helmet cover that marked me as the jammer and I quickly shoved it over my helmet.
My opponent turned out to be the girl I had punched earlier. I tried to ignore her but she had other ideas as we vied for the perfect starting spot.
"I slept with your boyfriend," she said.
"You've already used that one," I told her.
She snorted and we both stared ahead at the pack, our muscles tense.
Just as the ref inhaled before blowing on his whistle, I glanced down at my opponent's feet and asked, "Did you just pee yourself?"
"Huh?" she said as the whistle went and I rocketed away.
I didn't have time to wait for a gap like Kilty, so I decided to put my mass to good use and pinballed between the blockers until I emerged ahead of them. I stumbled coming out but regained my footing and sped away. I repeated my technique as many times as I could and at the last lap I knew I had mere seconds to push through that final time before the whistle trilled.
I hit them at speed, and just like Rick skittled them. Marauders and Slammers went flying on either side of me as I finished up ahead of them, on my butt after completing an impromptu forward roll on the rink, just as the whistle signalled the end of the derby.
The crowd went fucken nuts! My teammates even more so as they rushed over and dog-piled on me. Still, the celebration was premature. Because I had forced my own teammates out of the rink it meant we also lost points. It was a nail-biting five minutes while we waited for the refs to decide what points went where.
We all turned to the rink-side commentators, waiting—in the most deafening silence I've ever heard in my life—for them to declare the winner.
"Well this is the closest derby I've ever seen," the guy said. I wasn't keen to hear his commentary, just the results.
"Get to the point, Kev," his colleague told him. Thank God.