Page 4 of Watcher

“Jessica, dear, where are you off to?” Sandy, the wicked stepmother, says. She doesn’t give two shits where I’m off to, but she would be happy if I never came back. She was the one who put the idea into my father’s head three years ago that I should be sent off to an all-girls school.

“We have a game this afternoon,” I say, walking past Winnie and her. That’s it. I have nothing else to say to the woman who wedged her way between my parents. However, to be completely honest, my mother wedged her way between my father and his second wife. All’s fair in love and war, I suppose.

I grab the Maserati keys in the garage, passing Father’s Rolls, Vette, and Lambo. He’s collected cars the way he’s collected wives. Pulling from the garage, I see two housemaids smoking a joint outside the house, thinking freshly cut bushes hide them. They aren’t; they are another example of the mice playing while the cat is away.

Barney, the guard at our front gate, opens the gate and waves. The man is nearly 90 and has been by my father’s side for over fifty years. The man makes two hundred thousand a year for opening and closing a gate. I wave back and go about my business.

I’m a Memphis girl. I love the heat and humidity, the top down on the car, and my hair blowing in the wind. I grew up Memphis strong, which is why Daddy gave me the Memphis Macabre roller derby team (Daddy let me pick the team name). He said I had it in me to take the team to the next level, and I have. We’re in first place for the first time since Daddy purchased the team ten years ago. Because the team is making money at the door, Daddy signed the team over to me last week with the understanding that if the team failed, it was on me.

I get to the rink two hours before the bout (they call it bouts instead of games or matches). Most of the team is in the locker room when I arrive. A few girls are out skating.

“Where’s Tamara?” I ask.

“She’s in the bathroom,” Emily, one of our blockers, says.

“Why do you say it like it’s a problem?”

“Kim’s not here either.” Emily sits at her locker half-dressed, her large tits every male fan’s wet dream. We aren’t stupid. We know what draws men into the arenas. They already know we are some of the best athletes in the world. Adding a little sex appeal keeps them coming back for more.

Before I have a chance to bitch about Kim not showing up, she walks through the door, stumbling, her big ass drunk as a skunk. Saliva hangs from the corner of her mouth like a slow-motion waterfall. “Sorry, I’m late, boss.” Boss comes out like the word floss.

“Where the fuck have you been, bitch?” I get up and march toward the woman who is supposed to be one of my blockers. I grab her by the arm and lead her ass into the showers, turning on the cold water and shoving her under the spray. She screams like a little bitch and tries to leave. I won’t let her. “You have two hours to sober your ass up, Kim!” I close the shower curtain and walk away.

Tamara enters the locker room, blubbering like a child who didn’t get a sucker at the store. She’s been a mental case since joining the team, not because of the team but because of her life outside the team. However, we come here to put that shit aside for a couple of hours and take out our frustrations on other women.

“Fuck, now what?” I say.

Tamara ignores me and sits at her locker, burying her tear-filled face in her hands. Not only am I the team co-owner, manager, and coach, but I’m also the resident mother. How many eighteen-year-olds claim that kind of resume? “I can’t play!” Tamara says through tears, saliva, and snot.

“I’ll get some tissues,” Heather says. She’s one of my other blockers. Sweet face but a deadly elbow that has broken at least a dozen noses.

“Yes, you can,” I tell Tamara, “and yes, you will.” Sometimes, I want to give up the managing and coaching part and just focus on the brutal play.

Tamara looks up at me. Her mascara covers her face and hands as if she’s been working in a coal mine. If it’s not shark week, it’s relationships, kids, or booze. Luckily, none of them have found coke or weed yet. She blubbers again, and something drops to the floor. It’s a pregnancy test. “I’m pregnant!”

“Motherfucker!” I get up and leave the locker room to check on Kim, who’s lying on the shower floor, passed out, cold water splashing against her face. Vomit swirls around the drain. “How the hell are we going to beat the Nashville Cannibals with only eight players?”

I go back to the locker room and find Tamara gone.

“Her boyfriend came and got her,” Emily says.

“Kim is shitfaced,” I say. “You’ll have to alternate between blocker and jammer. I’ll go as long as I can.”

Kat, Rosemary, and Joanne join us from the rink. All three are sweaty and wearing practice unis.

“Where’s Patty?” Kat asks.

Patty enters the locker room and raises her hand. “Present and accounted for.” She scowls and grits her teeth. “What’s wrong?”

“Tamara’s pregnant, and Kim’s shitfaced in the shower,” Emily says.

“I’ll call the devil,” Rosemary, our eldest player, says and takes out her phone. She calls, talks to the “injured” Diablo, and says, “She’s on her way. Hope we still have a uni big enough to fit her.” Rosemary is old enough to be my mother, but she has a mouth like a sailor and moves on the rink like a running back, pissed off at the world. “The whore is bigger than a New York skyscraper.”

“Yeah, if her knees don’t give out on her again,” I say. Last week, two opposing players blindsided Diablo and took out her knees. It took four men to carry her off the rink. She’d missed every practice since.

“I’ll grab her uni,” Emily says, heading to the trainer’s room.

“I need to check the box office,” I say and leave the disaster of a room. With only one game separating us and second place, every game counts. Losing today would put us in a tie for first. I don’t believe in participation trophies. We can't afford to keep losing players with four other girls on the injured list.

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