Page 15 of False Start
“Just because you don’t know me doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to grieve.” The shakiness is gone now, and I turn back, hitting her with one last look before speaking.
“Grieve away then, princess.” I gesture to the empty studio apartment, shutting the door behind me as I skate my way back to the track.
Fucking crocodile.
A crew of twenty men in overalls spreads throughout the track, ladders and supplies in hand as they await instructions from their boss. My heart pounds in my chest; I’m suffocating in this anger, in this helplessness, in this all-consuming rage.
Lonnie is gone, and here are the hyenas, gnawing away at the flesh of everything they had stood for, everything they had built. Funny how the right decision can so easily become the wrong one.
Mo skates my way, as if they can see the confusion on my face.
“What the hell is happening?” I ask.
“Boss guy is renovating.” They seem excited.
“Not his rink to renovate,” I bite back, not hiding the sharpness in my tone.
“Well then.” Morgan clears their throat before beginning. “You need to decide whose rink it is. No one’s, orsomeone’s.”
“Fuck off, Mo.” I skate away, tired of feeling like everyone is an enemy.
King Shit whistles for our attention, and by the time I make it to the circle, I realize the entire team is here now. “Good morning, ladies. Thank you for showing up on time,” he begins, still looking at his phone, like giving all his attention is more than we deserve. “As you can see, renovations are being made. Nothing drastic, just modernizing and cleaning up the place, bringing it up to code with the century.” He laughs, but it feels like a personal dig at Lonnie.
As if he’s pointing out that he is able to do in one day what Lonnie couldn’t do in years.
“The workers shouldn’t be too in the way the next couple of weeks, so pay them no mind, and soon, Slam Nights will look a whole lot busier.” He blows that goddamn whistle, and every hair on my arm stands on end, my body fighting the urge to rip it off the chain and shove it down his throat. “Do your thing, Coach.”
“Ladders, Devils. Let’s go.” Mo refrains from the whistle, and thank-shit, because if I hear that thing one more time, I’ll lose it.
Our new jammer takes an extra fifteen minutes to join us for drills, but no one seems to mind. She comes out of Lonnie’s looking like that had been the funeral she missed. Red, puffy eyes avoiding our stares, she focuses on her feet until she reaches the other end of the track, where she takes her time getting her skates on. Nia joins the pack for warmups, and Mo gathers us on Scott’s behalf, passingwaivers to each and every skater who completed their speed and skills test.
Standard bullshit. He’s not liable if we get hurt, not responsible for our bills, not responsible for shit. Typical. Thereis, however, a fancy little section at the bottom about payment per regional win and bonuses for performance, something none of us have ever seen before.
“Holy shit. We’re getting paid?” Lady Yaga beats me to the punch.
It’s enough to get every skater clamoring and crowding in a big, excited circle. Too much praise over a man I can’t even stomach to look at right now. As I scan the room, there’s only one other skater who seems unimpressed, not so easily swayed by words on a piece of paper or the promise of a few dollars.
Nia Da fucking Silva stands on the other side of the crowd of skaters, flipping the paper back and forth, no sight of appeasement on her face, only sorrow. She waits her turn, and when the pen makes its way to her, she signs, uncaringly passing her waiver along with the pen to whoever can get it out of her face as fast as possible.
And then she takes to the bench, sitting down and waiting for what comes next.
Stop watching this fucking chick.
Croc blows the whistle, as if to wrangle my attention to where it needs to go.
I skate past her to grab my water while Mo and our new manager talk between themselves. They hand out scrimmage jerseys, mixing the B team skaters with the A team for practice purposes and separating us, red versus blue.
It feels odd, out of place, every version of fucking weirdto be standing behind the pivot line instead of the jammer line. I thrive in the thrill of the race; I’m obsessed with it, I crave it. Ineedit. But there K-Otic is, the jammer star over their helmet, standing next to Nia-Death with the other.
K-Otic is fast as hell, no doubt about it. I can accept defeat when it comes to skating against them because we’re an even match. When we skate against each other, we spend so much time trying to knock the other down that we waste all our energy on strength instead of speed.
Nia is fast, with no bones or weight to hold her as a threat. I’m eager for the next whistle now, borderline giddy with the opportunity to knock this little shrimp down. Maybe then, she’ll realize Skateland—no, Devil Town, isn’t the place for her after all.
6
NIA
I’ve become a wretched mess of poorly composed feelings. Spending the night getting high with Ryan Lee was what I thought I needed to get my mind off Lonnie, but the minute I arrived at the rink, it all came flooding back. Every awful emotion penetrates deep and eats away at me from the inside out. Except now, I’ve burned through all my serotonin, and I don’t have the energy to muster an ounce of social demand.
