Page 16 of False Start
I’m not okay.
A person I loved more than anyone else is gone, and I’ll never get to say goodbye.
My thoughts circle in my head like vultures, ready for their next meal—except I’m the meal, my misery their sustenance.
K-Otic slides in next to me, slipping their mouthguard in and rolling their shoulders back to prepare for the jam. They have at least a foot on me, but once they lower their hand to the track, our backs are practically at the same height. Regardless, the only way out of this jam is with speed.
The whistle blows. K-Otic moves to hip check me, but I’m too aware of my surroundings, giving them a three-pass lead to avoid the hit and grabbing Venice Witch’s side to get through the wall of blockers. I’m through, but the minute I reach the open track, I feel a slam on my left from Harvey, a sharp pain in my shoulder, and suddenly, I’m thrown from the track, sliding out of play.
Hands on the ground to steady myself, I shake my head to recalibrate before bouncing back on my toe stops and diving into the track again. Just as my feet hit the line, StarScreamer sends K-Otic flying, giving me the time I need to catch up.
We’re shoulder to shoulder now, just a few crossovers from the jammer line, and it’s as close as it gets. I deepen my squat, damn near sitting on the ground while I skate as low as my center of gravity will allow, keeping me protected in case they try to hit me.
It’s inevitable. I’m flying again, my teeth knocking against each other, and though I don’t see the hit coming, I sure as shit feel the throbbing in my hip for what it is. I catch a satisfied Harvey in my peripheral, and it’s all I need to know she was the one who sent me skidding on my ass through the center of the track. Mo and our new manager watch me with unimpressed looks. Grimacing, I shake it off as Mo blows the whistle and readies for the next jam.
I clench down on my mouth guard, practically piercing a hole through the plastic in frustration. Looking up to see the blonde pivot laughing with StarScreamer as if she hadn’t just handed my ass to me is the same as hitting a brick wall of insecurity.
Maybe I’m not wanted here.
Maybe Ishouldgo.
Or maybe I’m hyper-sensitive from all the pain pills inmy system and overly aware of how out of my element I’m feeling in the only place I ever dared to call home. It’s unsettling, staying in a motel when the house my parents once owned is half a mile down the street. Knowing that if I go to the grocery store, a coffee shop, or even the animal clinic I’ll likely run into the parents of a friend who died too early from our bad decisions.
A reminder of exactly why I ran with my tail tucked between my legs the first chance I got.
Or perhaps I’ve just depleted all the good sparks in my brain.
I take my place behind the line, receiving nothing but a chin raise from K-Otic, as if that somehow counts for praise. It kind of does, giving me a little more confidence to not mentally crumble before the whistle sounds again.
I reach for Lady Yaga’s hand, going for the whip as a way out of the pack of blockers skating in front of me. No chance of success. Harvey is already there, waiting in a standstill as I hit her from the front, her chest a solid wall knocking every bit of oxygen from my lungs and sending me to the ground.
The whistle blows, and Mo yells, “Take a knee,” while I struggle to catch a breath, wheezing through what feels like collapsed lungs from the impact. “Goddamn, Cat. Give the girl a break.”
I look up to see her skating circles around me, her gaze locked on mine even as she pulls her mouth guard out to answer. “You want a pivot, or you want me to let her win?”
“She’s not wrong,” our manager agrees, blowing the whistle again. “Harvey, sub for Nia until she’s ready to go again.” He turns to Mo. “Stand in for pivot until the rest of the girls pass their test.”
I couldn’t disagree, every bit of my chest aching andbegging for a break. I slip the star from my helmet and hand it to Mo, who makes the switch with Harvey while I drag my body from the track, crawling backwards until I find a wall to lean on. I make myself content with watching, realizing I’ve yet to examine the way this new version of the team skates.
Harvey is fast, making it easy to sympathize with her annoyance at losing her place. But she’s not just fast, she’s strong, and by the way K-Otic exhausts themselves jam after jam, it’s clear she’s nearly impossible to knock down. She’s the perfect pivot, despite her feeling like I’m taking something from her. She just hasn’t been utilized this way yet to see for herself.
If I’m not jammer, I’m nothing.
A weak girl with weak bones and a bunch of pins in her leg from the last time she got hit too hard.
I’ve been that girl for the last five years, and I’m ready to move on from the fear of getting hurt again, to get past the sight of my broken bones when I close my eyes and see visions of that memory.
Five yearsago
The announcer’s overly alert voice came through the speakers. “Nia-Death Experience passes Tonna Hips, but Reese Ender checks and—oh! That’s a stumble, but she recovers, nearly tripping over the still-fallen Britney Fears. Can we get a medic on the track?”
It was a joke, but he was distracting as hell, and I was feeling that last slam. Reese Ender was a heavy hitter, and I knew I’d be black and blue before the morning. Worst of all, it was extra hot on the track tonight with all the lights set up for the film crew. They were televising this for some streaming special on the TvFlix, and our rink parent, Lonnie, was seeing dollar signs from the prospect of fame,enthralled by the idea of people coming to Devil Town to watch us play and spend their hard-earned money at Skateland.
Sweat dripped between my breasts, and my fishnets itched under my shorts at the thought of every person I knew watching, but I pumped my thighs with every ounce of energy left in me. I moved, one foot in front of the other, crossing over as I circled the track, fifteen feet away from stealing the win from the Wolverine Dreams Roller Derby team.
“Nia! Nia! Nia!” the crowd shouted to my right as I circled the track.
I lifted my fingers in the air, raising them to my head to perform a two finger salute—a little show of cockiness—as I crossed the jammer line.
