Page 3 of False Start
On any given Saturday, three things are guaranteed to be true.
One, I’ll be covered in bruises by sunset.
Two, I’ll be making at least one girl cry.
Three, there will be blood.
Lots of it.
It can’t be helped. It’s just the way Slam Nights work. The Roller Derby leagues come, they play, and we whoop their asses. It’s the natural order of things in Devil Town, and the Devil’s Dames Derby League regularly opens our doors for a beat-down.
Today is Tuesday, though. Today, we’re closed for business. Our new manager will be walking through those doors, reassessing our team, and getting us ready for the “big leagues.” The Devil’s Dames haven’t competed in any regulated Women’s Flat Track Derby Association bouts in nearly five years—not since our star jammer gave up after a brutal injury, long before my time. Everything we’ve been doing for the last few years has simply beenfor fun, or for fundraising to keep this rink open to the public.
God knows we only make money on Fridays duringTween Skate PartyNight. Hardly anyone shows up to a bout anymore, so the cash we make from concessions and merch on Slam Nights is practically nonexistent.
Skateland is headed for closure.
Once it’s shut down, Devil Town will fight for city hall to demolish the building against the owner’s wishes and force a sale of the lot. Eventually, they’ll put up some chain grocery store in its place.
Lonnie, our coach and the owner, knew this day was coming and prepared for it. They signed away their rights to our league to some washed-up basketball team manager to try and dig us out of this hole, to make something of the Devil’s Dames again.
There’s nothing but excitement drumming through the veins of every skater on that track—because they have hope. If shit hits the fan, if the worst comes to fruition, then we’ll have to dissolve. The skaters whodon’tlive in our little town will have to find other derby teams to skate for, and those of us stuck here will have to abandon the idea of skating or start traveling for it.
The closest league to us is the Wolverine Dream Team, at least a fifty-minute drive to their city from here.
I sure as shit can’t manage the back and forth multiple times a week for practices, so what will the skaters with more demanding jobs, families, or no car do?
Losing Skateland would practically be a death sentence for some of us.
Because if we aren’t skating, we’re likely making a shitstorm out of our lives.
I, myself, am a fucking bulldozer.
I’ve wrecked my way through life, plowing overanything that doesn’t serve me until all that’s left is curated, especially in my favor.
The repercussions of being too much and not enough all at once.
We’re mid-stretch on the track when he comes in. He’s the sleazy type, impossible not to judge when he walks into a run-down skate rink in seemingly-Dolce and Gabbana shoes and a salmon-colored suit.
This guy thinks his dick is too heavy to carry between his legs, I know it.
Fuck, we’re about to clash so hard.
See,mydick is much bigger, and men like him don’t do well knowing that. They don’t tolerate the idea of a woman being in charge, knowing more, giving him guidance, which is everything I need to do to make sure westaywinning.
We just require alittle bitof his money.
This guy has no clue what Roller Derby is about, and from the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets while scanning the room, I know he’s way out of his element.
“Scott!” Morgan waves him down from the center of the track, where they stretch their hamstrings with the rest of the skaters.
They give me a quick look, using their forehead to gesture in his direction, as if to beckon me over as well. I sigh, feeling uneasy about this entire thing. I trust no one anymore, and this particular situation makes me feel like a wild animal, being lured into a cage by the promise of a juicy steak.
There is no other option, I remind myself, looking back at every skater with hope-filled eyes. This is their home too, not just mine. We’re doing this for them.
“Ladies.” His smile reminds me of a hungry cartoon crocodile, waiting above the water for the main character to let go of the branch. His yellow-blonde hair is short, gelled up like it's the early 2000s, and sunglasses sit above his head.
Designer, I’m sure, and I hate him for it.
