Page 4 of False Start
“Skaters,” I correct him, crossing my arms over my chest.
He furrows his eyebrows like he’s not understanding.
Morgan clears their throat uncomfortably. “We’re not all ladies here.Skatersis preferred.” They hit me with a look that’s nearly lethal, telling me to back off and not ruin this before it has a chance.
“Ladies, skaters, whatever,” he chuckles. “I don’t care what you want me to call you, as long as you’re making me money.”
Sleazy fucking reptile.
“Whatever?” I can’t help it; I’ve already decided this guy is gonna be the end of my peace.
I can fucking feel it.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, the double doors swing open, and both he and Morgan whip their heads in that direction, their eyes glued to the five-foot-nothing brunette with a single braid hanging down to her waist.
Nia fucking Death.
God is real, because this kind of bad timing has to be the work of a higher power, punishing me for all of my mistakes.
She looked tiny the first time she came here almost two months ago. No muscles, frail, like she was completely out of shape, not at all like the legend this team had painted her out to be. Today, she looks one step up fromdead—sunken cheeks, dark circles under her eyes, somehow more skeletal than before. One swing of Nancy-Shrew’s hips, and half her bones would be broken.
So what the fuck was she doing at Skateland, her quads dangling from her fingers?
Morgan’s eyes grew ten times in size, theoh shitlook on their face impossible to mask, but thankfully, Scotty Crocodile isn’t looking at Mo. No, he’s locked in on the former Roller Derby Star who has no business crash-landing into a closed practice.
Or whatever the fuck this is.
A high-pitched shriek comes from the gaggle of skaters, who are no longer stretching but standing in a small circle together. StarScreamer dashes past us in a frenzy, one foot after the other slamming against the wooden track until she crashes into our unexpected guest.
“Nia!” she shouts, squeezing her into a death lock and lifting her until her feet no longer touch the ground.
Bae-Ruthless, Venice Witch, D-Stroya, and Lady Yaga take off from the crowded circle and skate in the direction of the girl, piling on top of her and StarScreamer.
The whistle blows directly in my fucking ear, and every heckle on my body raises, ready to go a round with this impossibly frustrating man.
Who the fuck gave him a whistle?I don’t say it, but I guess the look on my face is enough to make Mo shrug, as if they can read my thoughts.
“All right, ladies,” he calls out from where he stands. My blood pressure skyrockets, the sound of my pulse pumping in my ears too impossible to ignore. “I wanna see you warm up, and then everybody is doing assessments.”
A roar of displeased comments erupts from every skater.
Nobodywants to skate twenty-seven laps in five minutes, but it’s necessary to qualify under WFTDA regulations. Every skater here can probably do it with enough fire under their asses, but that doesn’t mean we want to be surprised with it, and it especially doesn’t mean we want to do it for this jackass, who isn’t even asking nicely.
Preparation is important; building up stamina is crucial.
Not passing the speed test can be the kind of ego-killer that keeps good skaters from coming back.
Younevertest before you’re ready.
He whistles again, this time less in my ear and more directed toward the incoming crowd of skaters, the sickly-looking girl awkwardly standing to the side, still in converse shoes. Star grabs her by the wrist and drags her into the rage pit, where nearly every skater in the Devil’s Dame league points their finger directly into the crocodile’s face.
He blows the whistle once more, this time on an extended drag that quiets every contrary voice and forces all the skaters to plug their ears for protection. “You’re under the impression that this is a democracy, and maybe that’s how Lonnie Green did things around here.” A flat expression covers his face as he dishes out the next round of insults. “And that’s exactly why Lonnie signed you all away, why Lonnie couldn’t make successes out of you.”
A grumble of protest rises again, but the whistle is far more powerful, starting to go to his head.
“If you disagree, you’re welcome to leave.” He points to the door. “To meet Women’s Flat Track Derby Association regulations, all skaters must pass their skills and speed tests.No oneis exempt.”
We goin turns so as not to crowd the track. Four at a time, five minutes. When eight out of all twelve skaters have tested, Morgan, myself, and Star strap our helmets back on and get behind the blue line. Mo has been our assistant coach for the last year. When I first arrived in Devil Town, they’d been positioned as pivot, and there was hardly anyone who could get past them unscathed. Time gets us all, though. Eventually, you either retire, or you find a way to make yourself useful.
