Skid Marks and the Selby Slammers

by April Ryder

  "Aren't you late?" I helpfully reminded her.

  "Oh em gee! You're like, so right. Later taters," she said before running from the bathroom and presumably back to work.

  "Oh. My. Fucken. God," I breathed once the door had closed behind her.

  "Oh em gee," Jake agreed.

  The waiter had noted our return and by the time we had re-seated ourselves, he was en route with our meals. We quickly ate but unfortunately had to skip dessert. They had crepes on the menu! With lemon curd and other noms—waah!

  Jake drove me to the sports centre. Unfortunately he had something to do with someone but promised he would be there for the end of the final. We arrived with minutes to spare. That didn't save me from the tongue-lashing Pretty gave me about respecting your teammates by arriving on time until well after Jake had said his goodbyes and driven off.

  "And if you can't do that then you don't deserve Andrew!" she yelled.

  Had I heard that last part correctly? "Wait, what?"

  "You heard me. That young dick is not only our biggest fan but is an essential part of marketing our team to the high school masses."

  "He sent me a dick pic!" I yelled back. "Of his brother's dick!"

  "Well it's nothing you haven't seen before," Pretty sniffed disdainfully.

  "Well not all penises are the same, but—"

  Pretty clapped her hands on my shoulders and stared up at me. I could tell she wanted to roll her eyes and sigh at me. There was something here I was missing. Some piece of the puzzle that wasn't in the jigsaw box.

  "What?" I asked slowly, not sure I wanted to hear what she had to say.

  "Oh you really are clueless aren't you, Princess?"

  "Princess? Wait, that's what Jake calls me. Why are you…" I trailed off as I recalled the conversation Kilty and I had had with Andrew at my door. He hadn't used my name, derby or otherwise. No, he'd referred to me as a goddess—one that deserved to be worshipped thank you very much! In a way it was similar to Jake calling me a princess. Both had dark hair—granted Jake was zit-free—but if I used my imagination I could probably see some similarities.

  My face reddened as I put that missing piece into place. "Holy shit! They're brothers."

  Pretty nodded confirming the conclusion I had come to was indeed correct.

  Another thought niggled and I suddenly exclaimed, "Oh my God!"

  "What?" Pretty asked, concerned.

  "Jake looks at chubby girl porn!"

  Pretty facepalmed before handing me off to Kilty who shoved me and my gear into the shuttle bus so we could leave.

  "Did you know?" I asked Kilty.

  "That Jake looks at plus-sized porn?"

  "Yeah that, but that Jake and Andrew are brothers?"

  "Sure. Andrew looks just like Jake at that age. That kid is going to be a heartbreaker in a few years. He'll have to beat girls back with a stick—or maybe his dick. You all right?"

  "I feel like I've walked into an alternate reality where no one is who I thought they were."

  "It's called the real world, Skids. It's a scary place. You really didn't recognise Jake's dick in the dick pic?"

  "It was dark. He did most of the work," I said defensively. "Why am I defending myself to you?"

  Kilty shrugged. "You feel guilty for not recognising your boyfriend's dick?"

  Yes, we were having this conversation. Did that mean I was going to study Jake's boy bits up close and personal? Maybe take a few snapshots so I would never forget? Would that be considered porn? Would it make me a pornographer?

  "Wait, you didn't recognise it either," I argued.

  Kilty raised her eyebrows at me as the suburb of Selby flashed by in the window behind her. "He's so not my type. I prefer them dark and brooding, like Rick."

  "He's on my to-do list," Ponytail piped up from her seat in the row in front of us. She turned and eagerly looked at me. "Don't you want to compare them? They're so different in personality and body type that they have to be different in bed."

  "Or against the basins in the men's changing room," Kilty added.

  I flashed her a warning glare.

  "Huh?" Ponytail asked. "I guess, but that's just a bit unsanitary, right? I mean the men's changing room has got to be gross."

  "There will be no fucking," Pretty called out from the front passenger seat, "in the changing rooms. Women's, men's, or otherwise."

  I slunk down into my seat embarrassed, ashamed, and quietly pissed at Kilty for almost spilling my secret. A secret that too many people already knew about. Who was I fooling, it would be only a matter of time before the truth came out. I had fucked Rick the Dick in the most grossest, unsanitary place conceivable to my teammates—the men's changing rooms. What had I been thinking? But that was the problem. I hadn't been thinking. I had stormed in, angry and ready to kick arse but instead I had somehow let myself be distracted by the naked man with the giant erection as he advanced on me and seduced me with his kisses and bulging muscles.

  I pressed my knees together and cursed my traitorous body. This was not the time to go gooey over a man who had used me. Used my body in such a deliciously evil way that said body was now suffering from withdrawals. What the fuck was wrong with me? I'd just had a mindblowing orgasm in another bathroom—oh God it's becoming a habit—with a man who wasn't married. At least I didn't think he was.

  "Is Jake married?" I blurted out.

  "No," the girls replied in unison and laughed so easily together.

  "Jake isn't the settling down kind," Ponytail told me. "He'll love you—very thoroughly—but will always leave after a few weeks or a month."

  "I heard one girl from the Wicked B*tches had him for two months!" someone else helpfully added.

  "Shut up about that useless dick and focus on the final. No more men. No more distractions," Pretty snarled.

  "Idiot," Ponytail whispered. "That was her ex."

  We all shared a knowing look. It was obvious to us all that Pretty still hurt from Janelle's betrayal. She had left Pretty and the Slammers for Jake and the Wicked B*tches. Her latter actions had hurt the team but the former had left the most fearsome woman I knew with a broken heart. It was a reminder that I shouldn't get too attached to Jake. I knew about his promiscuous ways before I'd let him into my apartment and my bed and on my table, the bench in the kitchen, the couch, and the aborted attempt in the shower. I'd made an informed decision. I knew that nothing would come of our relationship. It was fun, full of great sex, and had a use-by date on it. All I had to do was keep myself from falling in love with the man who called me a princess and made me cum like a fountain multiple times a night. Easy peasy. Well, it was until he'd shown his vulnerable side. Revealed to me that he had been jealous of Rick when he'd walked in on us getting jiggy with it. It was sweet, but was that normal for the God of casual sex and orgasms?

  Pretty Vicious's usual rousing speech—which included decapitations, ripping off of limbs, murdering, etcetera—did little to rark me up. My insides twisted and I'll be honest with you, I felt nauseous. This, I realised, was the panic I should have felt before I skated out into my first roller derby. Perhaps it was because this was my first away game. The changing room was foreign—they didn't have a disabled stall! The building was twice the size of our sports centre. Seriously, the Selby Sports Centre would have penis envy—I really have to get these dicks off my mind. This was getting crazy. Was it knowing that out in the audience my sort-of boyfriend would be watching and I didn't know how that made me feel?

  Someone pushed my head down between my knees and told me to breathe. I did as instructed because I couldn't think of a logical argument against breathing.

  "You've got this Skids," Kilty assured me. "This is just like last week."

  "Really?" I asked, really doubtful that it was.

  "Without two men fighting over you."

  I tried to sit up but was shoved back down to stare at the floor again. "They weren't fighting over me. Jake was just pissed because Rick wouldn't pass him t
he puck. And because he badmouthed him to the national rep."

  "Focus on the derby, Skids. This is the last one for the year so let's give Pretty what she wants and go out with a bang."

  I nodded, but as it turned out it was more of a thud than a bang. At least for me.

  The Ponsonby Pistols were tougher than nails. They were as vicious as the Wicked B*tches but with way more discipline. Their captain went by the derby name of—and I shit you not—MacGIRLver. You know, that old guy with the mullet that made things out of chewing gum and a paperclip? Yeah, a play on his name.

  Something about them unsettled me. Something unrelated to my still-nauseous tummy. They had an eerie calm about them and it took me a moment to figure out what it was. They were almost completely silent. No trash talking, no swearing, or even yells of support from the bench. It was totally spooky and made me shiver.

  Kilty skated to a stop and took a spot beside me on the bench so I took the opportunity to ask, "Is this what they're usually like?"

  "Yes and no. They're not usually this quiet. It's like they're robots."

  "Robots?"

  She reached for her water bottle and laughed. "Perfectly designed, top-of-the-line roller robots."

  I was dubious about that. "I think they'd create sexbots before ever thinking of roller derby robots."

  "They already exist. I'm waiting for the male model but I gotta feeling I'll be waiting a long time for him."

  I blinked at Kilty. Here I thought I was the only one who derailed topics as wildly as this. Sitting next to me in a kilt was a potential kindred spirit. What were the odds?

  "Do you like pancakes?" I suddenly asked.

  "I like cats."

  "To eat?"

  Whatever her answer was I didn't get to hear it. Ms Skellington coasted past and tossed the jammer's helmet cover in my face. That was my cue. I was up.

  I approached the line on my stoppers and situated myself beside the Piston's jammer. She was tall and quite muscly and unnervingly silent.

  "Cat got your tongue?" I asked, trying to break the ice. After all we were here to have fun as well as compete. Right?

  The girl turned her head and stared right at me. We locked gazes and I fought the urge to blink as we silently fought some kind of weird intense battle. Just when I thought I had the upper hand, she opened her mouth. And that's when two tongues poked out.

  "Oh my fucken God!" I cried just as the whistle shrilled.

  By the time I recovered from the shock of my life—seriously I think I aged like ten years there—Two-Tongue had already won control of the jam and was on her way to lapping me.

  Dammit!

  Thanks to me being creeped out by a girl who had a split tongue, the Pistons won a shit tonne of points. Double dammit!

  "What happened?" Kilty asked as I returned to the bench to sulk.

  "You were wrong about them being robots. They're aliens. Aliens I tell you!"

  Someone smacked the back of my helmet and ripped the cover from it. I looked up, teetering on the verge of either yelling or crying but shut my mouth when I saw Pretty glaring down at me. Not that she had to look down far, she really wasn't that much taller than us while we were seated. Her short stature in no way diminished the threat of death in her pretty blue eyes.

  "She has two tongues," I dumbly said in response. "She freaked me the fuck out."

  Pretty leaned in, dangerously close. Close enough to take a bite out of my nose if she wanted. Instead, she calmly asked, "Do I freak you the fuck out?"

  "Y-yes," I said. What else could I say? She was an evil witch and would know if I were lying.

  "Good," she said, and after straightening to her full height of five foot something, she yelled the following at me: "Now go back on the rink and don't come back until you have spilled the blood of your enemies!"

  I almost tripped over my skates in my rush to accomplish at least the first half of her order. Drawing blood wasn't something I was all that keen on though, so I accepted the fact that I would probably be on the rink for the rest of the derby. A small—yet unnerving—sacrifice to make. Especially when Two-Tongue wiggled her tongues in opposite directions at me.

  "Gah," managed to escape from my lips before I had a chance to put on my tough roller derby chick face.

  During this jam I was part of the pack. We worked together as a team to block their jammer from getting through. No doubt inspired by Pretty, someone, probably Smelly Beans—you'll see why she's called that in just a second—farted. It was noxious, like rancid meat and extra-hot chilli sauce that had spent weeks in a rugby sock. One of the smaller girls collapsed from the fumes. The rest of us remained upright. Tears collected at the corners of my eyes and I gagged. We've already established that I tend to puke when I have a migraine. What you might not know about me is that gross things like farts, snot, and other unmentionable things can also make me puke. I wasn't about to embarrass myself further on the rink and while I wanted to skate as fast as I could to the changing room and hurl, I didn't want to get a foul against me and suffer Pretty's wrath. Thankfully a Piston—and a ref—did exactly that.

  A timeout was called until the air cleared. Some of the audience cleared out too when the stench of death drifted in their direction.

  I swear I saw Pretty laughing maniacally while this happened. She's pure evil. I still can't believe parents leave their innocent children in her care.

  Once it was deemed safe to resume, I returned to the rink. After all, blood had not been spilled. I was the Slammer's designated jammer for this jam and stepped up to the starting line. Thankfully Two-Tongues was nowhere in sight and I breathed a sigh of relief. I gave the other jammer a quick glance, saw nothing obviously wrong with her, and dismissed her from my mind. Instead, I focused on the building adrenaline as it pumped through my veins. I could smell the power and sweat from my teammates and with an effort forced the roar that threatened to break free back down. This was it. I could almost taste victory.

  The ref blew his whistle and we both took off like horses out of the gate. We struggled with the pack but with a twist I was able to break through.

  Yes, I had the jam!

  My heart rate thundered as I gained speed. I didn't slow for the turns and I was soon behind the pack again, ready to lap them for another point. It was then that things went terribly wrong. I watched in horror as the front of the pack went down. Someone had tripped and it had a domino effect. There was no way I could stop in time to avoid it. My options were to fly into them or try to turn away. It was a split-second decision and I didn't have time to make it. I wanted to turn away but someone's arm flopped out on the rink before me. Running over it would probably break the bone. I know Pretty would have been proud but I had no way of knowing if it was the arm of a Slammer or a Piston. I had no choice but to plough into the dogpile.

  "Oof!"

  I landed hard and awkwardly on a skate. Right in the guts. The air burst from my lungs and I collapsed, rolling into the foetal position as I tried to gasp in precious, precious oxygen. People swarmed around me. Most ran to the dogpile while one of them placed an oxygen mask over my face and yelled at me to breathe. As if I wasn't already fucken trying!

  Still, I appreciated that the people from the St. John's Ambulance were there. As it turned out my winding was minor compared to the Piston who had two of her fingers—one on each hand—broken. Ouch.

  After much poking and prodding they decided I didn't need to visit the hospital unless I experienced anything on a long list of symptoms. It wasn't enough to satisfy Pretty, however, and she benched me for the rest of the final. Even though I hadn't been the cause of the Pistons' broken fingers Pretty seemed to think it was just as good as making one of them bleed. I didn't argue. Having never taken a skate to the gut—or a gut to the skate—before, I didn't want to push my luck and somehow injure myself again. At least I was close enough to offer support.

  What did upset me was the fact Jake hadn't come running onto the rink to help me like he ha
d when I'd ended up underneath a dogpile. He'd said he had something to do but would definitely be there for the end of the derby. And as for Rick? Well, yeah he had helped back then too but he had no reason to be here.

  I sighed and immediately regretted it. Oh the pain. What was worse was that I knew it would be terrible by morning. Skates leave big bruises.

  The ref signalled the end of the first half and I followed the girls back to the changing room. Slowly, I lowered myself onto the bench that ran around the walls of the changing area.

  "Good job, Skids," several of my teammates said as they walked past. One or two asked if I was all right. I forced a smile and nodded.

  Something alcoholic was passed around but I declined. I didn't think I could stomach water let alone alcohol right now.

  While Pretty talked eloquently about victory and teamwork—punctuated often with descriptive ways to maim the enemy—I searched my bag for my cell phone.

  "Lost something?" Kilty asked.

  "Yeah my dumbphone," I muttered. "Must have left it at home."

  Kilty pulled hers out and checked the texts. "Got one from Adam. He says so far they're tied."

  I'd forgotten he was playing back at the Selby Sports Centre. "That's good."

  "Nil-nil."

  "Not so good."

  Kilty patted my knee and nodded to our fearless leader. "We're not doing too badly. Both sides are one down but she's cautiously optimistic."

  I looked at Pretty as she roared her battle cry with her bloodthirsty troops. The difference between tonight's two teams was stark, which meant the second half would be really interesting to see. Not that I got to see it. You'd think I'd start to notice a pattern by now, wouldn't you? Something good happens, then something not so good, then something bad, and then something worse. Right now I was at something not so good bordering on something bad…