by Casey Hagen
“It’s been ten years since the accident. They’re letting it eat up precious time that should be spent living.” She paused, the silence hanging in the air between us. “Kind of like you are.”
Ahhh, and there was the right hook. “So tell me, what happened to computer programming?”
She shook her head and laughed. “Wow, I’ve practically got whiplash from the subject change.”
When I said nothing and just held her unwavering stare, she sighed. “It’s mind-numbing. I need something with more. More spark. More…I don’t know. Autopilot just wasn’t working for me. It was either change careers or dabble in hacking.”
I laughed thinking of the troublemaker she’d been who’d been so full of talent and potential. Actually, she still was, it was just different now.
Everything was different.
“I’m kind of surprised you hadn’t dabbled in it already.”
“Who said I haven’t? Not that I’m going to confirm or deny said hacking to a cop.”
“My badge means nothing in Galloway Bay.”
“I’m never putting you in a compromising position again, Coach. So, on that front, no more about the hacking. I’m still working for the county, but by this time next year, I’ll be counseling patients. If you stick around, I’ll give you a discount.” She took a delicate sip of coffee like she was at some high tea complete with a pinky in the air while she called me out.
I snorted into my cup. “I’m not spilling my secrets to you.”
“But you have them?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” The hot coffee burned a trail down my throat. Normally I’d appreciate the burn and settle on the couch, only Lana decided to start probing me like a crew of extra-terrestrials shoving their technology in my every orifice.
Lana probably wouldn’t use lube either.
“Evasive.”
“I could use some lessons in combat before I visit you again.”
She snapped her fingers and pointed at me with a smug smile on her face. “See, I’m going to kill it at the whole therapy thing.”
“You look happy,” I said, my voice thick, the sound catching in my throat.
Honey hair framed her face, the long layers brushing her shoulders. Caramel eyes gleamed, the fire inside her lit once again, just fueled by different desires. They softened on me and I fidgeted in my seat.
“I am happy. But you don’t look so happy, Coach. What’s up?”
“Not a whole lot. Concerned about my sister,” I lied.
“You sure this doesn’t have something to do with the fact that you were up at Sid’s the other night watching Beautifully Brutal take on Girls of Fury? Or that you were seen talking with Beautifully Brutal’s best jammer at Banked Track later that night and then again the next day at The Shipwreck.”
The coffee betrayed me by skidding to a stop in my throat instead of sliding down. My body went with instinct and tried to force it, just to have it crawl into my sinuses, making my eyes water. I reached for a napkin just to slosh the hot brew over the lip of my mug and down my hand. “Christ.”
“Now don’t bring him into this,” she said with a cluck of her tongue. “So it’s true?”
“Yeah, but—”
“You’ve set your sights on Maisy,” she practically sang. “I’m kind of proud of you to be honest. She’s fucking hot too. I’m not into chicks, but hell, I’d slide a hand under that skirt. Well done, Coach.”
“I didn’t set my sights on her,” I said low and hard, hoping to convince her. Or me. Okay, more me, because that hot factor was a damn problem.
But worse, she possessed this eerie patience. Like when she waited me out at Banked Track. I took her inventory and she let me. She didn’t dissolve into hysterics or accuse me of mansplaining. She took my words, without surrendering to them or admitting I was right, and squirreled them away like pieces to a puzzle.
I had a feeling she did the same at The Shipwreck too. Just filing away clues until she could pull them all out and build a picture of me that might even take me by surprise.
The idea of her figuring me out before I figured out myself had my gut bottoming out in a free fall.
“Then why were you kissing her?”
“I just—wait, what? I wasn’t kissing her.” My ears burned and I knew they’d flamed red at the tips like a green teenage boy, for God’s sake.
Lana shrugged. “That’s not the word around town. Apparently, you had her in one hell of a kiss outside of her work. Had her bent over the railing on the side deck and everything. Ovaries around town are exploding with every retelling of the story.”
I jammed my hand through my hair, forgetting that I cut most of it off, and set my coffee on the table in front of me. “There was no kissing. Who the hell is telling everyone I was kissing her? She had a rib out of place. I fixed it. End of story.”
“Well, you know how these things are. Stories get embellished.”
“You think?”
“But you want to kiss her.”
“This is a trap. I feel it.” And fuck yeah, I wanted to kiss her. I was pretty sure the feeling was mutual, only it looked like the both of us were smart enough to not act on it.
I still didn’t know if I was happy about our mutual sense of caution and responsibility.
“You don’t have to answer that. The fact that you didn’t immediately say no was answer enough.”
“I’m going to need a nap after this visit.”
“That’s not my fault. Must be because you’re getting old.”
“I’m not getting old.”
“You’re in your mid-thirties with no girlfriend, no wife, hell, you don’t even have a pet. You’re stuck. No shame in admitting it.”
“I’ve only got five years on you and you’re in exactly the same boat.” On firmer ground and relatively sure I wouldn’t drown myself in Lana’s living room, I picked up my cup again and took a gulp of coffee.
“Ahhh, but I’m not. I have a boyfriend.”
Fuuuuccccckkkkkkk! I coughed, sputtered, and pounded a fist against my chest, trying to clear my esophagus.
“When did this happen?” I choked out, my eyes watering again, and a tickle in my sinuses trying to strong-arm me into a sneezing fit.
“A few months ago.”
“I’m surprised Patti didn’t say anything. She loves spreading news like this.”
“She doesn’t know. Unlike you, I’m good at keeping my business private. Plus, I’m saving this news for when I really need it.”
I spun on the couch until I faced her head-on. “Who is this guy? What does he do? He better not be taking advantage of you.”
She patted my hand and laughed. “He’s a physical therapist and no, he’s not taking advantage of me. I put him in his place right away.”
“Your physical therapist?”
“Not anymore. That would be unethical.”
“Says the woman dabbling in hacking. Okay, spill.”
“I told him I was worried that I couldn’t have an orgasm.”
“Whoa! Hold up,” I said, throwing my hands in the air between us. “I’ve changed my mind; I don’t want to hear.”
“Shut up,” she said, smacking away my hands. “You’re a big boy. There’s no way a guy as hot as you hasn’t taken a tour or a thousand around a vag, so buck up.”
“Hot maybe, but then there’s that glowing personality of mine that you reminded me of.” I closed my eyes and sighed. When I opened them, she was very much waiting for me to get on board with what was to come. “And here I thought my biggest worry was that I might get stuck delivering my own sister’s baby. This is worse. Way worse.”
“So, I asked him how that works out for people like me. You know what that shit said? He told me to try to ring my bell and let him know how it worked out. I bet that wasn’t in the employee handbook. Like I hadn’t tried that already,” she said with another roll of her eyes while I simultaneously died inside. “Yeesh. What is it with you guys anyway? I got so mad
I rang his bells instead. Punched him right in the sac.”
“Jesus, Lana. You assaulted him?”
“Sure, but it worked out. He apologized for making it seem like he didn’t take me seriously, and I told him he could make it up to me by being a willing participant in my orgasm experiment. Good news,” she said with a lift of her cup like she was toasting her good fortune, “I can definitely have orgasms.”
“God, you just had to tell me that when you know damn well I can’t get good and drunk to mind scrub that right out of my head.”
“Maybe. I might enjoy watching you squirm a little. The point is, Coach. I’m good. He’s good. He’s very good. Most importantly, I wouldn’t change a thing.” She laid her hand over mine and squeezed. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”
I turned my palm over and laced my fingers with hers and cleared my thick throat. “Glad to hear it.”
“But what about you, Coach? Are you right where you’re supposed to be?”
6
Marty, Sean, Rory, and Zara stumbled through my door, their arms laden with grocery bags.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” Marty said, blowing her long bangs out of her face. “I sent you a flyer on Insta for a banked track charity exhibition in Philly. I thought maybe we could take a road trip, check it out. Full-blown slumber party time in a suite complete with greasy Philly cheesesteaks.”
“I turned my ringer off,” I said as I reached out to snag a few bags and drop them in the kitchen. “I keep getting calls from this same number over and over in New York. They never leave a message so it’s total bullshit. So much for no call registries.”
“Every other call on my phone either pops up spam risk or it’s an automated bullshit message to tell me my auto warranty is about to expire. Not sure how, since I’ve never owned a car with a warranty,” Sean said with a snort.
Snow fell from their hair and jackets as they kicked off their boots in my modest entryway. Really it was a five by seven rug in front of my door. Just inches beyond it, my living room with barely enough space for the six of us to dance.
For that reason alone, when the whole team met up, we crashed Rory’s place—really her aunt’s place—just outside of town. Her aunt hated the idea of leaving it empty fifty weeks out of the year, so she asked Rory to stay there year-around rent-free, and Rory worked double shifts for the two weeks her aunt was in town so she didn’t murder her with a corkscrew.
Rory insisted orange wasn’t her color.
I pointed out Maine inmates wore blue for the most part and even then, the colors changed depending on security level.
Rory didn’t appreciate the distinction.
Tonight was the core six. The originals. The misfits of the team who’d been consistently at every scrimmage and in every bout, without fail, for four years now.
Basically, the ones who had no life outside of derby.
Or made derby their life.
Distinguishing between the two really depended if you’re a glass half empty or half full sort.
Most days, I’m glass half full.
Especially days like today, when my favorite people filled my tiny home. I never really told them, but I loved having them here. So much so, I steered them toward staying overnight every single time. It finally became routine and now they just automatically tossed a change of clothes in their bags when they came over, ready to crash on the couch, three in a bed, in the oversized bean bag chair in the corner, wherever they could find a soft spot to land.
A vagabond at heart, my mother drifted around the country with me in tow for the better part of my life. A young, single mother with no real history, no family didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in other parents so sleepovers were nonexistent in the tiny studio apartments and rented rooms my mother could afford.
My apartment might have been a total of seven hundred square feet tops tucked over Banked Track. Not much more than my mother could manage for me, but then, I’m not a kid anymore and at the mercy of judgmental asshole parents of childhood friends. Hell, even if I were, I’d be hard-pressed to leave. I love it here. The brick building dominated the edge of Main Street since the early 1800s. Two stories, but tall enough to have been three, it had history, character, and a clear view of the comings and goings in town.
Despite my meager square footage, I had old cast-iron radiator heaters that chugged away, warming me to the bone. I got to pad along scuffed wood floors gouged with decades worth of scars, each with their own story I would never know, but sealed and clean with a subtle shine that made me smile.
The clawfoot bathtub didn’t hurt my feelings either. Especially after rough bouts or long days on my feet at The Shipwreck.
Cozy, warm, and something no one could take away from me.
A home.
Sure, it wasn’t much, but I’d earned every dollar that paid for each piece of secondhand furniture that filled it. It wouldn’t make the front page of magazines or be featured on any savvy home shows, but then perfection was overrated.
Perfection didn’t have secret stories to tell. You didn’t sink into perfection and make warm memories.
Most nights like these, with the snow coming down in sheets, I’d sit on the low-slung ledge of my tall windows and watch townspeople strolling along the sidewalk between the white twinkling lights that burned every night from just after Halloween all the way into early spring, casting a gentle glow along the way.
Other nights I popped downstairs to chat with Patti and steal glances of the old black and white framed photos from her derby days hanging over the bar. I imagined the sights, sounds, smells that must have filled the last of the banked track derby bouts of the seventies. What those moments in the spotlight meant to women in the midst of some of the most significant moments of the women’s rights movement. Women clawing their way free from the control of powerful men and coming to realize sometimes breaking free wasn’t done with bold moves, but with subterfuge using a corrupt system against itself to come out on top.
Those echoes of the past called to me, making this place the absolute right place for me.
I snatched up a few bags and hauled them to the kitchen while they struggled out of their jackets, hung up their purses and keys, and lined up their boots out of the way of the door.
“Where’s Eve?” I called out to them when after a couple minutes she still hadn’t come through the door.
“She’s running late. She said Astrid, Kelsie, and Sonya stopped by with some information about the WRDF that we might find useful. She’ll be along in a bit to fill us in,” Marty said as she sailed into my kitchen, grabbed the stockpot, and began filling it with water.
She had five pounds of shrimp fresh off the boats, her usual contribution to girls’ night. Not that we minded. The tasty little fuckers were gone inside of an hour every single time.
“The paperwork is sent so I hope it’s not something that would have given us a leg up for the actual application.”
Marty flipped her thick dark hair up in a knot at the back of her neck and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater before turning the water off and settling the pot over the gas burner. With a series of rapid clicks and a whoosh, the burner flared to life. “Honestly, it’s probably just talk. Kelsie’s grandma is back at the salon and gossiping up a storm. I swear she’s trying to make up for the six months out with that broken hip, all in one week.”
The mutterings around town had been light since Martha had been sidelined. A damn blessing. The silence. Not the hip. That would make me an asshole.
Especially when I was sporting a hell of a bruise on mine that still needed to be iced three times a day.
At least my pinched—ugh, my rib didn’t hurt anymore.
Flaming asshole.
And he was right…not that he needed to know. The last thing I needed was him in my space gloating.
“She had a few things to say about you,” Sean said, grabbing a brick of cheddar cheese, knife, and cutting board before settling in
at the drop leaf two-seater table also looking out over Main Street.
“What the hell did I do?”
Rory cocked a hip against the doorframe into the tiny kitchen and crossed her arms. “Word around town is you’ve been fraternizing with the coach.”
“If fraternizing is serving him his breakfast, I guess I’m guilty.” But it was more than breakfast. It just wasn’t what they were implying with their shrewd glances. It was more the haunting look in his eyes from the other morning that was never far away and made me wonder if I hurt him. Or embarrassed him. I still didn’t know and I hated that three days later, I still cared.
Could a guy like him even be embarrassed? Or hurt? Probably not. He was so damn sure he was right, that kind of confidence probably came from one hell of a track record being just that.
Right.
Flaming asshole.
Okay, that might be my jealousy talking. I wish I ran around with that kind of certainty.
Zara passed a six-pack over Rory’s shoulder. I snagged one as I passed it on to Marty.
“I heard he had you in one hell of a lip-lock on The Shipwreck’s smoking deck,” Zara said with a wink as she popped open a bag of Doritos.
“Hey! There was no locking of lips.” Okay, I didn’t need this shit swirling around town. Not with a coach who may or may not have cheated by letting an underage girl play on his team.
I was still on the fence with that part of his story. I had a hard time believing a cop would knowingly allow an underage player on his team, no matter how good she was. It just didn’t jibe with the aloof guy who lounged in the front row at our bout.
I would expect someone who wants to win at any cost to be snarlier than that. Mean maybe, borderline cruel in his pursuit of a win.
Mean and cruel were not words that fit with a guy who noticed a rib out of place on a stranger and fixed it.
“But you were on the deck with him,” Rory said as she peeked into the pot of water on the stove that had just started to steam.
“For a few minutes,” I said, glad I was getting this discussion out of the way before Eve got here. We hadn’t been a thing in almost a year, but things were more over for me than they were for her. I didn’t want to hurt her anymore. I did everything I could to keep it from spilling over onto the team. Dating hadn’t been my brightest idea, but the attraction was there so I ran with it without really considering what would happen if it didn’t work out.
