by Casey Hagen
“I’m going to ask you to refrain from shitting on the track. Losing is one thing, going out like that…mmm, gonna have to give that a hard no,” Eve said.
Laser lights flashed and danced over the track in the center of the brand-new Ascend Sports Complex. Music rumbled in the background as ad images flashed on the screens, one facing in every direction for the audience stuck in the nosebleeds.
Not that we expected to pack the place today. This wasn’t about that. It was about charity…and it didn’t hurt Ascend to have the bit of good press that went along with it.
Priest waved his hand at us, calling us over to a quiet spot in the corner. “Okay, a quick rundown. These teams all know each other. You’re going to use that to your advantage,” he said, kneeling down while we all leaned in over him. “You’re not seasoned on the bank in the same way. You don’t have default moves. They’ve never seen you play. I know it sounds like those are all negatives. But they’re not. They’re all going to be your advantage out there.”
His gaze swept through all of us, his sole focus on the events today and getting us to tomorrow where we’d wake up and do it all again one last time.
I took my cues from him. Too much hung in the balance to do anything else but trust him and follow his lead.
Our other baggage, we’d left it in Galloway Bay. It wasn’t going anywhere.
“They haven’t been training the way you guys have. Their season ended just over a month ago and with the confidence they have in their experience, they would have done a few practices, but nothing even close to what you guys put in day in and day out. Use that.”
Jackson passed out water—yeah, he ended up coming with us because there was no way he was going to let Priest uninvite him—something about all that powerful feminine energy being his kryptonite or something like that.
“They’re already discussing you guys because you’re the only team new to bank. The conversation is dying almost as soon as it starts because they’re dismissing you as a non-threat which couldn’t be further from the truth. The first round they’re going to think you got lucky. But by the end of the second round, they’re going to realize they were wrong and should have been paying attention.”
“Oh, so that’s when they’re going to try to kick our ass in earnest then. Cool. Got it,” Tilly said, sounding just like one of us, making me smile.
I had to be honest, it was probably a dick move, but I had serious thoughts of pilfering her from her own derby team. She’d be perfect with us.
And she already worked with the kids at Crossroads like we did. It was a win-win.
“They’re going to hit that point where not only are you a threat, but you’re an interloper. So, they’re going to be looking to put you in your place. Don’t let them. They get no real estate in your head. Got it?” Priest said, piercing us with a glance one at a time.
“No room at the inn,” Dixie said, slapping on her helmet and letting the straps dangle. “Got it.”
“You’ve built up stamina when they haven’t. But they’re going to hit you harder and tap into your energy in a new way. Don’t let it psych you out. You have the endurance.”
“But really, if we poop out there…” Rory said, making us all laugh, breaking the thread of tension thrumming through us as a team.
“No shitting on the track. Hide your shame like the rest of us,” he said with a laugh. “Now, play hard, play clean, and remember why you’re here.”
Five rounds. Two quarters each.
We were the third bout of the morning. I didn’t know if I was happy about having the advantage of studying some of the teams now or if I just wanted to get in there and get this done. Every minute that stretched into the next, jam after jam, bodies colliding, the shouts, the grunts, jammers breaking away, came with a growing awareness that we were just like them.
Our story beginnings may have been radically different, the time invested unmatched, but nothing on that bank was a smoking gun giving one team an edge over another.
It would all come down to communication, perseverance, and laying everything we had on the track.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Mayhem?” Priest asked, his arm resting against my shoulder—he did that—even though we agreed we needed to focus, he kept that physical connection in the smallest of ways.
Maybe for him. Maybe for me. Either way, it was exactly what I needed to put what came after out of my head and focus on now.
“I expected to feel like an underdog, but I don’t. Does that make me a conceited bitch?” I asked with a smirk.
“Not at all. You’re an athlete through and through. Your level of understanding when it comes to your competitors—it’s unmatched.”
“I—really?”
“Really. You’re one hell of a package,” he said with a smile. “And you guys are about to be up,” he said, jutting his chin at the bank right as the whistle peeled through the air.
“This is it,” I said quietly, pressing a hand to my stomach.
“This is it,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Now go kick their ass out there.”
We went up against Death Knell first. A banked track team out of California. Players who’d been practically born on the track according to their bio.
But Priest was right.
They dismissed us, and the minute we got an edge in points, they started to fracture. Glares, harsh words, ignored direction—their communication tanked entirely, giving us pocket after pocket. We broke away, finally taking the bout with a lead of fourteen points.
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. You have an hour before you’re up again. They’re going to dismiss this as beginner’s luck. You’re going to go in and show them that it’s not. You got me?”
“This is fucking great. Guys, I’m totally getting lady bone for the idea of a banked track at Sid’s. We really need to figure out how to make that shit happen,” Marty said as we skated to our seats.
“Money. We need money,” Sean said.
I laughed, slid my helmet off my head, and brushed my fingers through my hair. “One thing at a time, guys…Crossroads first. World domination after that.”
I glanced over at Priest, looking for a sign that he overheard Marty’s comment, but he had his attention on plays, his head together with Jackson’s as they looked out at the track and the team that had just started.
When he came home, I wanted there to be no flicker of doubt as to what he came home for.
Round two unfolded almost exactly like the first, until the last half of the second and final quarter. Shrewd stares replaced eye rolls; the communication tightened up as did their plays on the track.
We took the win, but the points margin narrowed to nine. I did everything I could to put the numbers out of my head, knowing it wasn’t logical to assume the point gap would continue to close by five points each time.
“You better not be thinking about those numbers, Mayhem,” he said quietly, stepping up behind me.
“Get out of my head, Priest.”
“Never,” he said, resting his hands on my shoulders, his fingers curling into the muscles there, making me groan.
“How’s the hand?”
“A dull throb. Jackson jumped up my ass about icing it before. I should probably thank him for that,” I said, letting my weight fall against his chest for just a second.
Warm and strong, he dug at the knots as we watched a penalty play out for Black Heart Barbies, giving Maximum Penalty the chance to take the lead.
“You’re up against Smoke Screen next. Number 268 gets overzealous. There’ll be more illegal hits.”
“Shouldn’t you be telling everybody.”
“I will, but she goes for jammers. She likes to be in the heart of the action. She’s going to come for you. Just remember why you’re here and don’t let her bait you and you’re going to be fine.”
He was spot on. Number 268’s eyes tracked me every time I set up on the jam line with the tenacity o
f a bloodhound. The minute the second whistle blew, I caught up to the pack, her moves so much like Tilly’s had been but without the personal vendetta, making it a whole lot easier for me to resist the trap.
They were all just pieces fueled by the pursuit of a win, their chance of success shaped by how tight they tried to hold on to the control. How adept they were at shifting and changing.
By the time the final whistle blew, we’d taken them by twelve points.
Priest looked at the score and shot me that “told you so” grin.
Flaming asshole.
But my flaming asshole.
He looked good here...coaching, encouraging—completely at ease despite the stakes.
Because he belonged.
With derby and with us.
If anything, late afternoon only solidified the truth when we pulled out two more wins under his lead.
Sending us into the finals on day two.
Several of us dripping with sweat, out of breath, every muscle screaming, fresh bruises flaring to life, we wrapped our arms around one another and leaned in a circle.
“Did we really just pull that off?” Rory asked.
“Fuck yeah, we did. And you didn’t shit on the track. A raving success,” Sean said with a pant, still trying to catch her breath as the final four teams for the first round on day two flashed on the screen. Beautifully Brutal going head-to-head with the Fighting Furies at nine in the morning.
“I need a masseuse. Someone suave, with an accent. Big hands,” Marty said.
“Order two, please,” Zara said, waving a finger as she also struggled to move air since pulling off the final three points that took the last bout.
“And a bat in his pants. That would be good too,” Marty added.
“Ah, the slide from recovery to porno,” Tilly said with a breathless laugh. “Always a crowd pleaser.”
“Come on, ladies. You kicked ass out there. Let’s grab some food, take care of the injuries, and get ready to do it all again in the morning,” Priest said as he stepped up to us.
“There’s the bat in the pants you ordered,” Rory muttered, making us all burst out laughing.
Because we were totally immature.
And we’d just kicked ass.
We crashed by eight that night and woke up at six the next morning, stiff and hunched—nothing a swim in the heated pool downstairs couldn’t fix, followed by fifteen minutes in the hot tub to get our muscles loose and ready to go.
The mood shifted at the arena on day two. More spectators, the teams in their separate corners, constant glances at the banked track.
The announcements grew more animated and frequent, thanking sponsors and players. The kind of thing you usually tuned out at sporting events, except here, when the charity feature flashed on the big screen, it grabbed me right by the throat.
Each of the four charities vying for the first-place prize got their time in the spotlight on the big screens, with smooth narration from an announcer over the sound system.
And when they got to Crossroads my heart hammered in my ears, the breath stuttering in my lungs at the picture that flashed up there. Me, with Rylee, Addison, Ellie, Noah, and Leo all piled into my arms on Priest’s track, a dopey smile on my face and tears in my eyes.
“Where did they get that?” I asked when he stepped up next to me.
“Wes snapped a picture and gave it to the paper—and me.”
Two emotions swept through me, going head-to-head like the final teams today—sweet relief at seeing their faces, the reminder of what I was here fighting for...and bone-chilling terror we wouldn't pull it off.
“Cain,” I whispered.
His head snapped up at the sound of his real name on my lips. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m wobbling.”
“Nope!” He took my arms and turned me to face him as he bent down so we were eye level. “Not on my watch you’re not. You’re the heart of this team. They take their cues from you and you’re not going to fall apart. Do you hear me?”
I shook my head and gulped back the threat of tears. “Yeah.”
He took my face in his hands and kissed me. The kind of kiss we’d been avoiding here. Keeping our relationship and this exhibition separate.
“No wobbling,” he whispered as he let my mouth go, but pulling me right against his chest, his warm arms infusing every last bit of confidence and energy he had into me. “I’m right here every step of the way with you, Maisy. I’m right here.”
Until he left.
I glanced up at the screen right before the image shifted, catching the trusting look in Rylee’s eyes.
They were my future.
We just needed to do what we came here to do and not settle for anything less.
Facing off against The Fighting Furies, the hits came harder, the knowledge that this was it for one of us keeping the pressure on the pulse point, pushing us to the brink, making tempers snap, and communication breakdown on the track on both sides.
They took the lead right away and held it through the third quarter, their defense constantly sending us to the inside and out of bounds, attacking every bit of momentum we brought.
Priest started switching us out more often, switching up our sets, keeping our jammers as energized as possible. By the time we had just a minute and ten seconds left in the bout, we only led by a point, a lead we clawed our way to and fought to hold.
“Mayhem!” Priest barked out.
“Yeah,” I said, not taking it personally; he’d been barking at us all morning. Every point on the board keeping him on the edge.
“They keep giving you gaps on the high side. They aren’t huge, but I’ve seen you blast through them before. They let up when you’re at the bottom of the track, but you're fast. Pay attention to that so if they give you the shot you can run it. Give them your back on the high side and skate through. When you come around, stay high, they’ll think you’re going for it again. If you need to, drop low and take the inside edge.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t worry about anything else. Just this. Show me what you’ve got,” he said with a flash of a smile.
I set up behind the jam line and waited for the second whistle, the jammer for the other team out of breath next to me.
Any other time I would have sympathized, but right now, I wanted to win and every struggle for air was an edge for me.
The second whistle sounded, and I took off, outrunning her to the pack. All moving pieces. Action and reaction. Tilly and Eve working together to block their jammer but making a gap for me in the middle.
Closing before I could get there, I went low and watched their players shift with me, leaving the pocket on the high side just like he said.
My breath echoed in my ears as I remember what he told me. Digging in my toes, I ran the line. Eve and Tilly moved in to block their players from getting to me at the same time. Their pivot broke away and tried to catch me as I raced up the track. I turned sideways, facing the rail, giving her my back, just daring her to take the hit as I went into the turn, veering around the corner as I snuck past, my feet burning as I held my edges before I spun forward and cleared the pack.
Their jammer broke out just seconds after me, her pace the same as mine, keeping her a few seconds back, leaving me a narrow window to score points and call off the jam before she could get points of her own and have a chance to take the win.
Tilly glanced back and I saw it coming. She went into full protection mode. Not against me, but for me.
And she knew I liked the inside.
It narrowed down to seconds. Me watching Tilly. Tilly keeping her eye on me while using her body to drive the pack up the back just enough to give me a shot.
I came in fast, got low, braced my hips, and started to slide by as one of their blockers stepped out, planting their skate in front of me.
At the last second, I pushed off the toe, jumping her attempt at sending me to the infield, cleared the pack, and called off the jam by
tapping my hands on my hips.
“Yes!” Priest shouted, pumping his fist in the air as my team erupted in cheers as the scoreboard rolled over and we took the win by two points.
By late morning Maven Voyage had taken the win in their bout and the final bout was set. At two in the afternoon, we’d face off one more time.
And no matter what happened, we’d already won fifty thousand dollars.
One year for Crossroads.
We’d bought time.
But we needed so much more.
The exertion began taking its toll, on our team’s stamina, and on theirs. When we began again, the exhaustion and strain in our eyes mirrored theirs. Our movements were clunky at times and sometimes downright erratic.
Tempers flared. The desire to win making each side a bit more desperate.
On the line for one final jam, I took off at the whistle and caught the pack one more time. The hits came harder, some illegal as both sides gave everything they got. Skates tangled. Skaters went down but hopped right back up again.
Maven Voyage’s jammer passed the star to their pivot, turning her into their lead jammer. I was just about to push through and chase her down, driving my one skate in as a wedge between two blockers, when the blocker next to me took an illegal hit to the chest, her arms flying out with the force and her elbow catching me in the eye. I hit the track as Maven Voyage’s jammer came in and scored three points.
The final jam.
Maven Voyage won.
The whistle blew and I lay there trying to catch my breath as I stared up at the iron framing in the roof of the complex, the lights shooting in all directions, catching me in the eye.
Nothing was keeping him here anymore.
We’d just lost but managed to come in second place when we wouldn’t have placed at all, and all I could think is that he would spiral now.
He could check us off his list of people who needed him and I knew just what would happen when he did.
He’d run.
The blocker who took me out skated over and offered me a hand. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, nothing some ice and a cocktail can’t fix.”
Except neither were going to keep me from the broken heart coming.
