Roller Girl

by Vanessa North

  “Are you okay?” Her eyes go wide with concern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, just making small talk. I was wondering if your interest was a rebound thing. Which if it is—”

  “It’s not that. I still have a lot of complicated feelings for my ex, but she isn’t . . . she isn’t queer.”

  Joe’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, and then her lips fall open in a little round O. She looks at me, studying me as if trying to see signs of who I used to be, or maybe still puzzling out what I told her. Finally, she smiles. “Thank you for trusting me—I can’t imagine coming out is easy.”

  Relief floods me and frees up the words I’d been struggling to say.

  “It’s why talking about the divorce is hard. It’s why talking about my family is hard. It’s not that any of them are awful or anything—even my dickhead brother manages the right pronouns most of the time—it’s just . . .” Oh God. My nose is stinging. I can’t cry here. Not fucking now. “It’s complicated, and it ends up being easier if we don’t see each other much. Holidays, if we’re all in town.”

  “I get it. I’m sorry.” She takes my hand in hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. The contact is electric, bringing me back to the present and the attraction and the first-date excitement. “Remembering your pronouns is, like, the bare minimum of courtesy, even for dickhead brothers. I guess small talk can be a minefield for you, huh?”

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as small talk when you’re getting to know someone. Everything is a revelation.”

  Her smile breaks out then, a revelation in itself, and she nods. “Totally.”

  Stella returns with our food and slides into the booth next to me after setting it on the table. She leans toward me and whispers conspiratorially “She giving you the pitch yet?”

  “Pitch?” I look at Joe quizzically.

  Her grin fades. “Yeah. Okay, here is where I confess that I didn’t just invite you out because I think you’re cute. I totally do. But I kind of had an ulterior motive.”

  My heart sinks. The first woman I’ve actually been interested in since Lisa moved out, and she comes with ulterior motives. “I see.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” Stella stands up. “Okay, I’m gonna go.” She flashes an apologetic smile and returns to her perch behind the bar.

  “Hear me out, okay?” Joe points to a banner over the bar. “See that?”

  Lake Lovelace Rollergirls. The banner is purple and silver, with retro lettering, stars, and hearts.

  “Yeah?”

  “I founded the team—I coach them now. Stella’s our jammer.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “You ever roller-skate when you were a kid?”

  “I was born in 1977; what do you think?”

  She grins. “Okay, so, we’re a new team, we don’t have a lot of members, and we’re trying to change that. The competitive season runs from December to June, but this year’s season was a total bust. We need talent. You’re a former professional athlete. You’re strong, and if you wakeboarded professionally, you’ve got to have good balance. Also, you know how to compete.”

  Hope flares up in me. I’ve missed competition so much. Does she know what she’s dangling in front of me? Is she really asking?

  “You want me to play on your team?”

  “I want you to try out—I can’t promise anything. Before you skate in a bout, you have to pass some tests, but yeah. I want you to skate for us. I’d love to have you on the team.”

  “This is the pitch Stella was talking about?”

  Joe grins. “Yeah.”

  “Before I say yes—is it going to be a problem that I’m trans?”

  She sets down her glass and meets my gaze dead-on, unflinching. “No. If anyone on the team has a problem with a trans woman skating for us, they know where to find the door. Derby is for everyone.”

  “You believe that?” I don’t know where the sudden rush of anger comes from. “You’d really let your established skaters go for me?”

  She shrugs. “I’m going to be honest; I don’t think it’s gonna be a problem. But yeah, I would. And if I’m wrong, and it is a problem, then I’m on your side. Just because I’ve known them longer doesn’t mean I want bigots on my team.”

  I swallow the sudden lump in my throat.

  “So, you’re the coach. Stella’s the jammer.” I make a mental note to google the term online later. “And you want me to skate.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, this isn’t a date, is it?” Disappointment tempers my excitement at the prospect of team sports.

  She flinches now. “I’m sorry. I like you, but if you skate for us . . .” She glances over to Stella. “It could be a problem if I dated you. But a few of us on the team are queer and we’re all pretty close. We hang out here or go to the gay bar together. I’d like to be friends, you know?”

  If I want to date her—she hasn’t said she isn’t interested in dating, only that it could be a problem—I can’t skate for them. And she’s already made it clear that she wants me to try out. Which means she probably doesn’t want to date me more than she wants me to skate. But it’s not just skating, she’s offering, it’s a fellowship with other women. Women like me, queer women—that sounds like the kind of friendship sorely missing from my life. Not that Ben and Eddie aren’t the absolute best—but sometimes a girl wants the companionship of other girls. As for the rest of it? Competition and a dangerous sport? I’m all over that.

  “I’ll try out.” A thrill runs down my arms, and I can’t hold back a smile. But even though I’m glad, and I’m full of anticipation, a small part of me feels a pang of what might have been.

  “I’ll send you some YouTube videos first, okay? And you can call me or text or whatever if you change your mind.” She grins and shakes her head. “I’m so excited—we’re in the middle of a recruitment cycle right now, but depending on your skills we can probably get you up to speed with the rest of the fresh meat.”

  “Fresh meat?” I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “Derby talk. You’ll get used to it.” Her grin falls a bit. “I mean—I guess I’m taking that for granted. I hope you’ll like it. I’ve got a good feeling.”

  Our small talk moves to other subjects, safe subjects, as we finish our beers and order another round. I’m relieved to find out that the rasp in her voice isn’t from smoking, but from paralysis in one of her vocal cords after a childhood infection.

  “Yeah, I’ve been talking like a pack-a-day smoker since I was six!” She laughs. “It used to bother me, back in school. But now I like how distinctive it is. No one else sounds like me. No yelling for me though, no loud cheering at the bouts. Can’t risk the damage.”

  Too soon, the second round is finished, and even though I can’t drag my eyes away from her lips, her smile, the weird-huge spark between us, I also know I have a client at 5:30 a.m. and so we close out our tab—which she insists on paying—and then she walks me to my car. She slides her hand into mine, casual and easy.

  “You aren’t on the team yet,” she whispers, backing me up against my car, her hips hitting mine. The closeness of her, the scent of her skin, and the cocky little smile are a sudden, sharp turn-on.

  Fuck roller derby.

  I lean in as she rises on tiptoe and presses her lips to mine. A perfect fit. If the connection between us so far has been sparks, her kiss is an inferno.

  One of my hands slides down to her waist; the other buries itself in her hair. She whimpers into my mouth, and I had forgotten—it’s been so long, so fucking long since I’ve shared a first kiss with someone, and she feels so good. Her hand slides up from my waist to my breast, cupping me through the lace of my pushup bra. My whole body goes hot and heavy at once as her thumb circles, brushes, and circles again over my nipple.

  I lower my face to that sweet, spicy-smelling place where her neck meets shoulder, and I nip right there on salty skin.

  “Damn, girl.” She mumbles
against my lips, but her thumb keeps teasing, rolling my nipple between it and a forefinger.

  I drop my head against the car and take in a deep breath to clear my mind and calm my racing heart.

  “I should go,” I murmur, but then I take another plucking kiss, which leads to a bite on my earlobe and her leg thrust between mine, pressing into me and making me arch, craving friction and closeness.

  Her lips trace from my ear down my neck; goose bumps erupt along my skin, and I shudder against her. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this turned on.

  “Joe,” I whisper. “We’re in the parking lot.”

  A low laugh rumbles out of her as she pulls back, her short hair all rumpled and sexy looking. “And you have an early client.”

  “Yeah.” I push down the swell of regret. “And if I’m going to skate on your team . . .”

  She flinches, her swagger falling away and a pinched look coming to her eyes. “We probably shouldn’t—”

  “You’re sexy as hell.” I blurt it out, wishing I had it in me to play it cool, but I never have; I’ve always been a heart on my sleeve kind of girl. “But I just got divorced and I shouldn’t get involved in something complicated right now.”

  She nods. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, I wish Stella had kept her mouth shut and I’d never mentioned derby. I’d be setting the alarm on my bedside table to wake you up for your early client.” There’s a new teasing smile in her voice.

  “Well, maybe I’ll suck at skating.” I offer, and we both laugh.

  “Do you really want to do it?”

  “Yeah. I think I really do.”

  “Come here.” She pulls me into a quick hug, letting go almost as fast as she grabs me, then she takes a few steps back. “I’m so glad. I’ll send you videos, okay?”

  “Sounds great.” I give her a little wave. “We’ll talk soon.”

  I admire the easy sway of her hips as she crosses the parking lot to her van. She looks over her shoulder once and smiles sweetly. Is she feeling this bittersweet tug-of-war too? When she turns back, I unlock my car and climb inside. I’m halfway home before I realize I’m humming “Suspicious Minds.”

  I’m sitting on the hood of my car outside Reed’s Gym at quarter after five the next morning, iced coffee in hand, when Nate Reed pulls up next to me and rolls down his window, his face still red from his 4 a.m. run.

  “Durham, you got a client coming in?”

  Nate’s one of those gruff ex-military guys who calls everyone by their last names. At first, I found it off-putting, but then I saw how some of the clients responded to it, like it gave them that little bit of oomph they needed to grind out that last rep. Now I’m used to it, though I still wish he’d call me Tina.

  “Jeremy. He’s got a competition coming up.”

  Nate grunts and cuts his car engine. “Another one? What kind of schedule do you have him on? Kid’s got more muscles than sense. Stay on him about not overtraining.”

  Bitterness washes through me. Nate never used to question me about training schedules. I’m a damn good trainer, and I’ve been working with Jeremy for years. Yes, he got an overtraining injury and missed a competition last year, but that was because the stubborn kid started training for a marathon without telling me and without adjusting his lifting schedule, not because I hadn’t been doing my job.

  “Right,” I grit out, fighting the urge to flip Nate the bird. I need this job, and no matter how casual and laid-back my work environment is, some lines you don’t cross.

  I follow Nate, a great hulk of grumbling and muscle, as he makes his way to the front door. He holds it open for me and smiles. It softens his ruddy face, transforming him from the hardened Marine to the favorite uncle I never had.

  “You look pretty today. You do something different with your hair?”

  A blush heats my face as I brush past him and finger the end of my ponytail. “No, I don’t think so. It needs a trim.”

  He shakes his head. “Maybe it’s the makeup. New . . . shit, I don’t know what any of that stuff is called. You look good, Durham. Take the fucking compliment.”

  “Yes, sir.” I laugh, forgiving him—a little—for the crack about Jeremy’s training. “Thanks.”

  Jeremy arrives right on time. I catch a glimpse of him out the windows, jogging up to the gym, pouring sweat already. He’s in his early twenties and all of five feet seven inches, a bundle of wild energy and humor, grinning as he comes through the door and shivers at the touch of the air conditioning. We don’t keep it really cold or anything, but a summer morning in Lake Lovelace is like a sauna—and even the slightest amount of air conditioning feels icy.

  We take a few minutes to talk over where he’s at in his training, whether he has any unusual aches or pains. He swings his left elbow in a circle.

  “Little bit, in this shoulder.” He gestures with his chin and then looks up at me. “It’s tight in the mornings, and I had a twinge when I was working my traps last week.”

  “Did you ice it?”

  He grins at me, ducking his head. “Twenty minutes, every eight hours, and I took ibuprofen too, but not before coming in. Even though it’s leg day.”

  “Good. All right, let’s get started.”

  Jeremy is one of those clients I mostly spot and advise—I don’t do his workout with him like I might with a newbie. In theory, he knows what he’s doing. He should be in great shape for his competition, but when his legs start shaking halfway through his squats, I call a stop. Goddamn it.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll grab a shake after my workout.”

  “Jeremy.” I try to make my voice gentle, but it comes out with an edge to it.

  He hangs his head like a scolded puppy, then his words spill from him in a defensive tumble.

  “I don’t have an eating disorder or anything. I just wanted to get a run in before the workout, and I didn’t have time for both.”

  “Dude.” I start moving the weights back to the rack. “Defensive much? The fact that you went straight to ‘eating disorder’ should concern you. You cannot—cannot—maintain this kind of schedule without adequate food. You aren’t giving your muscles the fuel they need to make it through these workouts. And don’t tell me you had an energy drink like that’s enough. Energy supplements are made of caffeine and God-knows-what. You know better. And Jer—” I put my hand on his shoulder and he looks up “—I’m not going to train you if you don’t eat.”

  His body tightens. “You can’t stop training me.”

  I flinch away from the hint of menace in his voice. “Calm down, please.”

  “I’m not—” He glances down at his clenched fists, then loosens them. “I promise I’ll do better with the eating.”

  “Skip the run before you skip the meal.”

  “I’ll try.” He scrubs a hand across his face.

  “I’m serious, Jeremy, I won’t train you if you’re not eating. It’s dangerous.”

  “Are you firing me as a client?”

  Am I? Jesus, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I can’t exactly afford to fire any clients right now. And I don’t think Nate can afford for me to fire anyone either. He hasn’t said anything, but an empty gym speaks for itself. But beyond that—this is Jeremy. My five thirty workout buddy. Literally the reason I get up in the mornings.

  “No. But you’re done for today. I’ve got some bananas and peanut butter in the lunch room, and orange juice. Before you run home, you need to eat something.”

  He wrinkles up his nose. “Juice has a lot of sugar in it.”

  Rolling my eyes, I start toward the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “And you have about three percent body fat. You need sugar—and protein. And fat. It’s called fuel for those muscles you work so hard.”

  In the kitchen, I lean against the fridge and try to collect myself. Should I tell Nate? He’s going to want to know if we’re in danger of losing a client. Can I even help Jeremy? I rack my br
ain, trying to think what I know of his family life. He has—had?—a girlfriend. What’s her name? Emma? Emily?

  I spread the peanut butter on a piece of whole wheat bread, grab a banana, and pour a bit of juice in a cup. As if for a freaking child. The boy needs more than a trainer—he needs a keeper. Shaking my head, I make my way back to the free-weight area.

  And he’s gone. His bag is gone. His towel is gone. He’s gone.

  Fuck.

  “Hey, did you see Jeremy leave?” I pop my head into Nate’s office, where he’s hunched over a computer, pecking at the keys with two fingers.

  “No—is he done already?”

  “I cut his workout short because he was shaking. Working out on an empty stomach. I went to get him some carbs and he disappeared.”

  Nate crosses his arms over his chest and sits back in his chair.

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it was so totally awkward. I told him I wasn’t going to train him if he didn’t eat, and he completely overreacted, talking about eating disorders—super defensive.” I repeat our conversation to Nate, whose face grows grimmer and grimmer.

  “That fucking kid.” He shakes his head. “All right, call him later to check on him, but trust your gut. Eating disorders are nothing to mess around with. And if he’s dealing with that kind of shit, he needs real help. I’ve got brochures somewhere.”

  “Brochures?” I’d laugh if it weren’t so serious. “You think the kid’s gonna stop restricting calories because of a brochure?”

  Nate shrugs. “It’s not like we can afford to hire a nutritionist. And we can’t afford to lose a client either. Jesus. We’re barely keeping the lights on. I mean, obviously the kid’s health is the important thing, but . . .”

  “What about summer memberships? Beat the heat specials?”

  “We saw an uptick in those last month, but they’ve leveled off. People seem to be getting their exercise somewhere else this summer. I knew we shouldn’t have done that two-years-up-front promotion for New Year’s. We aren’t getting the recurring payments we need.”