On Saturday, I slept in till after eight, which was quite a feat for the girl who had inherited the Morning Person Gene from her former military father and was usually out of bed with the birds each day. Perhaps it was the Advil PM I'd downed at bedtime the night before to combat the pain and stiffness that had settled into my joints since the accident. My first conscious thought was: Don't move. Because as soon as I did…
"Sweet, holy mother!"
Tears sprang to my eyes as I forced my legs toward the side of the bed. I groaned and prayed for death. For a moment, I considered pulling the comforter up over my head and hiding there all day, but my sore arms couldn't bear the weight of the blanket. Ultimately, thoughts of roller skates and West Adler slipped past the suffocating clouds of agony and coaxed me from my fluffy cocoon.
My body almost audibly creaked as I wrenched myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom for a few more caplets of ibuprofen. I winced as I pulled the bandage off my bloody elbow. Then I poured hydrogen peroxide over the wound and swore as it bubbled on the raw flesh. I recovered it with a thick piece of gauze, a strip of plastic wrap, and enough athletic tape to bind the hull of the Titanic. The waterproofing was necessary because braving the shower was next.
And the shower was a mistake, no matter what Most Eligible Bachelor might have been looming in the future of my day. The hot water seared into scrapes and cuts too small for the naked eye to see. And if I thought washing and conditioning my hair was painful, it didn't even compare to the pain of blow drying.
"The things we do for men," I whined to my reflection in the mirror over the roar of the dryer.
Before finally leaving the bathroom, I gathered my dirty laundry from the basket and carried it to the washer in the hallway.
Olivia didn't emerge from her bedroom until almost time for lunch. I was folding my load of whites on the couch when she stumbled out of her room like she'd awoken from the dead. Her wavy brown hair was matted across her face, and her eyes were bloodshot and swollen. I had honestly never seen her look worse, and considering we'd known each other longer than I could remember, that was saying something.
I dropped the pair of cotton shorts I was folding onto my lap. "Whoa. Rough night?"
She rubbed her nose, then shuffled behind me toward the kitchen. "Some days, I really think I mortgaged my soul to buy this restaurant, only to put myself into an early grave."
"What happened this time?"
Olivia was the owner of a trendy hotspot in East Nashville called Lettuce Eat. Her restaurant specialized in farm-to-table cuisine and bad jokes. Each menu item was a silly pun rather than an appetizing description that actually made sense.
Case in point? Their newest side dish—Bitch, Peas—based on the current hottest song on the country charts.
Fortunately, the food was delicious and worthy of all the hype the names generated.
She pulled a mug from the cabinet and put it under the spout of the Keurig before pressing the start button. "I had a waitress poison her ex-boyfriend's dinner last night."
My mouth fell open. "No."
"Yes." She got my carton of milk out of the refrigerator. "The girl came in all red faced and snot nosed last week because, apparently, he cheated on her."
I sighed. "You're such a sympathetic boss."
When the coffee maker hissed to a stop, Olivia poured in the milk and carried her mug to the opposite end of the sectional sofa. "You have no idea the crap I deal with. Anyway, he came in last night to talk to her and had dinner at the bar." She propped her feet up on the coffee table. "Well, I guess he has a severe peanut allergy and she holds a bit of a grudge."
I pinched my lips together.
She nodded. "The girl poured about a half a cup of our Thai peanut sauce all over his grilled Marco Pollo chicken before slamming it down in front of him. We got the whole thing on the security camera."
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"Anaphylactic shock. Stopped breathing and everything. We had to call an ambulance." She slurped as she drank. "The cops came and arrested her right before closing. I was at the police station until about four this morning."
I cut my eyes over at her. "Are you sure you didn't poison someone? That totally sounds like something you would do."
She grinned. "I know, right? But it really wasn't me."
I laughed and shook my head.
"My job is never boring. What happened to you yesterday? Why were you getting into cars with strangers? Didn't your daddy warn you about that shit?"
I balled a pair of ankle socks together and added them to the stack on the coffee table. "Yes. My dad would have a stroke if he knew. Don't you dare tell him."
"I won't. What happened?"
"I got in a wreck."
She frowned. "Who did you hit?"
My mouth fell open. "Hey! How do you know someone didn't hit me?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You backed into the building manager's golf cart the day you moved in, and you took out the security arm at the front gate of the complex just two weeks ago."
"I didn't know it came down between every car!"
"There's a sign, Lucy."
I opened my mouth for a rebuttal, but I didn't have one.
"Nobody was hurt, right?" she asked.
I shook my head. "I'm really sore, but it's nothing serious. My car, on the other hand…" My bottom lip poked out. "The guy at the body shop said to prepare for a total loss. The adjuster is supposed to be there on Monday."
"That sucks."
"I know. The truck I rear-ended barely had a scratch. It messed up his bumper," I said.
She made a sour face. "I'd hate to see your insurance payments." She nudged me with her socked foot. "I just had a position open up on my wait staff if you need some extra income."
I laughed. "No thanks, but I appreciate the offer."
"How did you get home from work yesterday if you don't have a car?" she asked.
"Had to call an Uber," I said. "On the upside—"
"There's an upside to a traffic accident?"
"I met someone."
"Who?"
"The guy I rear-ended."
She snickered behind her cup like a twelve-year-old boy who'd heard his first dirty joke.
"Really mature, Olivia."
"Is this guy the reason you want to go see roller derby today?"
I put the laundry basket on the floor and tucked my legs underneath me. "Yes. He's a sponsor of the team."
"What's his name?"
"Have you heard of Adler Construction?"
She shrugged. "Sure. I've seen their signs."
"His name is West Adler," I said.
Her face scrunched up. "That's not a guy's name. It's a street name." She made the shape of a phone with her hand and pressed it to the side of her face. "Hey, Lucy. I'll meet you this afternoon at the corner of Main and West Adler."
I threw a couch cushion at her, then winced from the pain.
Laughing, she shielded her coffee from my attack.
"If he asked you to come, why do I have to go?" she asked.
"Well, he didn't ask me."
She blinked with surprise. "So we're stalking him."
"No!" Yes, I was totally stalking him. "I'm just hoping to run into him again."
She got up and walked toward the kitchen, glancing back over her shoulder as she went. "Not that I'm an expert on guys or anything, but I don't think the way to a man's heart is by crashing into his car multiple times."
"You know what I mean."
"Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad you're getting out of the house to go somewhere other than work." She opened the refrigerator door. "Have you done anything fun since you moved here?"
I folded a white camisole into a perfect square. "Does visiting you at work count?"
"No."
My nose wrinkled. "Then no." I tried to remember the last time I'd been out, period, even before I moved to Nashville. Nothing easily came to mind.
"And, of all things to do in this great city, you want to go watch roller derby," she said.
"I spent a lot of time on their website yesterday. It looks like fun. Have you ever been?" I asked.
"No." She returned a second later carrying one of the yogurts I'd bought. "But I've seen their flyers up all over East Nashville."
I pointed at her. "Are you going to eat all my food?"
She spoke around the spoon in her mouth. "I'll pay you back."
I pushed myself off the couch, then bent gingerly to pick up my laundry basket. "What should I wear tonight?"
"Clothes."
"I don't know why I waste my breath talking to you," I said, shaking my head as I crossed the room.
"Hey! What time are we leaving?" she called out as I walked down the hall.
"Doors open at six!"
The lobby of the Municipal Auditorium downtown was packed with an eclectic sampling of social diversity. In front of us in the ticket line was a young, suburban-type couple with a toddler. Behind us? A grown man in a teal tutu. There were nurses wearing scrubs and old people wearing clown wigs. A group of frat boys was chugging beers near the entrance, and I may have spotted a vampire in the corner.
Olivia gripped my good elbow with eyes as wide as mine felt.
"Well, this is interesting," I whispered.
She leaned close. "Interesting doesn't cut it. I feel like we've wandered into a Tim Burton film."
When we finally reached the ticket window, a small girl with a jet-black bob, bright green eyes, and cherry-red lips looked up at us. She had a colorful butterfly tattoo covering her chest from her clavicle to her cleavage, and she had a ring through her nose like a bull. She was chomping on a piece of bubble gum. "How many?"
I spoke through the hole in the glass. "Two, please."
"Twenty dollars." She blew a pink bubble half the size of her face as she traded my crisp twenty for two tickets. "Enjoy the bout."
"The bout?" Olivia asked as we walked toward the entry doors.
I just shrugged.
A large man wearing a Music City Rollers T-shirt tore our tickets and handed us two program booklets as we walked into the outer hall around the arena. It was loud with the sounds of the crowd bouncing off the concrete block walls and windows. The busy room smelled like fresh paint and popcorn. Olivia pointed toward a concession stand. "They serve beer."
As we waited in line, I flipped through the program. In the middle was a two-page spread of headshots—or maybe mugshots—of the players. I nudged Olivia with my elbow. "Listen to some of these names. Lady Fury, Black-Eye Candy, Bad News Baroness, Princess Die, eL’s Bells, Medusa…"
She peeked over my shoulder. "Look for a girl named Haley Jones."
"There is nothing close to a normal name on this list," I said, shaking my head. "Never mind. There's a girl named Susan."
Olivia ordered a beer. "Lucy, what do you want?"
"Diet Coke," I answered.
A few minutes later, we carried our drinks and hot dogs (that I bought) inside the arena and slowly made our way up the grandstands, one painful step at a time. We found seats just a few rows up from the team benches. I looked around the large room. "Where's the big bowl?"
"The what?" Olivia asked.
I made a circular motion in the air with my hot dog. "In the movies, they skate around a big bowl thing."
A man who reminded me a lot of my dad turned around in front of us. "Most teams don't play on those anymore. See the big circles on the floor? This is flat track roller derby."
I scrunched up my nose. "Well, that's a little disappointing."
He chuckled. "I thought so too when I came to my first bout. When I was your age, it was still the bowl."
"You come to these a lot?" Olivia asked with a mouthful of hot dog.
He nodded. "My daughter is one of the blockers. She goes by Riveter Styx." He held up his program. "There are rules inside to help you understand the game."
"Thanks for the tip," I said.
He turned back around. "Anytime."
After finishing my hot dog, I spread the program across my knees and flipped to the rules of the game. "All right, are you ready for some Roller Derby Fast Facts?" I asked Olivia.
She took a deep swig of beer. "Educate me."
I began to read. "Roller derby is played on a flat, oval track with five players from each team, one jammer (denoted by a star on her helmet) and four blockers. Blockers play defense and offense. They try to stop the opposing jammer while trying to help their own jammer. Jammers score one point for each opposing player they pass. The team with the most points at the end of the bout wins."
"That doesn't sound too complicated," she said.
I sipped my soda and shook my head. "No, but there are about a bazillion rules."
She looked at me and crumpled the paper from her hot dog. "Only a bazillion?"
"No tripping, no elbows—"
"Aww…they cut out all the fun stuff," she whined.
I surveyed the room. It was a big arena with probably ten thousand seats. Not that there were ten thousand people there. Almost all the upper seating was empty, except for a couple of teenagers making out on the top row. The lower bowl of seats was almost full. And in front of us, near the oval track, people were sitting on the floor. Even though I'd never seen the game, somehow that seemed like a bad idea.
I didn't see West anywhere.
"Is that a penalty box?" Olivia asked, drawing my attention toward the direction of her finger.
On the left side of the track were two high-back white benches with the words BAD GIRLS painted across the back. I laughed and looked down at my program. "Yes. Players who have received a major penalty will be sent to the penalty box for thirty seconds."
A loud ruckus caught our attention near the doorway we'd come in. A very, uh, spirited group of individuals were running into the room with pom-poms, megaphones, wigs, and face paint. A few were wearing bright teal tutus. One of them was the guy who'd been behind us in the lobby.
Olivia and I exchanged amused glances. "What the hell is going on?" she asked.
The crowd went wild. People jumped up and cheered, clapping and waving Music City banners. The lights flickered a few times, and then the music blared as the tutu group ran around the bottom of the stands whooping and yelling, riling up the crowd.
A man in a full tuxedo and bright purple top hat walked out to the center of the track. He put the microphone to his mouth and held up his free arm. "Give it up, Nashville, for your Music City Jeerleaders!"
We put our drinks down and stood, clapping along with the rest of the fans. I looked over at Olivia. "Jeerleaders." I laughed. "That's pretty funny."
Across the room, the Jeerleaders formed two lines out from a wide gap in the center of the bleachers.
The announcer raised the microphone again. “My name is Daddy Ho’maker, and allow me to welcome you to beautiful downtown Nashville, Tennessee! Everyone put your hands together for your favorite roller derby dolls, the Music City Rollers!"
The room actually rumbled around us from the commotion. The bleachers vibrated under my feet as the team skated out of the tunnel, making a wide loop around the room and slapping hands with the surrounding fans.
They were women of all shapes and sizes, all wearing the same uniform: fitted black-and-teal tank top jerseys with black booty shorts. They wore helmets, knee and elbow pads, and wrist guards, and they all had numbers scrawled in black on their upper arms. In a synchronized pattern, all the skaters huddled together in a slow-moving pack drifting around the track like a swarm of black-and-teal bumblebees.
Daddy Ho’maker pointed toward the pack. "Introducing lucky number seven, Shamrocker!"
A thin skater with a short lime-green pixie cut and the number seven written on her bicep pumped her fist in the air as she broke away from the front of the group. She circled the track, passing her teammates, and the audience cheered until she caught up with the back of the group.
A heavyset brunette followed after Shamrocker. "Number 9MM, Full Metal Jackie!"
When Full Metal Jackie rejoined at the back of the group, Daddy Ho’maker pointed toward the girl in the front. "Number 1111, Riveter Styx!"
I nudged the shoulder of the man in front of us, and he flashed a proud smile back at me. Riveter Styx appeared to have short hair hidden under her helmet, and her tiny shorts showed off a huge skull tattoo on the outside of her left thigh.
We clapped and cheered for each player as they skated around. Toward the end of the introductions, the crowd began a drumroll with their feet, making the floor shake like an earthquake. My eyes widened as I wondered what could be happening.
"And now”—Daddy Ho’maker’s voice was deeper and more dramatic—"your All-Star team captain and 2014 National Championship MVP, number ten—Medusa!"
Caught up in the excitement, Olivia cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled next to me when Medusa skated into the center of the track, gliding effortlessly around the loop like a gazelle on wheels.
Slowly, the fans around us stopped stomping, and the tremors underneath me ceased as Medusa skated past her team, leading them off the track and into a crisp line of which she formed the head. She was a few inches taller than almost everyone else, and even from our distance, I could see the cut of the taut thigh muscles exposed by her tiny shorts. From underneath her helmet, her dark hair fell in two loose ponytails over her shoulders, an ombre dye job that ended with the tips in flaming fuchsia.
All eyes in the arena were still glued to her. And rightfully so. She owned the room.
"Finally, Nashville," Daddy Ho’maker said, "your matriarch of the league and fearless head coach—The Duchess!"
A stout woman in a gray business suit walked out from the tunnel. She had ashy brown-and-gray hair cut straight across her shoulders. She waved to the crowd as she crossed the room. The members of her team were clapping over their heads.
Styx's father looked back at me. "The Duchess has been skating since they still skated on banked tracks."
I nodded, impressed as The Duchess stood near the bench closest to us.
The Richmond Vixens, dressed in bright magenta-and-green jerseys, were introduced next and welcomed with half-hearted applause from the home-team crowd. The referees skated in behind them, followed by non-skating officials wearing pastel-pink shirts. The Charity of the Night, The Hope Haven of Nashville, was announced last. After the singing of "The Star-Spangled Banner" and then a series of warm-up exercises for both teams, the bout looked ready to begin.
Eight girls, the four blockers from each team, huddled together on the track. About five feet behind them, Medusa and Richmond's jammer, both of whom had stars on their helmets, were toeing the line, ready to charge. I scooted forward on the edge of my seat.
"Our jammers to start," Daddy Ho’maker said. "No surprise here, wearing the star for the Music City Makers, number ten Medusa! She is opposed by number 6VI6, Demoness."
Demoness looked mean. A solid black band was painted all the way across her eyes.
A whistle blasted and the two jammers took off. Like a hot knife cutting through butter, Medusa sliced her way through the pack. A referee inside the track pointed at her as she skated around the oval. But her opponent wasn't far behind. Medusa cut through the pack a second time, then made wild gestures with her arms, hitting her hands against her hips. The whistle blew again and everyone slowed to a stop.
I looked at Olivia. "What happened?" she asked.
Picking up the brochure, I flipped through the pages back to the rules.
The man in front of us turned around again. "Medusa was the lead jammer because she made it through the pack first, so she can call off the jam any time by flapping her arms around like that."
Olivia was obviously no less confused.
Daddy Ho’maker came over the loudspeaker. "That is the first four points of the bout, ladies and gentlemen. Music City four, Richmond zero!"
"But she passed them all twice," I pointed out.
The man shook his head. "She doesn't start collecting points till her second pass through. The first pass through the pack of blockers just decides who is the lead jammer." He held up four fingers. "So the score is right."
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded.
A new group of girls skated onto the track. The jammer for Music City this time was much smaller than Medusa.
Daddy Ho’maker’s voice boomed. "That is Shamrocker, lucky number seven out there with star panty for the Rollers, opposite number 007, the Grim Creeper for Richmond!"
The whistle blasted and they took off. Shamrocker ducked under the linked arms of two Richmond blockers, then busted through the middle of two more behind them, taking the position of lead jammer. But the Grim Creeper was right on her wheels as they raced around the oval, and just before they reentered the back of the pack, Shamrocker called off the jam.
Olivia threw up a hand. "What happened."
"Defense," I said. "Now the other girl can't score."
Riveter Styx's dad turned and flashed me an impressed smile.
Medusa lined up again with Demoness for the third jam. Immediately after the whistle, #6VI6 blasted through the Music City blockers with Medusa right behind her. As they rounded the turn, approaching the pack again, Medusa took the inside and cut to the right, slamming her shoulder into her opponent's torso. Demoness went sailing through the air, landing hard on her back. Even from our distance, we could hear her helmet smack the concrete.
My mouth dropped open.
There were collective "Ooos" and "Ohhs" from the crowd.
Medusa made her way through the pack before the slain Vixen had enough wits to end the jam.
Olivia straightened. "Whoa."
My mouth was still gaping as the team formed up again. "I'm beginning to see why she was the MVP."
Olivia smirked. "You think?"
The whistled sounded, whipping our attention back to the track.
Medusa quickly won lead jammer again, this time effortlessly slipping through the pack, knocking skaters out of her way as she went. She made one pass through. Then another!
"That's a grand slam for Medusa!" Daddy Ho’maker shouted.
The crowd was on their feet again.
I held the program up, so I could still see the action on the track in the backfield of my vision. "A Grand Slam is when a jammer passes all four blockers and the jammer from the opposing team!" I shouted over the noise of the crowd. "She collects five points, the maximum points for a single pass!"
My phone in my pocket buzzed. I gripped the program between my teeth and pulled it out. It was a text message.
Fancy meeting you here, Lucille.
My eyes searched the arena like it was the world's largest game of Where's Waldo—if Waldo was a life-sized, wealthy Ken doll hidden on the set of Beetlejuice.
I texted him back—and lied, lied, lied. What are you talking about? You'll never believe where I am right now.
Because this was the way the dating game was played, right?
Just then, commotion on the track caught everyone's attention. The Vixen's jammer, 6VI6, spun and clotheslined Medusa. There was a series of sharp whistle blasts from the referees accompanied by condemning boos from the crowd.
The pack parted, and Medusa lay at their skates visibly heaving in pain. Medical personnel standing just off the track jogged over, but before they reached her, she pushed herself up.
Everyone cheered.
Then Medusa sprinted on her skates across the track toward the offending Vixen. It took four other skaters to hold her back.
Even in my seat, all the way across the room, I drew back in alarm.
So did Olivia.
And everyone else in the arena.
But the tension quickly settled when the crowd began to clap again. Medusa skated around the oval, stretching her arms and her neck, and successfully ignored 6VI6 as she skated to the penalty box.
"That was insane!" Olivia said in awe. "Look at her shake it off like nothing happened. I'd kill a bitch for less."
I laughed. "I'm sure you would."
There was less violence for the rest of the first half. The bout was so intense, I almost forgot the whole reason we were there. But five minutes into the second half, I saw an arm waving in the stands across the arena.
An arm that belonged to West Adler.
I looked at Olivia. "It's him."
Her mouth gaped. "Huh?"
"West Adler," I said, pointing.
She followed my finger and strained her eyes. "The guy waving, I assume?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to go talk to him?"
I pressed my lips together and shook my head.
"No?"
"No. He can come here. I'm a lady."
She laughed and almost spit out her beer. "We're only here because you're an online creeper. You lost your lady card yesterday."
When I looked again, West was gone. My eyes scanned the crowd till I saw him walking down the stairs to the floor of the arena. He slapped hands with a few people as he walked the perimeter of the room.
I dug my nails into Olivia's arm. "Oh gosh, I think he's on his way over here."
"You need Xanax," she said, draining the last of her beer.
"What do I do?" My voice jumped up an octave.
She laughed. "I would say 'be cool' but that ain't happening."
West walked up to the team bench in front of our bleachers and shook hands with a few of the players. He paused to say something to The Duchess before patting the woman on the back and turning toward the bleacher steps. Our steps. I worried I might lose my hot dog.
He took the steps two at a time until he stopped at the row behind ours and sidestepped his way across the spectators to the empty seats directly behind us. "What are the odds, Lucy?" he asked, sitting down.
"Better than you think," Olivia mumbled beside me.
I elbowed her in the ribs as I turned toward him. "Hey there, West. What are you doing here?"
He motioned to the track. "I come to all the bouts. I love this sport."
"Me too!" I said with a little too much enthusiasm.
He blinked with surprise. "Really?"
"Sure! Well, it's my first time, but so far, I love it."
"How'd you hear about it?" he asked.
My mouth was open, but no words came out. Olivia caught my eye and glared as she turned in her seat, stretching her hand toward West. "It was my idea. I'm Lucy's roommate, Olivia."
He shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Olivia. West Adler."
"I've heard a lot about you," she said, causing me to die a little inside. "Thanks for taking care of her yesterday."
"It was my pleasure." He looked at me. "How are you feeling?"
"So sore," I said, grimacing.
The corners of his eyes crinkled with sympathy. "I was worried about that. The next day is usually the worst. What did they say about your car?"
My nose wrinkled. "Nothing good. The car is probably totaled. I should find out for sure on Monday."
He put his hand on my shoulder. "That sucks. I'm sorry to hear it. Are you able to get around without it?"
I nodded. "My insurance company got me a rental car. How's your bumper?"
"Replaceable." He glanced at the empty plastic cup in Olivia's hand. "I'm going to get another drink. Can I buy you ladies a round?"
"Thank you," she said.
"What are you drinking?" he asked.
"Three Leprechauns Red Ale."
"Diet Coke," I answered.
He winked as he stood. "Coming right up."
When he was gone, Olivia nodded her head. "I admire a man who buys the booze. He's a keeper."
"He's cute, too, huh?"
"Yeah, he's cute. Is he single?"
I shrugged. "He doesn't wear a wedding band, and I found him on a list of most eligible bachelors, so I hope so."
Just then, one of Nashville's blockers cut sideways toward Richmond's jammer, 6VI6. The same skater who'd leveled Medusa. With a loud grunt that echoed around the room, the blocker plowed into 6VI6's rib cage with her shoulder. The jammer lost control and careened into the crowd sitting on the floor at about a thousand miles per hour.
Whistles blew, the horn from the scoreboard blasted, and emergency workers ran across the gym. I realized I was on my feet with the rest of the crowd and didn't even remember standing.
"And that's why we call them the suicide seats, folks! They're not for the faint of heart!" Daddy Ho’maker said into the microphone.
The jammer stood back up on her skates, aided by the fans she'd just mowed down. When she turned in our direction, I saw blood pouring from her nose into her mouth. She pulled her jersey over her head and pressed it to her face before slapping high fives with the fans around her legs. Everyone cheered, including Medusa and the rest of Nashville's players, as she skated back to her team's bench in her sports bra.
I exhaled, gripping my chest. "Thank God no one was hurt."
Olivia held her fists up. "That was awesome. I want more blood!"
I laughed and smacked her on the back of the head. Out on the track, 6VI6 was escorted back to the locker room by two men in khakis and polo shirts.
West returned a few minutes later balancing three drinks between his two hands. He sidled his way across the row again and reclaimed his seat at our backs. "Three Leprechauns," he said, handing a beer to Olivia.
She held it up like a toast. "Thanks."
"And a Diet Coke," he said, passing me the only cup with a lid and straw.
"Thank you, West."
He leaned toward me. "Now you owe me a bumper, a ride, and a drink, Lucille."
I silently cursed myself for not having a witty comeback.
He gestured toward my cup. "You know, if you're going to hang out on the derby scene, you're going to have to learn how to drink."
"I'm trying to be kind to my liver since I'm taking a lot of pain meds. And I've got to drive home later," I said.
He cringed. "Is you driving sober supposed to make us feel safer?"
My mouth dropped open. Olivia burst out laughing and showered the row in front of us with a light spray of beer from her lips. Thankfully, no one noticed. She slapped my knee. "Oh, I like him."
I turned my eyes back to the track, shaking my head, trying not to laugh.
He nudged my shoulder with his leg. "I'm only teasing."
"You're not funny," I said with forced indignation.
He held up his index finger and thumb with a millimeter of space between them. "I'm a little funny."
I laughed and sipped my drink.
"Power jam!" Daddy Ho’maker yelled over the speakers.
The whole crowd cheered.
Out on the track, Medusa was flying past every member of her team and Richmond's. Two of Richmond's players were in the penalty box, including their jammer who'd replaced 6VI6 in the game. After a fourth pass, everyone was on their feet, including us, and West was cheering loud over our heads. She passed everyone again.
"That's twenty-five!" West yelled.
She passed again.
"Thirty! She's going to run out of time," someone said.
"Run out of time for what?" I asked.
The man in front of us looked back at me. "To break the world record."
"Thirty-five!"
Medusa's knees were bent as she stepped, right skate over left, pushing her legs out hard around the corners. The Nashville blockers kept Richmond's blockers out of her way as she sailed past them again. The crowd began counting down.
"Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four!"
"That's forty-five!" West shouted.
"Three! Two! One!"
EARRRRRRNGGGGG! The buzzer and the crowd were so loud I covered my ears. West made up half the decibels all by himself.
Out on the track, Medusa's entire upper body was heaving with heavy breaths as she slowed and her team ran on their skates out from the bench to catch her in their arms.
Someone turned up the volume on Daddy Ho’maker’s mic so he could be heard over the fans. "Forty-five points in that power jam, and our captain reminds us all why she wears that star! Give it up for Medusa!"
Even the Richmond team was standing and clapping as Medusa skated a wide circle around the track, waving to everyone. She slid to a stop near the home team's bench, and the coach walked over and hugged her. Someone handed her a bottle of water.
"That was intense," Olivia said as we sat back down.
"What's the world record?" I asked.
"Fifty points," the man in front of us said.
West leaned down. "Medusa held the record at forty-five points for two years, but she lost it to a skater in Colorado who got fifty. The fifty-point jam even made it into the Guinness Book of World Records."
"Ouch," I said.
"And to make matters worse," Styx's dad added, "they've changed the rules since then."
West nodded. "A power jam is when the opposing jammer is in the penalty box. It used to be that penalties lasted a full minute. Now they're only thirty seconds."
"So it's even harder to collect that many points," I said.
"Impossible, if you ask me," the old man said.
West laughed. "Tell that to Medusa."
Styx's dad pointed at West. "She's the only one who's come close. I gotta give her that." He looked at me and Olivia. "Only a handful of skaters in the whole world can break forty."
Olivia sipped her beer. "The whole world? I had no idea this was that big of a sport."
"They're talking about adding it to the Olympics," West said.
"Really?" I asked, watching Medusa, who was shouting at her players from the bench.
"Yep." He pointed to the track. "And when it does, Nashville will have a local on the team."
Just then, the buzzer blared through the arena again. The bout was over.
Music City had won.
I'd hoped West would invite us out for drinks or a late-night dinner after the bout. He didn't. He did, however, give me a hug that lasted a total of two Mississippis, and he promised we'd talk more soon. I swear I felt the literal tear of my heart from my chest as he walked away.
Olivia looped her arm through mine as we followed the crowd into the hall. "That was more fun than I thought it would be. Thanks for bringing me," she said, leaning with the weight of three beers on my arm.
It hurt to be her crutch, but I patted her hand. "Thanks for coming with me. I haven't had that much fun in a really long time." And it was true, right up until the end.
She looked at me sideways, then reached over and stuck her finger in the dimple on my cheek, pushing it up. "No frowning. No being sad."
I hadn't even realized I was sulking. I wrinkled my nose. "I'm just a little disappointed."
"Because he didn't ask you out?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She sighed. "Give it time. It's clear he likes you."
"You think so?" I asked, my face brightening with a slight smile.
She turned her palm up. "Did you see how much beer he bought me?"
"Maybe he likes you instead."
"Not a chance."
In the hall, a girl shouting to my right caught my attention. I looked over as she thrust a flyer in my face. "Fresh Meat, Derby 101! Newbies welcome! Next Saturday at the Rollers' Sweatshop!"
I grabbed the slip of paper as the crowd pushed us through the door to the lobby. On the front was a cartoon logo with a raw T-bone steak and a meat cleaver. The title said, NOW RECRUITING FRESH MEAT. I read the page as we walked.
Tired of watching life from the sidelines? Want to see what you're made of? The Music City Rollers WANT YOU! Join us for the next informational meeting and orientation to learn more about the final Fresh Meat session of the season.
When? Saturday, August 29. 10 a.m.
Where? The Rollers' Sweatshop, the official practice space of Rollers. 19954 Nolensville Pike, Nashville.
No experience needed.
My first thought was "this is a bad idea," and I should have thrown the flyer in the trash on our way out the door.
I didn't.