Brooke called off the jam, and Tracy signaled from the sideline for a time-out. Brooke skated toward her coach and grabbed a bottle of water. A glance at the scoreboard told her what she already knew. The lead they’d given up at the start of the second half was within reach. With twenty seconds on the clock, the next jam would be the last of the bout. And it would determine who walked away with the Louisiana Women’s Roller Derby championship trophy and who went home runner-up.
After a quick discussion about strategy and a rally cry, the Big Easy Bruisers lined up with the Cajun Queens one final time. Brooke had managed to secure the inside position and found herself staring down a wall of rival blockers. The whistle blew, and she launched herself into the fray.
She pushed through the pack and saw her ref’s arm go up. She’d claimed the lead jammer spot. That meant the title was in reach.
Not quite yet. She tamped down her excitement and made a loop, looking for her next opening. She pushed her way past a pair of blockers that lagged back to slow her down.
And then she saw it. Like the heavens parting in some mythical moment of clarity, the route around the outside of the track cleared. She angled herself to take it, hugging the outside line. A quick glance back told her the Queens jammer was gaining on her. This was her chance.
She rounded the curve, the taste of victory already in her mouth. They were going to win. Even better, she was going to score the game-deciding points.
By the time she saw the blocker out of the corner of her eye, it was too late. Not that she could have done much to stop her. She cut across the inside of the track at full speed. Just like a car accident, the split second before impact felt like slow motion. Just long enough for her to tense, even though she knew that would only make it worse. The blocker plowed into her shoulder-first. The momentum lifted her off the ground; the pain in her ribs paired with the feeling of her skates losing contact with the track.
As her entire body hit the concrete, her brain went fuzzy, then black.
She opened her eyes. A sharp pain radiated from her right hip. Not the, oh God, I broke something sort of pain, but the kind that screamed for ice and would leave a massive bruise for the next couple of weeks. Wuthering Hits and Crashin’ Cali hovered over her, looks of concern on their faces.
“Are you okay?” Cali asked.
She blinked a few times, remembered how she got where she was, and groaned. “We lost, didn’t we?”
Hits offered her a wry smile. “If you’re asking, I’m taking it you’re okay.”
She was so not okay. She’d been a hundred feet from taking her team to the state championship, and she’d blown it. “I didn’t black out, did I?”
Cali shook her head. “No, it’s only been a few seconds. Do you remember getting hit?”
Oh, she remembered. But she didn’t know who’d been the one to do it. “Who took me out?”
“Does it really matter at this point?”
“Yes.” She hauled herself to a seated position and realized that every pair of eyes in the place was trained on her. Members of the opposing team had taken a knee. Fuck. “But not now. Help me up, will you?”
Understanding the urgency behind her request, they each grabbed a hand and pulled her to her feet. Despite the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks, she lifted a hand to signal she was unhurt. The requisite applause was quickly drowned out by the roar of cheering.
Right. The Queens had held off on their celebrations until it was clear she’d not been seriously injured. While such sportsmanship was usually one of her favorite things about derby, today it just made everything worse.
She made it to the bench and collapsed in a chair. Her teammates crowded around her, a mixture of concern and well-meaning support on their faces. She’d have been no different had the tables been turned. Even at its most competitive, the camaraderie mattered above all else.
But not today. Today, she’d failed, and all she wanted to do was crawl in a hole and die.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cali asked.
“I am.” She forced herself to look at the faces of her teammates. “And I’m sorry.”
Her apology seemed to unlock a floodgate. Everyone started talking at once. Brooke made out “she came out of nowhere” and “still the most amazing season ever.” The rest was a jumble that made her head spin.
“Who? Who was it that took me out?” She looked at Hits, who winced.
“Moby Dyke.”
Brooke closed her eyes. Of course it was. She’d never talked to her before, but the blocker had definitely caught her eye. Her skating skills for sure, but it was more than that. Moby Dyke was tall and built and butch and gorgeous. And now Brooke was obliged to hate her.
* * *
After a rowdy victory toast, Riley’s teammates dispersed to chat with their friends and wives and husbands and such. She scanned the crowd for the Bruisers jammer. Maybe with a drink or two in her, she’d give Riley the chance to congratulate her on putting up a hell of a fight. Championship bout or not, derby was about kicking ass on the rink and being a good sport off.
Riley spied her surrounded by a group of people, laughing. That was a good sign. She took a long swig from a bottle of Abita, and Riley wondered if she’d taste the Purple Haze on her lips if they kissed.
Whoa. Where did that come from?
Riley shook her head. She shouldn’t be surprised, really. Femme Fatal was just that: deliciously femme with just a hint of fatale simmering under the surface. Sure, her type was more easygoing girl next door, but even she couldn’t deny the appeal.
She took a sip of her own beer and crossed the room. She nodded hellos and exchanged pleasantries with a few members of the opposing team, working her way closer and closer to the jammer she’d taken out, quite literally, an hour ago. She chatted with a Bruisers blocker, complimenting her on her technique and stamina in the second half. All the while, she half eavesdropped on Femme Fatal’s conversation. Her voice was low and sultry; her laugh made Riley think about doing a lot more than kissing her.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gone home with a member of the opposing team. Not that she did derby to pick up women, but she wasn’t opposed when the opportunity presented itself.
She was imagining the juxtaposition of hard lines and soft curves when she found herself face-to-face with the most gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes she’d ever seen. Riley had to swallow the wave of desire that swept through her. This was not the moment to get ahead of herself.
“Hi.”
Despite offering her friendliest smile, Riley watched those amazing eyes flash with recognition, then cool. Actually, cool would be a massive understatement. Her eyes went from warm and inviting to subzero in about two seconds flat. They went from Riley’s face to her outstretched hand and back to her face. And then, without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away.
“Don’t mind Femme. She’s taking the loss a little hard.”
Riley turned in the direction of the voice. It belonged to Sister Mary Mayhem, one of the backup jammers for the Bruisers. “A little?”
Mary shrugged. “A loss is one thing. What you did was more of a personal affront.”
Riley lifted both hands. “Hey, there was nothing personal about it.”
“I know, but she thinks you should have been called for an illegal block.”
“That’s bullshit.” The denial was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Not that she would take it back, but there was no point in antagonizing the opposing team. Especially after snatching a win from them in the final seconds.
“I agree, but it could have gone either way, and Femme doesn’t like that it was the move that cost us the bout.”
“Is she always a sore loser?” Again, maybe not the most tactful approach, but she liked to know what she was dealing with. And sore losers were second only to cheaters in her book of people she considered a waste of time.
Mary smiled. “Not usually. I think this one hurt her ego as much as anything else.”
“Ah.” She could understand that. Sort of. “Well, I wanted to congratulate her on a great bout.”
Wuthering Hits smiled as well. “We’ll pass it along. And congratulations to you and the Queens. Pretty epic win.”
It really was. Derby bouts were rarely close when it came to the final score. The fact that this one came down to the final seconds made it unique and made the win all the sweeter. “Thanks.”
“Y’all heading back to Lafayette tonight?” Mary asked.
“A few people are, but most of us are staying over and doing the Quarter tomorrow. My sister lives here, so I’m crashing with her.”
“Is that who was at the bout with the kids? The ones so excited to see you?”
“Yeah.” She loved that even opposing teams would notice that sort of thing. Annie and the kids hadn’t stayed for the after-party, but they’d made it through the whole bout. Given that Lucas was just three and a half, she’d been impressed. And of course, Annie had managed both Grace and Lucas with no help from her husband, who couldn’t even be bothered to come along.
“They were really cute.”
Riley shook off the flash of anger that came every time she thought of Jason. “Thanks. They’re good kids.”
A couple members of her team waved at her. She had a feeling they weren’t waiting until tomorrow to hit Bourbon Street. She excused herself and went over to wish them a good night. Aunty Maim tried to cajole her into joining them, but she resisted. Not that she had a problem with a night of rowdy drinking, but she was starting to feel as if she’d outgrown it, a fact that managed to be both comforting and alarming.
The crowd started to disperse. Riley couldn’t help but scan the bar once more for the antisocial Femme Fatal, but she was nowhere to be seen. Riley shrugged. It wasn’t like she’d ever see her again.