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
