My shoulder brushed past their pivot, MissAdventure. Just two more strides and I could surge forward. I had it this time. I totally had it. With Eve on Tilly, nothing could stop me.
Our tangled skates threatened to topple me over, but I yanked my foot free while keeping my balance on my left. My edges flexed from the force of my weight. With a swing of my arms to propel my upper body, and a hop…I slipped ahead.
Fuck yes!
A sickening thud obliterated the cheer of the crowd. The air whooshed from my lungs as the sharp pain exploded in my ribs once again. My wheels ripped away from the floor, gravity and my trajectory turning them into lead weights on my feet.
Time slowed, our rivalry playing out like a scene in an action movie where victory was all but certain.
But whose victory?
She was the bad guy.
But maybe I was a bad guy too.
Maybe we weren’t the lead characters at all. Maybe our names were both lost in the second half of the credits. The font smaller. The roles forgettable. Secondary characters adding to the body count.
Names on the tip of viewers’ tongues, but never quite remembered.
Soaring off the track, I kept my arms tucked in, fighting the urge to catch myself. I caught Tilly’s determined gaze one last time, standing where I had been, gloved hands clutched on her knee pads, her lungs heaving, victory in her glare.
Closing my eyes, I waited for it.
The one thing this sport guaranteed.
Pain.
I envisioned the next few seconds. The ones that came after the landing. My mind already determined to get back on the track. My brain calculating the next steps to get up.
My side and hip crashed against the concrete, a slice of pain slashing through my pelvis from the unyielding cold surface.
The blow ricocheted through me, rattling me all the way to my bones, sucking the breath from my heaving lungs until my stomach hollowed out with the loss of air.
The whistle cut through the ringing in my ears, saving me from having to pretend I didn’t just get pummeled by a freight train. Saving me from exposing my weakness…that maybe this time, no matter how much I prepared, no matter how much I wanted to win, I might not have been able to bounce right back up and on the track.
Dragging a gulp of air into my lungs, I blinked furiously trying to clear my vision. The blurry crowd finally coming into focus.
And him.
His cool, hooded gaze radiated boredom. Detached and so still in the restless crowd, he leaned back in his seat in the front row, his leg casually stretched out, his bent arm hooked over the back of his metal folding chair, leaving his fingers dangling carelessly.
“Hey, you good?” Eve asked, panting over me, cutting off my view and reaching out to help me up.
“Yeah.” I reached out and took her offered hand. My hip buckled when I straightened, the slice of pain ricocheting through me, making my eyes burn. Tightening my muscles, I locked my knees until I had my balance.
On my feet once again, I cocked my head until my neck cracked as Eve skated away. Glancing back at the crowd, my focus homed in on the now-empty metal chair. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the door clicking shut.
Not impressed, dude?
Yeah, me either.
Cars, pickups, and a few company vans filled the parking lot next to Banked Track, the single hottest bar—well, only bar in Galloway Bay.
Okay, so maybe not the only bar. There were a few watering holes on the outskirts of our coastal Maine town. The kind that looked like abandoned outbuildings during the day with sagging rooflines, missing shingles, cracked windowpanes, and neon signs which probably hadn’t worked since the seventies.
I know I sure as hell never recalled seeing them lit.
The sort of places where warm beer was always on tap for weathered fisherman, relic sea riders ranging somewhere between fifty and corpse, all with the same deep carved wrinkles in their sea-worn faces.
Generations of locals who struggled to survive their love affair with a romanticized profession flocked to the forgettable dives, wanting the quiet anonymity of drinking away their mountain of sorrows and all-too-limited successes with little fanfare and the drone of a muffled television keeping them company.
But for the rest of us, the outcasts, the townies, occasional tourists, and definitely derby girls, Banked Track was the sole nightlife of Galloway Bay. Tinged with the scent of salt air that crashed along our rocky coast, wrapped in the charm of rough brick walls, the atmosphere lulled even the most sullen into a good time.
And the sconces glowing with warm light and muted just enough you could get away with not recognizing a one-night stand you snagged from the scarred bar stools there.
Not that there were many one-night stands. Small-town bed-hopping had a way of making the rounds; next thing you knew, you were in the express lane of the local grocery store, minding your own, just a girl trying to snag a bit of salted caramel liquor to keep her company on a cold, lonely night and bam!
Not so subtle whispers of your escapades from the over-forty gossips who only gave a shit because they weren’t getting any at home.
Not that it happened to me often, but when it did, I shrugged it off. Sleeping with your high school sweetheart for the past two decades, realizing that you may actually die with having only fucked one guy throughout your ho-hum life had to sting.
I couldn’t imagine any sex being good enough that I’d want to be married to it for the rest of my life.
And I’d had some damn good sex.
A blast of heat washed over my frozen cheeks the minute I yanked open the door, driving away the vibration of my chattering teeth reverberating through my battered body the minute I got out of my car.
Okay, in my car. Because the heater sucked.
