If they’d be able to pull this off.
This was the one and only time I got to linger in doubt. The minute the team showed up, I was all coach mode. I knew just how I’d get when I got into the infield again, the echo of skates reverberating from under the bank, the grunts, and shouts.
I’d become the bastard they hated to need.
They’d resist. They’d challenge me.
I would break down their defiance until they complied.
Then I’d build them back up.
That was the only choice with the little time we had.
They’d be going against some of the best. Skaters that practically lived on a banked track. They knew every bump, every angle, the shift in their center of gravity no longer even a blip on the radar for them.
And they’d look at Beautifully Brutal and laugh.
Flat track derby trying to make a mark on banked track? My team would be the interlopers. The team swooping in thinking they could invade banked track territory and take the prize.
Their competitors would be downright merciless.
But they would also dismiss them.
I was counting on it.
Their mistake would be the key to a shot at victory.
They’d never expect a flat track team to skate into a banked track exhibition and have a chance.
They wouldn’t have information on Beautifully Brutal going in. As an amateur league, there’d be little to find. Not yet being members of the WRDF would work in our favor.
Their competitors would have no history to go on. No video footage. No way of knowing my team’s bad habits, weaknesses, or strengths.
And those were the shadows my team had to operate in.
I had attitudes to curb.
I had personal weaknesses to hammer out.
And a love triangle.
A first for me.
Only I would end up dealing with a love triangle as one of the three.
I shouldn’t have kissed her. I knew I shouldn’t have kissed her even as I continued attacking her mouth like a damn starving man, every slide of our tongues tasting, taking, plunging deeper while tucked away in that hallway chasing away the shivers racking her body until we both burned.
No doubt Eve would see the change. The minute we all shared the same space, she’d home right in on the tension now a raging bonfire.
Mayhem might have thought whatever she had with Eve was over, but for Eve…not so much. She had a tight grip.
Time would tell if she was going to march that possessiveness onto the track, forcing me to face it head-on, or if she'd find the maturity to set it aside.
We had a month to get ready and Christmas coming in a little more than a week. Big plans? Too bad. Canceled. They could open a few presents and eat Christmas dinner. Other than that, if they weren’t at work, their asses needed to be on the track, starting with scrimmages to get them adapted to the bank.
They’d have to learn everything all over again. All of their footwork, slides, stops, jumps, control, crossovers, and dozens of other skills—everything had to be practiced hundreds, maybe thousands of times until their bodies forgot the flat track and only reacted to the bank.
I reached out to a few people I knew from my early days and got the details of the exhibition. The rule set they’d follow, the condensed bouts used for elimination rounds on day one, and the format for the final rounds on day two.
Two days.
That was it.
We had one month to train for an exhibition so aggressive it was capable of breaking down even the most seasoned banked track player.
Mayhem texted me—because apparently we did that now—to let me know that the team was on board and they’d be ready to start tomorrow.
That gave me today to make sure the track was ready. I’d inspected it before closing it, just like my grandfather taught me, but that had been a decade ago.
Ten years in an old dairy barn with the fluctuation in temperature and humidity meant I had work to do.
I brushed away the cobwebs along the switch and flicked on the lights hanging in rows along the support beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Almost as cold inside as it was outside, the track lay there barren and silent, covered with a couple dozen silver tarps.
It’d take the whole day to get it ready, but at least I’d flop into bed exhausted to the core tonight.
Maybe then I’d stop playing our kiss through my head.
I’d settle for my cock to stop twitching. Fucking Jackson cursing me with that poppin’ bone shit.
I walked the perimeter of the barn, starting each of the four jet force kerosene heaters and making note of their fuel levels. I’d need them for at least six hours a day, a pace I expected the team to protest.
Too bad. They needed my help, not the other way around.
They’d get it my way or no way.
I’d also need an additional hour of fuel before practice to get the temperature to a tolerable level, especially while competing against the cold blasting through the open windows in each corner for ventilation.
I stopped in the front office, if you could call it an office, and left what I salvaged from old scrimmages. The room wasn’t much, but with tables along two walls and a lone chair, I’d make it work. I didn’t plan to park my ass in there for long anyway.
If my team was going to be uncomfortable, so was I.
I’d be in the infield…and on the track.
Dragging along my grandfather’s cart from where he left it tucked in the corner, the familiar squeak of protest from the back left wheel had a smile tugging at my mouth. Piled high with nuts, bolts, tools, and a checklist, I got to work.
You’ve got to check everything, son, all the panels from the bastards, to the turns, and straightaways, and when you’ve done that, you get right down to the nuts and bolts. Nothing but the best for your grandmother. You hear?
I’d
