Patti raised an eyebrow and glanced between the two of us.
“For the unsolicited play-by-play.”
Heading back to the corner booth we always settled into after bouts, a coveted spot in the bar that Patti reserved for us so no matter if it was just the six of us or the whole team, we’d have room, I dropped into a chair, my back firmly to the bar.
More importantly, my back to the asshole hell-bent on taking my inventory.
My teeth clenched the minute the ice hit my hip, both from the shocking cold soaking through my thin shorts and the deep-seated throb playing a tempo of its own through my fucking pelvis.
Thank fuck our drinks had been delivered while I was gone. The Banked Track, a mixed drink Patti invented, the kind of concoction strong enough to put hair on your chest, or maybe even stop your heart.
I didn’t care…because it started out with a heavy root beer flavor.
Too bad it ended with a swift punch of paint thinner.
I’d just stay away from open flame. No biggie.
Think I’m kidding? Right there in the drink menu, in parenthesis next to The Banked Track—a stern warning about the consumer’s new flame rating after consumption.
Three gulps in, the root beer flavor so strong it filled my sinuses, I set the glass down and blinked up at my team—well, some of my team.
All eyes on me, silently studying me, I started to squirm in my seat, until my hip screamed in protest. “What?”
“You have no idea who you were talking to, do you?” Rory said, sneaking a glance past me, presumably to the dude.
“Sure, some bar rat who thinks he can mansplain derby to me. Call me fucking shocked.”
Rory shook her head, her ordinarily confident voice dropping to a breathy whisper. “That’s not a bar rat…that’s Priest.”
“He’s a priest? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“No, just Priest,” Rory said with a shake of her head.
“I wouldn’t mind praying at that altar,” Zara said, casting a quick side-glance at the bar.
“He was a roller derby coach here about ten years ago,” Marty went on. “The roller derby coach. He was fucking brilliant…and gorgeous to boot. Like seriously, next level looks here. The women flocked to him.”
Okay, so not mansplaining. But still, I didn’t ask for his opinion and he just couldn’t help but give it.
A few of her teammates salivated with breathy delight from the glances they stole of him across the bar.
Yeah, he was good looking. The way he filled out a sweater and his jeans should have been declared borderline obscene. His wide jaw and seductive mouth didn’t hurt anything either…but ultimately, it was his voice and the way it rumbled through the air in that deep timbre that set off a damn ache tried to seep into her you-can-just-fuck-off-with-your-assessment attitude.
In thirty seconds of conversation, he went from the kind of guy with the power to tickle my lady bits with just a smug glance, to the words coming out of his mouth making me want to roll my skates right over that face of his, to the low rumble finish of his voice destroying my underwear.
“I can’t believe he came back after what happened,” Sean whispered. “I hope you’re ready, because Galloway Bay is about to explode.”
"Well, maybe not all of Galloway Bay, but the squeakiest wheels in our town are definitely not team Priest.” Rory said, lifting her glass to her lips. “But then that’s what happens when you stack your team with underage talent only to have one of Galloway Bay's most promising teens end up in a wheelchair on your watch. I don’t have to wonder why so many people in this town would love to go all Game of Thrones up in this bitch and mount his head on a pike."
2
“In town for all of five minutes and making friends already I see,” Patti said with a bit of side-eye and a whole lot of signature smirk on her mauve-painted mouth.
Taking the last swallow of my beer and reaching for the “fuck you” round Mayhem bought me, I nodded. “Something like that.”
Maisy Mayhem…well, not tonight she wasn’t. She was playing with feelings. I couldn’t even call it vengeance. At least if it had been, she might have had a chance. She was all reaction.
A goddamned jammer on the defensive would always lose.
Six elbows to her ribs. Same side every time.
Tilly needed a good hard knock on her ass, but Mayhem wouldn’t be delivering it anytime soon unless she figured out how to get out of her head…and whatever was fucking with her heart.
Emotional investment wielded great power, but not when it was built on a foundation of bitterness and pain.
She was icing her hip now, but tomorrow she’d be struggling to take a deep breath. Their refs made shit rookie mistakes out there. All it took was one of them to have their eyes on the floor. But no, they were all staring down at the concrete while Tilly took complete advantage of their inattention.
They needed more training.
Maisy needed to run her emotions, not let them run her.
And Tilly? Tilly had always been a problem. Her reputation in amateur leagues was common knowledge in New England…and maybe farther. She needed a coach strong enough to bend her to their will, someone hard and swift—and no bullshit—who could get her to comply.
Because the woman had demons and they were running the show. They’d kicked into overdrive tonight on that track.
Question was…what did those demons have to do with Mayhem?
I glanced over at the woman in question and found her rubbing near her spine where it met her ribs.
Not my problem. Not my circus.
Not anymore.
“Maisy’s a good girl. I expect you to go easy on that one,” Patti warned me.
I had no damn intentions of going easy or hard on her. Again, not my circus. “Good girl, huh? Well, she did buy me a beer.”
“No, she didn’t. I’m putting it on
