“Don’t let her through. Don’t let her through…”
Mayhem went low, Tilly right there fighting to clear the way for her.
No fear between them on the track anymore, just pure concentration.
An ass beating had been the answer all along.
Despite using the coping, no matter how Mayhem maneuvered, she couldn’t get past the chaos there, her every attempt resulting in a good amount of shoving, bumping, and a symphony of grunts.
Her gaze shot to the top of the track, the gap here, and she smirked. Toes digging in, she ran up the bank at an angle.
Remy spotted her, caught up, and kept pace, shoulder to shoulder until she slid back, waited for him to react, and shot out at a run to burst through the gap before he could even reverse his direction, blowing through the whole pack for four points.
Lana blew the whistle, ending the jam and I swatted Mayhem on the ass as she skated past. “You’re fast…keep up that energy.”
She smiled over her shoulder and set up behind the jam line again.
I skated into position and shot a look at Remy and Linc. “Could you guys stop trying to dance with each other out there. You’re killing me.”
“I thought you want your girlfriend to win?” Linc said.
“I do, but I don’t want you to let her win.”
“You want her all sore and shit so you can rub her down later. I see what you’re aiming for,” Dom said, nodding at the ladies.
“He’s got like ten years on her. He’s the one who’s going to need the rubdown. I’ve got a tube of muscle rub with your name on it,” Remy said.
I smacked his helmet. “Yeah, why do you have a tube of muscle rub huh?”
“Stole it from Linc. Was going to put it in his underwear.”
“Don’t drag me into your shit,” Linc said. “Nothing wrong with my muscles. I’m a well-oiled machine.”
“Hey, you ladies done chatting over there?” Lana yelled, wheeling up next to us. “Get your shit together and share your makeup tips on your own time.”
Full of piss and vinegar, Lana gave us hell and I couldn’t even be mad about it. I should have had her out here a long time ago. She still had a place in this sport; I just didn’t see it. All this time and I didn’t see it.
Well, I was paying attention now.
“She’s mean,” Dom said.
“Don’t say that too loud; she might pull a flip-flop on you,” Linc said with a snort.
“You guys need some new material,” Dom said as he crouched in position.
With everyone in place, she blew the whistle again, sending us into another jam.
And another ass kicking.
Followed by another after that.
And another.
We finally found our footing on the fifth jam. Jackson managed to pull off two points and call off the jam before Mayhem could score her first point.
Now, we might just have a competition ahead of us—if we upped it to best out of fifteen.
No doubt Mayhem would call that cheating too.
At the whistle we took off clean, Mayhem and Jackson dead even as they closed in on us, but Mayhem didn’t look for a gap this time, she kept her momentum and worked at those barriers until she and Remy went shoulder to shoulder again, running to the top of the track at an angle, but my man miscalculated, assuming she’d slide back.
She didn’t.
Because she was relatively new to the bank and hadn’t gotten comfortable with go-to moves yet. It would work to their advantage in Philly.
Instead, she psyched him out, dropped back a few inches, just enough to kill his forward momentum and get him going in the opposite direction. She tore ass back to the top and passed while his mouth hung open and he slid back down the hill.
Without paying attention.
You know, to the rest of us.
His teammates.
His friends.
The shit.
Skates tangled, arms flew, legs kicked out to the side before flipping over in the air.
One of the fuckers caught my edge, knocking me over onto the heap where I took an elbow to my solar plexus, knocking the fucking breath right out of me.
Through the haze of sweat running into my eyes, I spotted Mayhem skating away with her team in tow, their eyes on us, their laughs echoing through the barn.
“My balls,” Linc groaned, from somewhere under the pile. “Why do I feel air on my balls?”
They all started squirming under me then, the word balls like finding out someone just took a piss in the hot tub.
“Why is there air on my balls?” His frantic shouts more erratic, his eyes wide—well, the one I could see from where it peeked through the crease of a knee and calf folded over his face.
I rolled off the pile and pushed up to my feet. “Fuck you and the air on your balls, Linc. I fucking told you to wear a cup, you dumbass.”
“Hey, Linc,” Dom piped up from the other side of the pile. “Why in the absolute fuck do I feel your balls on my hand?”
They scrambled to stand, but failed miserably as they drove knees into guts, elbows into necks while they scrambled for a grip with their skates, their hysteria rising every time someone said “balls.”
“Get your fucking balls off my hand, Linc!” Dom’s voice raised about two octaves. “Holy shit, man, I just felt them twitch. Get the fuck off me.”
“And this guy thought his abuela coming at him with a flip-flop was bad,” I joked with Remy as I gave him a hand up. “Kind of hard to put muscle rub in his underwear when the dude’s freeballing it.”
“You probably shouldn’t talk,” Rory said, skating past before rolling into the infield.
Remy looked at me and held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. If you don’t mind, Parker’s mouth looks like it could use my tongue,” Remy said before skating
