“They’re already discussing you guys because you’re the only team new to bank. The conversation is dying almost as soon as it starts because they’re dismissing you as a non-threat which couldn’t be further from the truth. The first round they’re going to think you got lucky. But by the end of the second round, they’re going to realize they were wrong and should have been paying attention.”
“Oh, so that’s when they’re going to try to kick our ass in earnest then. Cool. Got it,” Tilly said, sounding just like one of us, making me smile.
I had to be honest, it was probably a dick move, but I had serious thoughts of pilfering her from her own derby team. She’d be perfect with us.
And she already worked with the kids at Crossroads like we did. It was a win-win.
“They’re going to hit that point where not only are you a threat, but you’re an interloper. So, they’re going to be looking to put you in your place. Don’t let them. They get no real estate in your head. Got it?” Priest said, piercing us with a glance one at a time.
“No room at the inn,” Dixie said, slapping on her helmet and letting the straps dangle. “Got it.”
“You’ve built up stamina when they haven’t. But they’re going to hit you harder and tap into your energy in a new way. Don’t let it psych you out. You have the endurance.”
“But really, if we poop out there…” Rory said, making us all laugh, breaking the thread of tension thrumming through us as a team.
“No shitting on the track. Hide your shame like the rest of us,” he said with a laugh. “Now, play hard, play clean, and remember why you’re here.”
Five rounds. Two quarters each.
We were the third bout of the morning. I didn’t know if I was happy about having the advantage of studying some of the teams now or if I just wanted to get in there and get this done. Every minute that stretched into the next, jam after jam, bodies colliding, the shouts, the grunts, jammers breaking away, came with a growing awareness that we were just like them.
Our story beginnings may have been radically different, the time invested unmatched, but nothing on that bank was a smoking gun giving one team an edge over another.
It would all come down to communication, perseverance, and laying everything we had on the track.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Mayhem?” Priest asked, his arm resting against my shoulder—he did that—even though we agreed we needed to focus, he kept that physical connection in the smallest of ways.
Maybe for him. Maybe for me. Either way, it was exactly what I needed to put what came after out of my head and focus on now.
“I expected to feel like an underdog, but I don’t. Does that make me a conceited bitch?” I asked with a smirk.
“Not at all. You’re an athlete through and through. Your level of understanding when it comes to your competitors—it’s unmatched.”
“I—really?”
“Really. You’re one hell of a package,” he said with a smile. “And you guys are about to be up,” he said, jutting his chin at the bank right as the whistle peeled through the air.
“This is it,” I said quietly, pressing a hand to my stomach.
“This is it,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Now go kick their ass out there.”
We went up against Death Knell first. A banked track team out of California. Players who’d been practically born on the track according to their bio.
But Priest was right.
They dismissed us, and the minute we got an edge in points, they started to fracture. Glares, harsh words, ignored direction—their communication tanked entirely, giving us pocket after pocket. We broke away, finally taking the bout with a lead of fourteen points.
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. You have an hour before you’re up again. They’re going to dismiss this as beginner’s luck. You’re going to go in and show them that it’s not. You got me?”
“This is fucking great. Guys, I’m totally getting lady bone for the idea of a banked track at Sid’s. We really need to figure out how to make that shit happen,” Marty said as we skated to our seats.
“Money. We need money,” Sean said.
I laughed, slid my helmet off my head, and brushed my fingers through my hair. “One thing at a time, guys…Crossroads first. World domination after that.”
I glanced over at Priest, looking for a sign that he overheard Marty’s comment, but he had his attention on plays, his head together with Jackson’s as they looked out at the track and the team that had just started.
When he came home, I wanted there to be no flicker of doubt as to what he came home for.
Round two unfolded almost exactly like the first, until the last half of the second and final quarter. Shrewd stares replaced eye rolls; the communication tightened up as did their plays on the track.
We took the win, but the points margin narrowed to nine. I did everything I could to put the numbers out of my head, knowing it wasn’t logical to assume the point gap would continue to close by five points each time.
“You better not be thinking about those numbers, Mayhem,” he said quietly, stepping up behind me.
“Get out of my head, Priest.”
“Never,” he said, resting his hands on my shoulders, his fingers curling into the muscles there, making me groan.
“How’s the hand?”
“A dull throb. Jackson jumped up my ass about icing it before. I should probably thank him for that,” I said, letting my weight fall against his chest for just a second.
Warm and strong, he dug at the knots as we watched a penalty play out for Black Heart Barbies, giving Maximum Penalty the chance to take the lead.
“You’re up against Smoke Screen next. Number 268 gets overzealous. There’ll be more illegal hits.”
“Shouldn’t you be telling everybody.”
“I will, but she goes for jammers.
