11. Harvey

11

HARVEY

It's Friday, minutes before practice, and I'm sitting in my car, Nia's little bag of pills in one hand and my phone in the other, search engine results on my browser for what they may be. Some generic painkillers. The little Ziploc baggie tells me it's not a doctor giving these to her, though.

I have two options: I can be a narc and run inside the rink right now with the evidence in my hand that Nia is violating the contract she signed just days prior guaranteeing drug-free players.

Or, I keep my leverage.

And I do love a long game.

Plus, I don't trust this reptile of a man for shit, and between the two of them, I'm smart enough to lean toward the smallest of the threats here. As it stands, that's Nia.

I'm not a snitch anyway.

I pocket the pills just as K pulls into the parking lot, stopping their car just three spots away from mine. Inside their mustang is Nia, sitting in the passenger seat.

Have they been together since Wednesday? The thought crosses my mind before I can try to swat it away. It shouldn't bother me, but for some reason, it burrows under my skin, taking root. K-Otic opens the door for her, but she looks over at me, saying something with a smile that forces them to walk on without her.

Once K is inside the rink, Nia turns to my car and stares straight at me from the passenger side window. She flares her nostrils before pulling the door open, but it sticks, the damn thing broken for nearly two years now. I reach over, opening it from the inside and allowing her into my space.

"You have something of mine," she says, closing the door behind her.

I try to contain my amusement, "Do I now?" I'm a little surprised that she's not denying it or begging me to keep her secret.

"Yes. You do." Her face is flat and her palm is sticking up, waiting for me.

I lick my bottom lip, choosing my next words very carefully.

"And what are you gonna do for it, princess?

She climbs over the middle console faster than the words are out of my mouth, straddling my lap, somehow squeezing in what little space is between me and the wheel. Her chest is pressed to mine, her face just an inch away from reach. She smells like summer, like berries and sunshine, and I want to know how soft her skin would feel against mine.

I clear the thought out of my head immediately.

"What's your problem, Kitty Cat?" she asks, her eyes narrowing in amusement.

The nickname both enrages and sparks something inside me. I place my hands on either side of her hips and try to lift her off, but with so little space to move, she has the upper hand.

"Give me my shit," she demands, patting at my pockets.

"What shit?" I taunt, her hand moving from my sweatpants to the chest pocket on my flannel where said baggie resides, but I clasp my fingers around her wrist, locking it in place.

"Let me go," she grits out.

"Nah." I grin, leaning in closer. "I have you right where I want you." I unbuckle my seatbelt, running my tongue along the edges of my top teeth.

She's startled by the motion, pulling away, her eyes going wide like she's not expecting it from me. Nia tries to break from my grip, but I'm stronger, and with the other hand, she attempts to reach into the chest pocket once more. My left hand locks the other one in the air as well, and now I'm in full control.

"Harvey!" She grunts my name in frustration, but I think I like the way it sounds coming from her lips.

"Say my name like that again." I lift my hips up, forcing her to fall onto me.

"I can't tell if you hate me or if you wanna fuck me." She says it with little emotion, like neither sounds appealing to her.

Is her little flirting game unintentional?

The locker room, the straddling my lap, the awkward glances?

"Definitely hate," I confirm, in case it isn't clear.

"Pity. I need a pivot I can trust to have my back." She pulls her wrists with a sharp jerk, freeing them from my hold before she climbs off me.

It stings more than it should, and it's from the sheer fact that she's using Lonnie's words against me.

The stripe and the star have to be impenetrable. The pivot should always be on the offensive, but the jammer should always trust that the pivot will have their back.

Back then, Mo was my pivot, and I never stopped to think how often my wins had been a credit to them, to the way they were both my shield and my sword.

Suddenly, my satisfaction sours. I fish the bag out of my pocket and toss it in her lap. Looking down, she closes her fist around it before she reaches for the handle. It doesn't open. Nia tries again and grunts in frustration when, the third time, it still stays stuck. I reach over her, grabbing the handle and pulling it up before pushing it out.

"It sticks," I explain, but she just gives me blank eyes before getting out.

The clock in my car says five till five. An hour and a half of practice, then at six-thirty, I'll be reopening these doors for Tween Skate Night, an unbearable event that unfortunately brings in far too much money for any of us to turn our noses up against it. With Lonnie gone, we all help, making it two Devil's Dame's responsibility to man the rink on these nights.

Tonight will be me and StarScreamer.

I'm looking forward to spending time with one of my closest friends. Ever since Nia-Death's return, it feels like everyone is slipping through my fingers. Not rejection, not quite that extreme, but the rift is there, and every day, it feels like it's growing.

You can stop that from happening.

Something inside me speaks, but I don't like what it has to say.

I didn't ask for this, didn't ask for my life to get turned upside down, for Lonnie to die. I didn't ask for things to change.

Death is a starting point.

Death is a door. It opens and shuts, swallowing up the joy and the light inside us.

Death is a starting point.

It wasn't for Lonnie.

Death isn't for the dead.

I scream in frustration, slapping at the side of my head with both hands as the searing hot pain of grief stabs into me again. Maybe the scrawny little shit has the right idea. Maybe numbing all of this with drugs is easier than dealing with the constant reminder that my best friend is gone.

Once inside, I realize I'm the last one in. Everyone's already geared up and stretching on the track, Lady Yaga leading with some fancy yoga poses that are supposed to help us skate faster. Nia is in a half lunge, the wheels of her skate nearly touching her butt, sandwiched between K-Otic and StarScreamer, and suddenly, I feel myself hesitating, unsure where my place is anymore.

I don't linger, knowing that I'll feel worse when given an opportunity for humiliation than if I simply pretend I'm unbothered. Dropping down next to DreadPool, I bring one arm over my chest and do a half-assed version of the stretches they've gone through without me.

"You look pissed," they whisper, doing their best to not talk over Yaga.

Venice Witch snorts. "She's been pissed ever since Ant?nia's come back to town."

I shoot her death stare from my left, and she scoots away from me, realizing I'm not in the mood. My cried-out eyes are a sure giveaway.

DreadPool groans, causing a few skaters to glance our way. "You gotta get over this," they say in a hushed tone.

"I'm trying." I push the words through gritted teeth, like the lie alone is costing me.

"Yeah, okay." Sarcasm drips off their tongue, and the look on their face says they see through all of my bullshit.

Dread is like that. X-ray vision, capable of seeing everyone's truest intentions. They give me an earnest smile, like they're waiting for me to cave. The brown freckles over their nose are barely visible this time of the year, but in the summer, they'll be out in full force. By then, their now-shoulder length brown hair will be chopped into a bob, just under their chin. The pattern repeats yearly, on schedule without fail.

"I don't owe her anything!" I snap, the words coming out a little louder than I intend, and all heads turn our way again, including Nia's.

"Tell me how you really feel now," Dread laughs, clipping their helmet buckle under their chin.

Then, every skater is standing, scrambling into the pack as they take their warm up laps. I'm left lagging behind, a common theme lately that is slowly prickling under my skin, an annoying sensation I can't seem to block out.

Mo blows the whistle, and it feels like a direct call out, telling me to stand and join the rest of the team in laps. I don't hesitate, catching up with D-Stroya, who seems to be skating with extra leisure.

"You nervous?" I ask her.

"Fuck yeah, I'm nervous." She shakes her head. "But there's also a sense of peace, you know? Like, life goes on if I can't do this." She sighs out loud, and I realize she's saving her energy for her speed test.

"Stop saying that," I chastise her. "You can do this. So can the others." I reminded her she isn't the only skater who didn't pass her speed test.

She comes to a hockey stop, forcing me to make a quick one-eighty and freeze on my toe stops in front of her. "Cat." Her voice is cold and sharp. "This isn't my first rodeo. It's okay not to pass your speed test when you're fresh meat. I'm not fresh meat. I'm not getting any faster, I can accept that." She looks over to Nia, whose crossovers are smoother than ever. She skates with a smile on her face, not bothering to slow down so others can keep up with her or use this as a social time. "It's time you do the same."

Deandra kisses the pads of her pointer and middle finger and then touches the top of my helmet.

In a way, I feel as if I'm attending another funeral.

Another death, another goodbye.

Roller Derby means family. We live for each other, bear the brunt of each other's sorrows, struggles, and joy. That bond doesn't end when practice is over or when we take our skates off for the night.

But that bond does break when the skates come off for the last time, when they get hung in a closet by their laces like a trophy. Moving on is easier than staying stuck in the memory. Nostalgia becomes a scab that gets picked too soon, never quite healing. Every retired skater tries to stick around, attend the bouts and cheer their friends on, but life takes precedent and eventually, other priorities win out.

There's no bitterness there. It's simply the way of life. If you aren't living, breathing Roller Derby, you aren't one hundred percent in. You can't give your all to a team with one foot out the door.

D already has both feet in the parking lot. She's just hoping to use Scott to push her the rest of the way out.

The whistle blows again, and we all know it's time for footwork drills. All qualified skaters move to the side, where ladders are taped on the ground and cones are arranged for toe-stop walking—everyone aside from the skaters who haven't passed their twenty-seven in fives.

They stay on the track, where Scott clutches his stopwatch in his hand, ready to test them. I switch my focus back to the task in front of me, tuning out every thought of Lonnie, D, and Nia as I let my feet do the work.

I count to soothe.

One two three. One two three. My feet crisscross through the ladders. One two three. One two three. I'm back in line, ignoring the sounds of everyone around me. I don't turn to my side to see how the speed test is going. It's my turn again.

One two three. One two three.

I can hear the clamoring around me, the cheers of our so-called family morphing into a roar of encouragement for the skaters on the track. I'm the only one doing ladders now. There's no line, no one else in my way.

One two three. One two three.

And then they erupt, as if something that was physically holding them back had come crashing down. My teammates rush over to the circle of the track, fanning and cheering as well as consoling and commiserating.

Turning my head slowly, still too afraid to know for certain, I brace for the impact.

It isn't D who is crying, though she's clearly not made it. It's StarScreamer, sobbing at her feet and allowing her friend to console her. It makes me feel better to know I'm not the only one feeling this way.

Rae-Gunn is shrugging, like she had expected not to make it this second time either and assuring everyone that it will be okay. She still has one more chance to test, according to Scott, and it doesn't look like this has been enough of an ego-kill to keep her from trying one more time.

Bae-Ruthless is hugging the living shit out of Electric-Heel, her skates lifted off the air as she spins her in circles, congratulating her friend in her accomplishment. It's a relief to not be losing any more of us like this.

Scott blows the whistle again, not going through any formality of congratulating Electric, moving on to the next thing like it means nothing. "Let's scrimmage, Devils."