2. Harvey

2

HARVEY

On any given Saturday, three things are guaranteed to be true.

One, I'll be covered in bruises by sunset.

Two, I'll be making at least one girl cry.

Three, there will be blood.

Lots of it.

It can't be helped. It's just the way Slam Nights work. The Roller Derby leagues come, they play, and we whoop their asses. It's the natural order of things in Devil Town, and the Devil's Dames Derby League regularly opens our doors for a beat-down.

Today is Tuesday, though. Today, we're closed for business. Our new manager will be walking through those doors, reassessing our team, and getting us ready for the "big leagues." The Devil's Dames haven't competed in any regulated Women's Flat Track Derby Association bouts in nearly five years—not since our star jammer gave up after a brutal injury, long before my time. Everything we've been doing for the last few years has simply been for fun, or for fundraising to keep this rink open to the public.

God knows we only make money on Fridays during Tween Skate Party Night. Hardly anyone shows up to a bout anymore, so the cash we make from concessions and merch on Slam Nights is practically nonexistent.

Skateland is headed for closure.

Once it's shut down, Devil Town will fight for city hall to demolish the building against the owner's wishes and force a sale of the lot. Eventually, they'll put up some chain grocery store in its place.

Lonnie, our coach and the owner, knew this day was coming and prepared for it. They signed away their rights to our league to some washed-up basketball team manager to try and dig us out of this hole, to make something of the Devil's Dames again.

There's nothing but excitement drumming through the veins of every skater on that track—because they have hope. If shit hits the fan, if the worst comes to fruition, then we'll have to dissolve. The skaters who don't live in our little town will have to find other derby teams to skate for, and those of us stuck here will have to abandon the idea of skating or start traveling for it.

The closest league to us is the Wolverine Dream Team, at least a fifty-minute drive to their city from here.

I sure as shit can't manage the back and forth multiple times a week for practices, so what will the skaters with more demanding jobs, families, or no car do?

Losing Skateland would practically be a death sentence for some of us.

Because if we aren't skating, we're likely making a shitstorm out of our lives.

I, myself, am a fucking bulldozer.

I've wrecked my way through life, plowing over anything that doesn't serve me until all that's left is curated, especially in my favor.

The repercussions of being too much and not enough all at once.

We're mid-stretch on the track when he comes in. He's the sleazy type, impossible not to judge when he walks into a run-down skate rink in seemingly-Dolce and Gabbana shoes and a salmon-colored suit.

This guy thinks his dick is too heavy to carry between his legs, I know it.

Fuck, we're about to clash so hard.

See, my dick is much bigger, and men like him don't do well knowing that. They don't tolerate the idea of a woman being in charge, knowing more, giving him guidance, which is everything I need to do to make sure we stay winning.

We just require a little bit of his money.

This guy has no clue what Roller Derby is about, and from the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets while scanning the room, I know he's way out of his element.

"Scott!" Morgan waves him down from the center of the track, where they stretch their hamstrings with the rest of the skaters.

They give me a quick look, using their forehead to gesture in his direction, as if to beckon me over as well. I sigh, feeling uneasy about this entire thing. I trust no one anymore, and this particular situation makes me feel like a wild animal, being lured into a cage by the promise of a juicy steak.

There is no other option, I remind myself, looking back at every skater with hope-filled eyes. This is their home too, not just mine. We're doing this for them.

"Ladies." His smile reminds me of a hungry cartoon crocodile, waiting above the water for the main character to let go of the branch. His yellow-blonde hair is short, gelled up like it's the early 2000s, and sunglasses sit above his head.

Designer, I'm sure, and I hate him for it.

"Skaters," I correct him, crossing my arms over my chest.

He furrows his eyebrows like he's not understanding.

Morgan clears their throat uncomfortably. "We're not all ladies here. Skaters is preferred." They hit me with a look that's nearly lethal, telling me to back off and not ruin this before it has a chance.

"Ladies, skaters, whatever," he chuckles. "I don't care what you want me to call you, as long as you're making me money."

Sleazy fucking reptile.

"Whatever?" I can't help it; I've already decided this guy is gonna be the end of my peace.

I can fucking feel it.

He doesn't respond. Instead, the double doors swing open, and both he and Morgan whip their heads in that direction, their eyes glued to the five-foot-nothing brunette with a single braid hanging down to her waist.

Nia fucking Death.

God is real, because this kind of bad timing has to be the work of a higher power, punishing me for all of my mistakes.

She looked tiny the first time she came here almost two months ago. No muscles, frail, like she was completely out of shape, not at all like the legend this team had painted her out to be. Today, she looks one step up from dead—sunken cheeks, dark circles under her eyes, somehow more skeletal than before. One swing of Nancy-Shrew's hips, and half her bones would be broken.

So what the fuck was she doing at Skateland, her quads dangling from her fingers?

Morgan's eyes grew ten times in size, the oh shit look on their face impossible to mask, but thankfully, Scotty Crocodile isn't looking at Mo. No, he's locked in on the former Roller Derby Star who has no business crash-landing into a closed practice.

Or whatever the fuck this is.

A high-pitched shriek comes from the gaggle of skaters, who are no longer stretching but standing in a small circle together. StarScreamer dashes past us in a frenzy, one foot after the other slamming against the wooden track until she crashes into our unexpected guest.

"Nia!" she shouts, squeezing her into a death lock and lifting her until her feet no longer touch the ground.

Bae-Ruthless, Venice Witch, D-Stroya, and Lady Yaga take off from the crowded circle and skate in the direction of the girl, piling on top of her and StarScreamer.

The whistle blows directly in my fucking ear, and every heckle on my body raises, ready to go a round with this impossibly frustrating man.

Who the fuck gave him a whistle? I don't say it, but I guess the look on my face is enough to make Mo shrug, as if they can read my thoughts.

"All right, ladies," he calls out from where he stands. My blood pressure skyrockets, the sound of my pulse pumping in my ears too impossible to ignore. "I wanna see you warm up, and then everybody is doing assessments."

A roar of displeased comments erupts from every skater.

Nobody wants to skate twenty-seven laps in five minutes, but it's necessary to qualify under WFTDA regulations. Every skater here can probably do it with enough fire under their asses, but that doesn't mean we want to be surprised with it, and it especially doesn't mean we want to do it for this jackass, who isn't even asking nicely.

Preparation is important; building up stamina is crucial.

Not passing the speed test can be the kind of ego-killer that keeps good skaters from coming back.

You never test before you're ready.

He whistles again, this time less in my ear and more directed toward the incoming crowd of skaters, the sickly-looking girl awkwardly standing to the side, still in converse shoes. Star grabs her by the wrist and drags her into the rage pit, where nearly every skater in the Devil's Dame league points their finger directly into the crocodile's face.

He blows the whistle once more, this time on an extended drag that quiets every contrary voice and forces all the skaters to plug their ears for protection. "You're under the impression that this is a democracy, and maybe that's how Lonnie Green did things around here." A flat expression covers his face as he dishes out the next round of insults. "And that's exactly why Lonnie signed you all away, why Lonnie couldn't make successes out of you."

A grumble of protest rises again, but the whistle is far more powerful, starting to go to his head.

"If you disagree, you're welcome to leave." He points to the door. "To meet Women's Flat Track Derby Association regulations, all skaters must pass their skills and speed tests. No one is exempt."

We go in turns so as not to crowd the track. Four at a time, five minutes. When eight out of all twelve skaters have tested, Morgan, myself, and Star strap our helmets back on and get behind the blue line. Mo has been our assistant coach for the last year. When I first arrived in Devil Town, they'd been positioned as pivot, and there was hardly anyone who could get past them unscathed. Time gets us all, though. Eventually, you either retire, or you find a way to make yourself useful.

"Nia." StarScreamer whistles. "Get your ass over here." She looks up at Scott to explain. "Nia-Death here is still the all-time highest scoring jammer per bout in the entire Women's Flat Track Derby Association." Pride practically drips off her tongue, as if her friend's accomplishments are her own.

"Get behind the line." Our new manager doesn't need convincing. He even gives her the extra time it takes to get her skates and gear on.

Nia looks around the track awkwardly, like she's waiting for additional permission. It comes in the form of Lady Yaga pushing her in the back, propelling her toward the track. StarScreamer catches her by the wrist, whipping her in a circle until she steadies herself on her toe stops.

The two grin at each other, bumping shoulders until Star almost knocks her down. Scott gives us a hand signal to prepare us.

I would fear my ability to make it if I didn't have confidence in my own hard work and my body. There isn't a day my skates aren't on my feet, even if it's just for a stroll around the park. I'm not some tiny little thing; speed doesn't come to me easily. I'm five-eleven, and the velocity of my skates depend solely on the strength of my thighs.

And those bitches are toned to perfection.

He whistles us off, and the four of us move in perfect synchronicity, left knee over right, crossing over as we make our first turn around the track. By the fifth lap, Morgan is severely behind, and I'm starting to reach them from the back. I pound my skates harder on the wooden floor, the noise enough to alert Mo and force them to fight for their speed.

At the tenth lap, the braided brunette makes her way to my left, tight on the curve, passing me with ease. Quick little crossovers are all she needs to get a good distance ahead, but I know I'm still fast enough to meet the challenge. Star's blonde low-ponytail sticks to her sweaty back as she passes Mo on the right, an encouraging grunt from her as she hypes up our assistant coach.

My lungs burn at twenty. At twenty-four, I can no longer feel my feet, just a wave of nausea that's impossible to fight. I only have to hold it back three more laps. I'm just behind Nia-Death now, the tail end of her braid practically in reach as it whips behind her, almost teasing me to yank it.

Another lap, then one more, and my shouts to Mo to push harder are the only thing I can hear above the sound of our wheels on the track.

Nia passes the line, a 180 turn on her toes marking a classic derby stop before she rolls out of the track and collapses to the ground. D-Stroya, Venice, and Lady Yaga hover over her, fanning her with a laminated flier. I cross the line, rolling out of the track and dropping to my knee pads.

Sweat drips from my forehead down to my skates, but I keep my eye on Mo and Star until they cross the starting line. The croc blows his whistle just after, and the two practically fall onto each other, nothing but exhausted breaths coloring the air.

Mo is sobbing. They rarely bout unless the roster demands, and in the four years they've been here, I've only seen them skate the twenty-seven in five once. I understand just what those tears mean, the emotional exhaustion that sweeps over once victory has been achieved, the body's cry of conquest.

Our new manager doesn't let us revel in the moment.

Scott begins to assign positions, one skater at a time, until they've all been given their roles. He begins with the blockers on the B-team, the ones who stay on the bench during bouts unless a substitution is made. Nancy-Shrew and Venice Witch are named, followed by Bae-Ruthless as pivot. K-Otic is a substitute jammer like before.

Then, the A-team is formed: the ones guaranteed to be bouting unless injured, tired, or somehow missing. Lady Yaga, DreadPool, and StarScreamer for blockers—obvious, a given, our usual set up. Then, he calls my name for pivot. I think I hear him wrong, but then he announces the little one's name instead for the position of jammer.

My position.

"What? No, I'm fucking jammer." My chest is practically touching his, sweat forcing my shirt to stick to my sports bra.

"You were jammer. She's faster." He says it like it's nothing, like he isn't changing everything I know.

"She's not even a Devil's Dame!" I counter, absolute disbelief being the only thing I can feel while this guy fucks with the entire dynamic of our team.

It feels like the whole world is spinning—maybe from dehydration, maybe from exhaustion, or maybe from these two assholes fucking up my entire life in a matter of seconds.

"You can block, or you can get benched as a sub. Last I read, only one jammer per team goes out on the track. Your call." The look on his face is of pure satisfaction, like he can't be more fulfilled at giving me the news. "You." He points at the girl my siblings-in-wheels call Nia.

She turns slowly, an apprehensive look on her face. "Yes?" The word is barely audible.

"You a Devil's Dame?" he asks her.

Dead silence surrounds the rink, anticipation growing, like standing on a precipice, as she chooses her answer carefully. She looks between the skaters I've called my best friends for the last four years. Aspiration glimmers in their eyes, and they nod their heads in unison, StarScreamer clasping her hands to her chest like the perfect vision of hope.

"Yes," Nia-Death says, a little more courage behind her voice this time as she bites back a smile, her eyes darting over to me just long enough for me to catch.

They all scream, and the crocodile laughs a cold sound.

Clenching my molars together, I grind my teeth as every feeling between loathing and outrage courses through my veins.

"Fine. You want a blocker? I'll fucking block." I slip my mouthguard in and move to the pivot line for scrimmage.

The whistle goes off again, this asshole far too trigger happy with the thing, and it makes me wonder if he ever actually coached a basketball team, or simply owned them. The two are not the same. "Practices are Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays from now on," he belts out. "See you all tomorrow, bright and early. Those who didn't pass will have three more chances. After that, you gotta find yourself a new league."

Ass wipe.

He knows we practice Tuesdays and Thursdays, because here we stand, on a fucking Tuesday, with our skates on. These are all power moves, shows of dominance, pissing on Skateland as if he fucking owns it.

Well, he doesn't. He might own the name of the Devil's Dames, but he doesn't own us. He doesn't own the skaters, and if we organize, we can still come out in charge of our shit here.

"That's it?" I ask, forcing him to freeze in place.

He turns around slowly, raising a single eyebrow in question.

"Not gonna assess our footwork, our individual strengths and weaknesses?" I snort.

"I've seen what I needed to see." Turning to Mo, he adds, "I'll hold open auditions to fill the final spots once the last of the grandfathered skaters get their chance to finish their speed tests." He walks out without another word.

My anger consumes me. I worked my ass off for nearly half a decade and now it's all been taken from me in less than five minutes. I spin toward Morgan for some sort of support, finding nothing but a vacant stare, as if they too are still recovering from the whiplash of the last hour.

Enough is enough. I need answers.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" The words come out of my mouth before I even get a chance to stop in front of our new teammate.

I'm half a head taller, and even my bones look twice her size. Every blocker on our team is going to crush her in scrimmages. Sure, she's fast, but fast means nothing if she can't take a hit. And by the look of her, one check of my hip will send her flying.

"W-what?" she stutters out, clearly uncomfortable with confrontation. "I'm Nia. I-I was here a couple months ago." She tries clarifying, like I wouldn't remember when she chickened out of skating weeks prior.

"I know your name, princess. What are you doing here? Messing with all of my shit?"

She looks like she's shrinking by the second.

"Harvey," Star chastises.

"What? I'm supposed to be Eager Beaver over here because this chick rolls out of nowhere and bumps me from my position, and it's totally okay because she's your long-lost friend?" I turn back to face Nia-Death. "Why are you back here?" Arms crossed over my chest, I wait for an answer.

"I came back to Devil Town to skate." Her voice is still meak, quiet, like she isn't sure she really wants me to hear her.

I say nothing.

"I came back because this was my home." Her eyebrows scrunch in the middle, her frustration showing while still trying to appeal to me.

My expression is a stone mask.

She lets out a heavy exhale and speaks again, "I came to see Lonnie."

Bae-Ruthless gasps.

"Lonnie's not here, and you don't belong anymore," I warn her. "Go back to wherever you came from before you disrupt any more of our lives."

She looks around, confused, but she doesn't miss the somber expression on all of her friends' faces. "Where's Lonnie?"

"If this was your home, you'd know Lonnie Green is dead."