5. Harvey

5

HARVEY

There's something about proving an asshole wrong that fuels me like nothing else can, and proving this particular asshole wrong has just climbed to the top of my to-do list. I'm the first at the rink, as always, using my spare key to unlock the place before gearing up and eating a breakfast bar. Mo comes in next and prepares the track, bringing the cones out of storage to set up for ladders and drills.

We usually don't talk anymore until the others arrive. One on one time with other skaters stopped being a part of my interests after Lonnie's passing. Five weeks without Lonnie is starting to feel like a lifetime.

How long are we supposed to keep doing this?

Keep living like we'll eventually be okay without them, when I never want to be okay again.

Now, everything is changing, and I'm tired of being strong. Being silent feels better. We're also both well aware there is nothing we can say that would matter anyway.

We're just here to skate.

B team arrives first, Nancy, Venice, and Bae as if they rode together, and then K-Otic follows shortly after. None of us know much about K, other than the fact they showed up two years ago, never missed a practice, but never said a word. Their chin length hair is kept slicked back, the same shade of cerulean since the day we met them, never once fading, never a trace of the natural color growing out.

I very much appreciate their presence, especially now that I prefer silence to the sound of voices.

Scottie Crocodile walks through the doors next, donning a tracksuit that has him resembling a mafia boss, a notebook in one hand and his phone squeezed between his ear and his shoulder. He waves without looking in our direction before heading straight for what used to be Lonnie's office. It reminds me to lock the door next time.

Something about him sitting there, acting like he's welcome in Lonnie's space, bothers the absolute hell out of me. My teeth squeak from grinding together.

"You need to skate. Now." They're Morgan's first words to me today, and there's no kindness behind them.

It feels like we're all running out of it lately.

But I get the gist: stop obsessing over the awful man that's already making my life a living hell. I can do that; I just need to direct that hate elsewhere.

As if the universe is answering my request, Nia fucking Death walks through the double doors, biting her stupid lip and looking uncomfortable.

"Hi." She waves awkwardly, dark circles beneath her eyes as they scan over the rink, like she's yet to really take it in since her return.

`It's probably exactly the same as the day she left. Lonnie Green wasn't a fan of change, and there had never been a need to alter Skateland. But of course, just as I give birth to the thought, men in paint-covered overalls walk in, carrying ladders and painting equipment.

Scott is literally pissing all over us.

So like a man to arrive and, within minutes, demand we change our entire world to suit him, to force that change just to assert the fact that he can.

As he steps out of the office, Scott nudges Nia with his shoulder, gesturing to the painters as they go back and forth a few times in discussion. A weak smile graces her face before she turns away and tosses her bag on the floor to gear up.

"Stare hard enough, and she might feel you fingerbanging her with your eyes." Morgan's sarcastic tone comes from behind me, thankfully not loud enough to carry too far.

It doesn't need to, though; it's only meant for me to hear, and that's enough to piss me off. I hit them with a less-than-amused look, and they move quickly, skating backwards and keeping their front to me with their hands raised in defense.

That scrawny thing isn't even my type. I like women who don't need to be looked after, who are strong enough to ask for help but rarely need it. That girl oozes insecurities from every single pore in her body, and I'm not even sure she can hold up the weight of her gear without falling over.

To avoid slipping into a worse mood, I skate through the track until I stand in front of Lonnie's door—the door to their apartment. It's a little studio in the back of the rink with no exit to the outdoors and just enough room for Lonnie to get by. A sofa-couch, a table to eat on, and a kitchen to cook out of. I'm pretty sure they showered in the locker rooms.

Reaching over the door and feeling for the key on the ledge of the trim, I pull it down, wiping the dust from my fingers before inserting it into the keyhole. Stale air hits my nostrils. It's been at least four weeks since anyone's been in here to turn on a fan or open the window that vents out to the track.

There's no sound at all in the little apartment, not a whirring of a fridge or a small sizzle of a light. Everything is turned off. Even their home feels dead now. Lonnie was my best friend. From the minute I arrived in Devil Town, I clung to them, and within days of knowing me, they had thrown a pair of rental skates on my feet and convinced me to join in on a practice.

A natural, Lonnie called me.

They had this incredibly warm, nurturing energy about them, and yet at the same time, they weren't afraid to dish out the truth like it was. There was a gaping hole inside my chest without them, and it felt like I was rotting at the edges, the grief consuming me.

A type of anger that feels so empty, it begs to be filled.

Dust particles float in the air, frozen, suspended in time.

Just like me.

Everything's wrong.

I'm zoned out, staring at a floating speck, and I don't hear her coming. I feel her presence there, looming like she's not sure whether to knock with the door open. I say nothing, don't acknowledge her, though she's certainly hard to ignore.

Just being around her makes me angry. Infuriated. It's not just about the jammer position, though that has a hell of a lot to do with it.

Lonnie trusted her, loved her like family.

I fail to see why, when she wasn't here when it counted.

A few seconds pass, and she comes in anyway. The muffled tapping of her feet on the floor is barely audible with her socks on. It's the sniffling that draws my attention, inevitably forcing me to turn my gaze in her direction.

"Lonnie was my favorite person in this whole world." Her voice is shaky, and her back is to me now. "I would have given anything to say goodbye."

"I would give anything to erase the memory of them dying right before my very eyes." I stand to leave, my discomfort a burn that only increases the longer she's around.

"Just because you don't know me doesn't mean I don't have the right to grieve." The shakiness is gone now, and I turn back, hitting her with one last look before speaking.

"Grieve away then, princess." I gesture to the empty studio apartment, shutting the door behind me as I skate my way back to the track.

Fucking crocodile.

A crew of twenty men in overalls spreads throughout the track, ladders and supplies in hand as they await instructions from their boss. My heart pounds in my chest; I'm suffocating in this anger, in this helplessness, in this all-consuming rage.

Lonnie is gone, and here are the hyenas, gnawing away at the flesh of everything they had stood for, everything they had built. Funny how the right decision can so easily become the wrong one.

Mo skates my way, as if they can see the confusion on my face.

"What the hell is happening?" I ask.

"Boss guy is renovating." They seem excited.

"Not his rink to renovate," I bite back, not hiding the sharpness in my tone.

"Well then." Morgan clears their throat before beginning. "You need to decide whose rink it is. No one's, or someone's."

"Fuck off, Mo." I skate away, tired of feeling like everyone is an enemy.

King Shit whistles for our attention, and by the time I make it to the circle, I realize the entire team is here now. "Good morning, ladies. Thank you for showing up on time," he begins, still looking at his phone, like giving all his attention is more than we deserve. "As you can see, renovations are being made. Nothing drastic, just modernizing and cleaning up the place, bringing it up to code with the century." He laughs, but it feels like a personal dig at Lonnie.

As if he's pointing out that he is able to do in one day what Lonnie couldn't do in years.

"The workers shouldn't be too in the way the next couple of weeks, so pay them no mind, and soon, Slam Nights will look a whole lot busier." He blows that goddamn whistle, and every hair on my arm stands on end, my body fighting the urge to rip it off the chain and shove it down his throat. "Do your thing, Coach."

"Ladders, Devils. Let's go." Mo refrains from the whistle, and thank-shit, because if I hear that thing one more time, I'll lose it.

Our new jammer takes an extra fifteen minutes to join us for drills, but no one seems to mind. She comes out of Lonnie's looking like that had been the funeral she missed. Red, puffy eyes avoiding our stares, she focuses on her feet until she reaches the other end of the track, where she takes her time getting her skates on. Nia joins the pack for warmups, and Mo gathers us on Scott's behalf, passing waivers to each and every skater who completed their speed and skills test.

Standard bullshit. He's not liable if we get hurt, not responsible for our bills, not responsible for shit. Typical. There is, however, a fancy little section at the bottom about payment per regional win and bonuses for performance, something none of us have ever seen before.

"Holy shit. We're getting paid?" Lady Yaga beats me to the punch.

It's enough to get every skater clamoring and crowding in a big, excited circle. Too much praise over a man I can't even stomach to look at right now. As I scan the room, there's only one other skater who seems unimpressed, not so easily swayed by words on a piece of paper or the promise of a few dollars.

Nia Da fucking Silva stands on the other side of the crowd of skaters, flipping the paper back and forth, no sight of appeasement on her face, only sorrow. She waits her turn, and when the pen makes its way to her, she signs, uncaringly passing her waiver along with the pen to whoever can get it out of her face as fast as possible.

And then she takes to the bench, sitting down and waiting for what comes next.

Stop watching this fucking chick.

Croc blows the whistle, as if to wrangle my attention to where it needs to go.

I skate past her to grab my water while Mo and our new manager talk between themselves. They hand out scrimmage jerseys, mixing the B team skaters with the A team for practice purposes and separating us, red versus blue.

It feels odd, out of place, every version of fucking weird to be standing behind the pivot line instead of the jammer line. I thrive in the thrill of the race; I'm obsessed with it, I crave it. I need it. But there K-Otic is, the jammer star over their helmet, standing next to Nia-Death with the other.

K-Otic is fast as hell, no doubt about it. I can accept defeat when it comes to skating against them because we're an even match. When we skate against each other, we spend so much time trying to knock the other down that we waste all our energy on strength instead of speed.

Nia is fast, with no bones or weight to hold her as a threat. I'm eager for the next whistle now, borderline giddy with the opportunity to knock this little shrimp down. Maybe then, she'll realize Skateland—no, Devil Town, isn't the place for her after all.