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MADDOX

I was seventeen the first time I saw Vera Havik skate. I spent most of my teen years at a private Catholic school, being forced to pray my sins away by my mom and stepdad. Driving to Slaughters from the city wasn’t what most teenagers were doing on a Saturday night, yet there I was, obsessively watching the Murder Dolls and cheering them on, counting down the days until I could try out.

But then my eighteenth birthday came, and reality hit. I found myself homeless, jobless, and with no way to afford higher education. I bounced from one couch to another, saving what little I could from working at a fast-food joint until I got my own car. When I turned twenty, I was able to remove the burden of my existence from my friends’ lives. That kind of pressure long term isn’t good for friendships.

I lived in my car for the next year. With no previous rental history and no credit score to back me, it was damn near impossible to lease an apartment. That’s when I decided to move to Slaughters.

Havoc had disappeared by then, leaving behind a visible scar through what I remembered of the Murder Dolls league. The team I looked up to had become a shell of what I had romanticized. Asha still welcomed me with open arms, tossing a pair of skates my way and showering me with all of the confidence that only she was capable of bestowing. She hooked me up with a job at The Void, convincing Freddy to hire me despite the fact he didn’t need the help.

Asha nearly lost her shit when she found out I had been sleeping in my car for so long, co-signing my first apartment lease without me asking. I barely felt like an adult, so in need of her nurturing. Now, I’m twenty-six, Asha’s dead, and Vera is here.

In the place I’ve made my home.

And what a mind trip all of it is.

Two or three months ago, I would have killed to see her walk through those doors, but she showed up a little too late. All I want now is for her to walk right back out.

Ira blows the whistle for the scrimmage to start, and within seconds, I’ve already sent Havoc sliding across the track. K-Otic is ahead and no doubt has the jam, but I still don’t let up. She takes the curve tight, her line of sight still on the opposing jammer, so she doesn’t see me coming when I throw her out of bounds with a hip check. I can hear her frustrated scream through her mouthguard, and I can’t help it when the little wrinkle between her eyebrows makes me laugh.

There’s only about ten minutes left of scrimmage when Deandra grabs me by the wrist and pulls me from the track. Probably for the best; I’ve already laid Havoc out at least ten times, and she’s going to be black and blue tomorrow for our first official WFTDA bout in five years.

I’m too busy hating myself to bother with feeling anything toward anyone else. My helmet is sweatier than usual, and my wrist guards are begging for a wash, but I’m probably better off just buying a new pair at this point.

“We’re gonna hang out at my place tonight,” D says. “Like a retirement party.” She grins, hesitation in her voice, like she’s not sure if I’m ready to pretend like any of this is a good thing.

I’m not. Because it isn’t.

“I’m working Tween Night,” I explain, glad I have the excuse so I don’t have to lie.

“Leonard’s keeping the rink closed tonight because of the fresh paint,” she counters. “Can’t keep those ten year olds from stamping their grubby paws all over the walls.” While it makes sense, there’s a part of me that’s angry for not having been consulted about it.

The rink isn’t his.

I groan, knowing I have no way out of this.

“Come on, my kids are at my parents’ house tonight.” She’s trying her best to sweeten the deal, walking toward me, gym bag in hand, ready to convince me to party like we’d just had a win when the reality is, this feels like a monumental loss.

“I dunno, D?—”

“Bullshit. You owe me more than a lie. Come hang out tonight, Mads.” Her frown is carved deep into her face.

I know she’s right. I know I can’t let it end like this.

“Okay.” I admit defeat. “Do you need me to bring anything?”

I always ask. I can’t help it. Even when I’m angry, I still want to take care of those I love.

“Some rum?” She bats her eyelashes at me.

She probably doesn’t even need it, but she knows I need a reason to feel useful, or I won’t drop by.

“I’ll come over after I stop at home.” I give her a nod, tossing the rest of my gear into the bag and bolting for the door before the rest of the skaters start filing out of the locker room.

By the time I get to Deandra’s, the party is alive. Bae-Ruthless and Feral-Streep are sitting on the porch steps smoking a blunt, Ira is arguing on the phone with someone, and the music is practically making the grass dance, even with the door closed. It’s a derby party, but for the first time in years, I’m feeling like the odd one out.

Like my place here isn’t certain anymore.

My eyes search for her first, like my brain’s got no say in the matter. Vera is sitting on top of the kitchen counter, holding a shot in one hand while she laughs at something DreadPool tells her.

I hate that her laughter makes my heart beat faster.

I despise how free it makes her look, how there’s a piece of me that wants to know what she looks like when I’m the one forcing it from her lips. She catches me staring, and I cover it up.

“Dread.” I nod to my friend before turning to find anyone else in this fucking house but her.

It’s suffocating, the feeling of her being everywhere. I can’t even think clearly, can’t breathe without her name popping into my head.

“You came!” D shouts from the dining room, which has been officially converted into a beer-pong room.

Venice and Star are playing against Baggins and Yaga when Deandra loops her arm through mine. “Thank you.” She leans her head on my shoulder, and I ache from the growing crater inside, swallowing up all the good in me.

“Yeah, yeah. Play with me next?” I ask her.

“Fuck yeah. Mads and I got next!” Deandra stakes her claim, and since house rules, no one argues.

It’s a bother spending the entire night trying to avoid her, to not catch her stares, to pretend like I want to have fun when joy is the last thing on my mind. When I’m low, I don’t want to feel better; I want to dig my way down to hell and feel the worst way imaginable.

* * *

I’m on the couch, leaning back, legs spread, people-watching at this point in the party since everyone is sloshed. I’m not drinking tonight, too afraid of the repercussions if l lose control of my emotions—and I’m guaranteed to lose control with Havoc around.

It’s two in the morning, and D is asleep sitting up in a dining room chair. Her husband, Phil, is slaughtering Feral in one-on-one pong while Venice and Dread roll around with forty ounce beers duct taped to their hands. The rest are either passed out or gathered around the TV, pouring beer into shot glasses while they finish the night with a power hour. This isn’t a regular Murder Doll’s gathering. This one feels like more, like no one is holding back because everyone is happy to enjoy themselves at this moment, consequences be damned.

Everyone but me.

I should just go home now that D is asleep. For the first time all night, my inner monologue and I are on the same page. Just as I go to stand, I notice Vera fishing the plastic bag from her pocket before walking into the bathroom.

I bite my lip.

I fight the itch.

But it burns, and I need to understand why.

So, I follow her.