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MADDOX

O n 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 Bout Nights work. The Roller Derby leagues come, they play, and we whoop their asses. It’s the natural order of things in Slaughters, Kentucky, and the Murder Dolls Derby League loves to open its doors for a beat-down.

MorningStar’s hip is like a cinder block, royally laying me out after my weak attempt to pass her on a wide curve. She hits like she’s twice her size, so I call time on our scrimmage, needing a minute to catch my breath and take a drink of water.

Just as I slam into the partition, not bothering to use my skates to break, the door to the rink opens. Our assistant coach, Ira, is behind the ticket booth, counting money from the previous Bout Night’s ticket sales, when she walks in.

Five foot nothing and a little too thin for derby, the fake redhead holds carbon fiber boots by their strings. Olive skin, almond eyes, a tattoo in the middle of her throat of a bullseye, each ring a different thickness—I’d recognize her anywhere.

Vera Havik, mostly known in these circles by her skate name, Havoc . She’s still to date the highest scoring jammer in the entire Women’s Flat Track Roller Derby Association. She’s a fucking legend, and everyone who skates on eight wheels knows who the fuck she is.

I especially know because her name is carved into the walls of this very rink. She built this league, but when the money came calling, she left her sisters without a second thought.

Five years now, she has been skating for the pros on TV.

“I thought I’d drop by. I got a call from Asha,” I hear her say to Ira, who shoots me a side-eye from behind the glass. “N-nevermind. I’ll just go. I should have waited to talk to her instead of just showing up.”

“Probably.” I project my voice through Skatium’s rink, gathering her attention. “It’s a closed practice, Mayhem. ” I purposefully fumble her derby name and watch her face crumple up.

“It’s Havoc,” she corrects me.

“Is it?” I give a one shoulder shrug, swinging one leg over the partition and then the other until I’m sitting on the half-wall that separates the track from the entrance.

She blinks, shifting her gaze to where the skaters continue their scrimmage. There’s longing in her eyes, but this isn’t where she’ll find fulfillment. She shakes her head and stutters a “S-sorry” I can barely hear before spinning on her heels and walking out of Skatium.

“I think you scared her off,” Ira laughs.

“Good. Better than giving her a false impression of what’s waiting for her.”

Ira’s expression fills with pain, “She said Asha called her.”

“Fuck.” I exhale. “You think that’s why she’s here?” I whip my head back toward the track, scanning through the crowd of skaters.

This place means the world to all of them; no one would have risked it.

“Doesn’t seem like she knows anything.” Ira crosses her arms over her chest.

“I know,” I wave her off, “but I don’t trust her.”

I have enough to deal with right now. I don’t need to add console a remorseful superstar to my list. Because it’s not Saturday; it’s Tuesday. Today, we’re closed for business. The Murder Dolls haven’t competed in any regulated Women’s Flat Track Derby Association bouts in nearly five years—not since our star jammer gave up and left for a bigger league with the promise of a fat check.

Havoc.

That was long before my time. Now, we’re just a hobby-team; everything we do here is for fun or for fundraising to keep this rink open to the public. The only money we make is on Fridays during Tween Skate Night . Hardly anyone shows up to a game anymore, so if by chance we make any cash from concessions or merch on Bout Nights, it funnels straight into the past-due bills.

Skatium is headed for closure.

Once it’s shut down, Slaughters 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 an Aldi or something in its place.

Asha, our coach and the owner, knew this day was coming and prepared for it. She signed away the 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 Murder Dolls 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 Silver Town Skaters, at least a fifty-minute drive 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 Skatium 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 through 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.

There’s no way around it—just the smell of his cologne tells me we’re about to clash so hard. See, my dick is much bigger, and men like him don’t do well knowing that. They can’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 to get there.

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.

“Leonard!” Ira waves him down from the center of the track, where she stretches her hamstrings with the rest of the skaters.

She gives me a quick look, using her 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-blond 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.

Ira clears her throat uncomfortably. “We’re not all ladies here. Skaters is preferred.” She hits 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 going to 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 Ira whip their heads in that direction, their eyes glued to the five foot nothing redhead who seems to have grown a spine in the last ten minutes.

Vera fucking Havik.

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

Ira’s eyes grow ten times in size, the oh shit look on her face impossible to mask, but thankfully, Lenny-fucking-lizard isn’t looking at her. No, he’s locked in on the former Roller Derby Star who has no business crash-landing into Skatium.

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

“Havoc!” she shouts, squeezing her in a death lock and lifting her until her feet no longer touch the ground.

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

The whistle blows directly in my fucking ear, and every hackle 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 Ira shrug, as if she 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. Vera awkwardly stands 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 Murder Dolls league points a finger directly into the lizard’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 Asha Fields did things around here.” A flat expression covers his face as he dishes out the next round of insults. “And that’s exactly why she signed you all away, why Asha 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.”