Page 6

6

MADDOX

T here’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. Ira comes in next and prepares the track, bringing the cones out of storage to set up for ladders and drills.

We don’t really talk until the others arrive. One-on-one time with other skaters stopped being a part of my interests after Asha’s passing. Four weeks without her 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 her 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 just here to skate.

There’s nothing we can say that would matter anyway.

B-team arrives first, Feral, 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 misses a practice, and never says 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 the stability of their presence, especially now that I prefer silence to the sound of voices.

Lenny Lizard 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 Asha’s back office. The door is locked, but he keeps twisting the knob and hitting it with his shoulder like a fucking Neanderthal.

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

“You need to skate. Now .” They’re Ira’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 who’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 for a distraction, Vera fucking Havik walks through the double doors, biting her stupid lip and looking awkward as shit. The red target on her throat pulls my gaze in, its goal achieved as I focus on the length of her neck.

“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. Asha Fields wasn’t a fan of change, and there had never been a need to alter Skatium. But of course, just as I give birth to the thought, men in paint-covered overalls walk in, carrying ladders and painting equipment.

Leonard 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.

Leonard shifts his attention from the office and nudges Vera 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,” Ira’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 her with a less-than-amused look, and she moves quickly, skating backwards and keeping her front to me with her hands raised in defense.

That scrawny-looking 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 Asha’s door. Reaching over the trim and feeling for the key on the ledge, 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 room, not a whirring of AC or a small sizzle of a light. Everything is turned off. We used to pile in this office, taking shots after a well-earned win. Every skater would cram in here, sweaty and vibrating with excitement. Even the office feels dead now. Asha was my best friend. From the minute I arrived in Slaughters, I clung to her, and within days of knowing me, she had thrown a pair of rental skates on my feet and convinced me to join in on a practice.

A natural, Asha called me.

She had this incredibly warm, nurturing energy about her, and yet at the same time, she wasn’t afraid to dish out the truth like it was. There’s a gaping hole inside my chest without her, and it feels like I’m rotting at the edges, the grief consuming me.

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

I look around. 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 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 Havoc makes me angry. Infuriated. It’s not just about the jammer position, though that has a hell of a lot to do with it.

Asha trusted her, loved her like family.

I fail to see why, seeing as she wasn’t here when it counted. She left every single one of those skaters without a second thought to what it would do to them or this place.

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.

“Asha 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, Mayhem.” I gesture to the empty studio apartment, shutting the door behind me as I skate my way back to the track.

Fucking reptile.

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.

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

Ira skates my way, as if she can see the confusion on my face.

“What the hell is happening?” I ask.

“Boss guy is renovating.” She seems excited.

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

“ Well then .” Ira clears her throat before beginning. “You need to decide whose rink it is. No one’s, or someone’s .”

“Fuck off, Ira.” 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 Asha.

As if he’s pointing out that he is able to do in one day what Asha 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 arms 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, Dolls. Let’s go.” Ira refrains from the whistle, and thank titties, 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. She comes out of Asha’s office 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. Havoc joins the pack for warm ups, and Ira gathers us on Leonard’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. It’s 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.

Vera Havik 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.

But I can’t, so instead, I go make it her problem. “Laps.” It’s the only thing I say, but she’s not quick enough to connect the dots.

“What?” Her eyes are red and puffy, but she doesn’t bother wiping the tears from her face when she looks up at me.

“You’re late. Everyone skates laps. Now .” I stand over her and wait.

She looks over to Ira, as if she’s going to help her at all, but Ira shrugs instead.

“ I’m your captain, Mayhem. Laps,” I remind her, in case it isn’t clear.

She shrinks again, her shoulders drooping and her gaze lowering to the ground. That’s when I realize everyone is watching us. I don’t care; she doesn’t get to come here and waive her little famous card around, expecting she’ll get special privileges. Everyone skates laps, superstars included.

“Kind of going hard, aren’t you?” Ira mumbles loud enough for me and only me to hear as Havoc skates to the track.

“Asha would make us skate ten extra laps if we showed up late. She gets to show up late and miss warming up altogether? Fuck that .” I don’t bother hiding my contempt, but I’m not a total bitch.

I push my skates one after the other as I join her for warm ups. I’ve already done mine, but I’m not going to give her the room to say I’m not a fair captain. I’ll skate whatever laps I dole out to her. I can take anything I serve.

By the third lap, she’s severely behind, and I’m confused.

“Tired already, Mayhem?” I call back to her.

She flinches from the nickname again, but she says nothing. All I can hear is her heavy panting, the ragged breathing between the sounds of her skates pounding on the wood. I turn my head to see far more struggle, more effort in her expression than I expected. The frown is heavy, her gaze focused, but she can’t quite get it.

Once the five laps are done, she comes to a slow stop, wheezing, dropping her hands to her thighs for support. I brush by her, purposefully knocking her with my hip and shoulder so it throws her balance. “Maybe stay off the pills. They’re making you slow.”

Her mouth drops open, but she doesn’t respond.

Lizard man blows the whistle, as if to wrangle all of our attention back to him, where he truly feels it belongs.

I skate past her to grab my water while Ira and our new manager talk. 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 Havoc 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.

Havoc is fast, but 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 Skatium—no, Slaughters—isn’t the place for her after all.