Page 7

7

HAVOC

I ’ve become a wretched mess of poorly composed feelings. Spending the night getting high with Ryan Lee was what I thought I needed to get my mind off Asha, but the minute I arrived at the rink, it all came flooding back, every awful emotion that penetrates deep and eats away at me from the inside out. Except now, I’ve burned through all my serotonin, and I don’t have the energy to muster an ounce of social demand.

I’m not okay.

Yet another person I loved more than life itself is gone, and I’ll never get to say goodbye.

My thoughts circle in my head like vultures, ready for their next carrion—except I’m the meal, my misery their sustenance.

K-Otic slides next to me, slipping their mouthguard in and rolling their shoulders back to prepare for the jam. They have at least a foot on me, but once they lower their hand to the track, our backs are practically at the same height. Regardless, the only way out of this jam is with speed.

The whistle blows. K-Otic moves to hip check me, but I’m too aware of my surroundings, giving them a three-pass lead to avoid the hit and grabbing Venice Witch’s side to get through the wall of blockers. I’m through, but the minute I reach the open track, I feel a slam on my left from Mad Maddox, a sharp pain in my shoulder, and suddenly, I’m thrown from the track, sliding out of play.

Hands on the ground to steady myself, I shake my head to recalibrate before bouncing back on my toe stops and diving into the track again. Just as my feet hit the line, MorningStar sends K-Otic flying, giving me the time I need to catch up.

We’re shoulder to shoulder now, just a few crossovers from the jammer line, and it’s as close as it gets. I deepen my squat, damn near sitting on the ground while I skate as low as my center of gravity will allow, keeping me protected in case they try to hit me.

It’s inevitable. I’m flying again, my teeth knocking against each other, and though I don’t see the hit coming, I sure as shit feel the throbbing in my hip for what it is. I catch a satisfied Maddox in my peripheral, and it’s all I need to know she was the one who sent me skidding on my ass through the center of the track. Ira and our new manager watch me with unimpressed looks. Grimacing, I shake it off as Ira blows the whistle and readies for the next jam.

I clench down on my mouthguard, practically piercing a hole through the plastic in frustration. Looking up to see the dark haired pivot laughing with Star is the same as hitting a brick wall of insecurity.

Maybe I’m not wanted here.

Maybe I should go.

Or maybe I’m hyper-sensitive from all the pain pills in my system and overly aware of how out of my element I’m feeling in the only place I ever dared to call home. It’s unsettling, staying in a motel when the house my parents once owned is half a mile down the street. Knowing that if I go to the grocery store, a coffee shop, or even the animal clinic I’ll likely run into the parents of a friend who died too early from our bad decisions.

Another reason why I ran with my tail tucked between my legs the first chance I got.

Or perhaps I’ve just depleted all the good sparks in my brain.

I take my place behind the line, receiving nothing but a chin raise from K-Otic, as if that somehow counts for praise. It kind of does, giving me a little more confidence to not mentally crumble before the whistle sounds again.

I reach for Lady Yaga’s hand, going for the whip as a way out of the pack of blockers skating in front of me. No chance of success. Maddox is already there, waiting in a standstill as I hit her from the front, her chest a solid wall knocking every bit of oxygen from my lungs and sending me to the ground.

The whistle blows, and Ira yells, “Take a knee,” while I struggle to catch a breath, wheezing through what feels like collapsed lungs from the impact. “Goddamn, Mads. Give the girl a break.”

I look up to see her skating circles around me, her gaze locked on mine even as she pulls her mouthguard out to answer. “You want a pivot, or you want me to let her win? I can’t do both.”

“She’s not wrong,” our manager agrees, blowing the whistle again. “Maddox, sub for Havoc until she’s ready to go again.” He turns to Ira. “Stand in for pivot until the rest of the girls pass their test.”

I couldn’t disagree, every bit of my chest aching and begging for a break. I slip the star from my helmet and hand it to Ira, who makes the switch with Maddox while I drag my body from the track. I crawl backwards until I find a wall to lean on, making myself content with watching, realizing I’ve yet to examine the way this new version of the team skates.

Mad Maddox is fast, making it easy to sympathize with her annoyance at losing her place. But she’s not just fast, she’s strong, and by the way K-Otic exhausts themselves jam after jam, it’s clear she’s nearly impossible to knock down. She’s the perfect pivot, despite her feeling like I’m taking something from her. She just hasn’t been utilized this way yet to see for herself.

If I’m not a jammer, I’m nothing.

Certainly never been strong enough to take anyone down, and right now, I’m definitely not solid enough to take a hit and keep going.

They skate a few more jams before I finally feel okay to rejoin the pack, forcing Maddox to pass me the star and take her original place as pivot. I don’t miss her look of disdain as she’s made to give up the position, but I do recognize the work she put in. It’s practically unfair, the way she completely exhausted K-Otic and made them much easier to outskate.

The jammer, I can handle, but either Leonard and Ira are setting me up on purpose, or they don’t see the unfairness of pitting Maddox up against me round after round. With her targeting me, I can hardly get through the pack, let alone lap K-Otic, without getting hit.

I’m getting crushed between Maddox and Feral-Streep when one of their wheels grind against mine, causing me to fall forward.

Overwhelmed with frustration to the brink of exploding, I do my best to contain my emotions on the track, to avoid taking it personally.

It’s nothing but personal, though.

If this was your home, you’d know Asha Fields is dead.

The truth of that statement is painfully uncomfortable. It stabs at parts of me that have been hiding for so long, I swear they no longer exist. Bouncing back on my skates, I struggle to catch up, but right at the last minute, I feel DreadPool’s hands on my hips, sending me flying forward, helping me take my first win for the night.

Ira blows the whistle, and I practically jump into DreadPool’s arms, not caring that we’ve barely exchanged two words. Camaraderie is the only bridge you need sometimes. They lift me into the air, my skates coming off the ground as they squeeze me into a hug. I feel the heat of a stare, following the thread of the sensation to find Maddox’s eyes locking onto us.

It wasn’t much to anyone else, but it was everything to me.

My first win in fifteen months.

Just like that, practice is over, and I know now more than ever that I was meant to come back. Coming home was part of my path, my journey to figure out what’s next for me. I’m not just a culmination of my mistakes, I’m not my inner bullshit that tells me I don’t deserve it, not the lonely little girl, not my mother’s caretaker.

Me. Behind all that shit.

Living for me.