Page 1 of Robbin’ the Rich

1

ROBIN

There was nothing quite as nostalgic as the neon lights and disco ball of a roller rink. Which, honestly, was one of the reasons I loved it so much. Pop music thumped through speakers that had survived at least two owners and one electrical fire. Some kids clung to the wall rail for dear life. While teenagers tried to show off in the center lane. Someone’s little brother was weaving through traffic like he had a death wish.

This Thursday wasn’t a typical night of derby practice. Tonight, the Reapers were in full effect for a community open skate.

I adjusted the velcro on my wrist guard as I weaved in and out of the crowded skate floor, wheels humming against the polished wood as I looped around the outside of the rink with the Grimm Reapers, clustered nearby like a flock of glittered vultures in fishnets and tiny shorts.

Belle skated beside me first. Her bright grin flashed beneath dark lipstick as she helped a terrified little girl keep her balance. She looked soft in the way people underestimated, right before she hip-checked them into another dimension. Purple streaks ran through her curls tonight, matching the wheels on her skates.

“Bend your knees, honey,” Belle told the girl. “You lock your legs, and the floor senses fear.”

The kid gasped. “The floor can sense fear?”

“Oh absolutely.”

“Belle,” I sighed.

“What? I’m building character.”

Ahead of us, Mel blew her whistle with the exhausted authority of a woman who had accepted she was permanently responsible for chaos. Her brown skin gleamed beneath the rink lights, her hair piled into two puffs as she skated backward through traffic with practiced ease. Tattoos wrapped around her powerful arms as she pointed sharply toward two teenage boys roughhousing near the center.

“If you take out a child,” Mel barked, “you become part of the floor.”

“See?” Belle told the little girl. “The floor hungers.”

I snorted.

To my left, Slayerella, Eleanor off track, glided past with the effortless grace of someone who’d been skating for years even though she’d only been a reaper for about five months. She wore black leggings, glitter eyeliner, and the kind of smile that looked genuinely happy. It still hit me sometimes that not long ago she’d looked like someone waiting for permission to exist. Now she laughed loudly, skated hard, and occasionally swore like a construction worker when she got competitive.

We rolled past the concession stand where Gina leaned against the counter, holding court like the patron saint of bad decisions and mozzarella sticks. Her bedazzled cat-eye glasses matched the rhinestones on her rink t-shirt.

“Robin!” she yelled over the music. “Tell these tiny murder children to stop skating behind the counter!”

“That sounds like a management problem.” I laughed and cut toward the middle lane, weaving easily through the other skaters. Derby had taught me how to move through chaos with ease.

The Grimm Reapers spread across the rink around me in flashes of fishnets, tattoos, pads, bright wheels, and loud personalities. We looked ridiculous together sometimes, like Hot Topic had unionized. But beneath all the glitter and sarcasm was something solid. A found family held together with derby, mutual blackmail, and unconditional support.

I nearly collided with the human equivalent of a golden retriever in glitter wheels.

She popped into my path near the rental counter with bright copper curls piled into messy space buns, and enough nervous energy to power a small city. Freckles dusted across her cheeks, and she wore ripped denim shorts over neon tights with a faded band tee that said Girls Bite Back across the front.

She caught herself before crashing into me completely.

“Oh my god, sorry,” she blurted. “I swear I’m actually a good skater. I just got distracted. Did you know your backwards crossovers are insane?”

I blinked at her, trying to keep up with how quickly she was talking. “Thanks.”

She beamed like I’d handed her a puppy.

“I’m Ariel,” she chimed as she shoved her hand towards me.

I shook it skeptically. “Robin.”

“I know.”

That stopped me.