Page 67 of Robbin’ the Rich

Suddenly I wasn't standing at the rink anymore, I was back at Trixie's and the bass-playing priest caught my eye from the stage while I tried not to stare. Who knew one tiny wink would have such power over me.

"Robin!"

Mel's voice snapped me back to reality. I looked over. My captain was already wearing the expression she reserved for people who weren't paying attention.

"Focus."

"Sorry."

The whistle blew. And just like that, the rest of the world disappeared. The thing about roller derby is that most people see chaos. They see the bodies crashing together and people flying across a track. What they don't see is the strategy. There is a timing to it with split-second decisions happening every moment.

As a jammer, my job was simple, in theory. Get through the pack. Score points. Don't die. The execution was considerably harder. The first jam started fast. I exploded off the line while the blockers immediately collapsed into a moving wall of hips, shoulders, and bad intentions. The opposing team had clearly done their homework. Two blockers shifted toward the inside line, trying to trap me against the boundary.

I cut outside. One moved with me. The other overcommitted. That was a mistake, I saw the gap before it fully formed and dove through. For one beautiful second, an open track stretched in front of me. The crowd erupted. I heard my name somewhere in the noise. Then I was gone. Skates humming beneath me. It was the best feeling in the world.

The first pass earned points. The second earned more. By the time the jam ended, the Reapers were already up. I skated back toward our bench grinning.

Zella met me with a high five hard enough to sting. "There she is."

"Damn right."

The bout settled into a rhythm after that. Hit. Recover. Score. Repeat. Every jam brought a new challenge. Every lap demanded a new solution. I loved it. The thrill of looking for my space and breaking through was a rush.

The opposing blockers were good. But so was our wall. Mel controlled the pack like a chess master. Sonia delivered hits that made the crowd lose its mind. Belle somehow managed to smile while committing acts of violence. It was a beautiful thing.

At one point I got launched entirely out of bounds and landed on my ass. The crowd loved that too. Traitors. I popped back up laughing and rejoined the pack before the opposing jammer could take advantage.

Halfway through the second period, I glanced toward the stands during a timeout. Micah was leaning forward in his seat. His attention followed every movement on the track. Every hit. Every point. Every time I broke free from the pack. He was watching.

The final jam ended with the crowd on its feet. The scoreboard flashed.

Grimm Reapers: 182

Daytona Dolls: 147

The rink exploded. I threw both arms into the air. Belle tackled me. Mel was next, slamming into us with a hug. Soon the whole team was there in a giant reaper group hug.

Across the rink, I found Micah beaming at me.

An hour later, Trixie's was packed.

The team occupied nearly an entire section of the bar and pitchers appeared with alarming frequency. The music was loud. The laughter was louder. The stories somehow got bigger every time they were told. Apparently, Belle's hit in the second period had gone from impressive to physically launching a woman into low orbit. That's how derby stories worked.

I squeezed into a booth beside Micah while everyone argued about who deserved MVP. The answer was obviously me. I was prepared to fight anyone who disagreed.

"You're insufferable," Belle informed me.

"You're jealous,” I said.

"Of what?"

"Natural talent."

The entire table groaned. Micah laughed beside me. I leaned into him automatically. I couldn’t help the smile plastered across my face. The team was together. We'd won and Micah was beside me.

Belle slid another round of drinks onto the table, I decided I wasn't going to think about complicated things tonight.

Tonight was for celebrating. Tomorrow could deal with the consequences.