22. Ro
Idrew in my brows as we pulled into the parking lot of Spitz Hollow’s Spitz Shine Sports Complex. As a Tuft Swallower, I was in enemy territory now. Surprisingly, nobody frisked me at the edge of town and patted me down to make sure I wasn’t carrying recording equipment. Both Tuft Swallow and Spitz Hollow guarded their cornhole tactics fiercely.
I looked over at Brody as he brought his Mustang to a stop. He looked glorious in the early afternoon light, his profile all hard lines mixed with a softness at the apple of his cheeks. His full lips set in a half smile. We’d hardly spoken in the car and never had the drive between the two towns seemed so long.
We’d made an agreement in the kitchen at home that we wouldn’t mention last night until the drive back, and the thought of just what we’d say and do had my stomach in knots.
Brody turned off the engine and reached out a hand. His warm fingers threaded through mine, and my breath tottered in my chest.
“You’ve got this, Ro. Just remember your skills and wear that badass attitude of yours.” The corners of my mouth lifted. He’d called me badass the morning I’d worn the “Show me your Pecker” T-shirt.
Brody picked my hand up, pressing it to his lips. “Remember what I said. Use your speed.”
I nodded. The only break in our virtual silence in the car was to talk about the tryout and the best way to showcase my skills. He’d talked about me like I was a gladiator or a superhero. That he had such faith in me weighed heavy on my chest.
“You ready?”
I let out a thick breath. “I am. And Brody, thank you for coaching me.”
A lazy smile grew on his lips. “Believe me, the pleasure’s been all mine.”
After leaving the car, we stepped inside the “Derby Stadium,” and I smiled. I think someone on Spitz Hollow’s town council had ideas of grandeur the day they named it. The space was only a little bigger than our high school gym. It also had wooden bleachers, and its red skating track markings wove with those from countless other sports. The polished wooden floor looked like someone had spilled a bowl of rainbow noodles on it.
The noise of chatter mingled with the squeak of rubber soles, echoing in the clammy room. Two giant fans slowly whirled overhead, barely shifting the air.
As Brody and I walked onto the floor, a few jaws dropped. People who stood around talking or lacing their skates, nudged each other and smirked. Brody didn’t seem to notice. He was probably used to grabbing attention wherever he went. Then the same folk saw me, standing behind him in my green tank top and jeans, looking like nobody in particular.
Smartly kitted-out skaters assessed me, their eyes sweeping over my body. I swear I’d never felt so short and scruffy. Eve had been right. I should have dressed to make a good first impression. Wowed my competition. Maybe I should’ve worn my rodeo outfit. Added some sequins.
A tall, wiry man with curls and a glittering smile stepped toward us, extending a hand. “Brody Flockhart! How long has it been? You’re looking great.”
Brody straightened his shoulders, taking the man’s hand and pumping it up and down. “Dean. It’s good to see you too, man.” He turned to me like an indulgent parent, with the biggest grin on his face. “This is Ro. The one I told you about.”
A tiny gnawing pang pulled at my gut. That the two of them knew each other was obvious, but they’d talked about me? Why?
The man extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ro. Brody told me all about your skating. I’m excited to see what you can do.” He swept an arm around the track. “The girls will make you feel right at home.” Based on some glares aimed my way, I highly doubted that. They’d more likely lock me in a cupboard or loosen my wheel nuts.
“This is Dean Millan. He manages the derby team,” said Brody.
The man grinned, shaking his head. “Not just the Derby. I manage the junior hockey team in Robin Springs, too. The one where Brody cut his skating teeth.”
Brody huffed a laugh and shifted on his feet.
“And I’m trying to get him to come back. Convince him to leave the bright lights of the NHL behind.”
Brody looked at me, then gestured at Dean. “Dean thinks I should coach when I burn out of the pros. Help get his team to the state finals.”
“There are a lot of juniors on my team that could benefit from Brody’s experience. I just need to sweeten the deal somehow. I’ll get him one day.” Dean turned to me now, guiding me forward into the hall. “So you want to be a Scalper, eh?” He glanced over his shoulder at Brody. “Maybe I can take you both on. Kind of like a double deal.”
The gentle tug in my gut morphed into a full-on lurch. Was he kidding? Did Brody know about this? Had the two of them talked about Millan putting both of us on his teams? When I’d agreed to him helping me train, it was as a friend, not a potential deal sweetener. I was here to try out on my own merits, not because of Brody.
I tried to meet his eyes to get some clue what the hell was going on, but a jiggling kid with a bright red face had asked the almighty Flock for an autograph.
Someone blew a whistle, making me jump. “Looks like we’re about to get started,” Dean said. “You better get yourself ready to knock my socks off.” He strode away, calling out to a gruff-looking woman in a Scalpers sweatshirt.
A second later, Brody was at my shoulder, but I didn’t have time to ask questions about any “deal” with Millan.
“Do you have my kit bag?” I asked.
“What?”
“My bag. With my clothes. My pads and helmet.” Eve and I had planned what I’d wear today and as well as my green skate bag containing my crochet, we’d packed a special hold-all with my pads, some red gym shorts, red knee-high socks, and a fitted black T-shirt. Nothing flashy, but something that showed I meant business.
Brody grimaced, and my heart dropped. “Fuck! I left it behind in the hallway at your Gran’s.”
“What?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s on the side. I had it all ready to go, but I got a text.”
I rolled my eyes, and my blood rose to a gentle simmer. “Oh, that’s okay then, so long as you got your text. No need to worry about me.” At least I’d carried my skates.
“That’s hardly fair.” His face took on an odd, distant look, and a furrow etched the space between his brows.
At any other moment, I would have asked him if he was okay, but today wasn’t about him. It was about me. “What the hell am I going to do? I can’t go out like this. I look like I’m going on a hike. And they won’t let me skate without a helmet.”
Brody scowled, and then his face cleared. “Hang on! I’ll be back. Wait for me outside the locker room.” With a squeak of his sneakers on the floor, he turned and headed back out to his car.
The other fresh meat had already changed and stood in groups, waiting for the trial to start. As I crossed the track to the locker room, I hung my head low, feeling every eye that must surely be on me. I was the reason for the delay. Some nobody.
When I got to the locker room door and explained my predicament, one of the team assistants helped me find some pads and wrist guards. They were all different colors and had seen far better days, but I couldn’t have been more grateful. Mis-matched gear beat broken wrists or missing kneecaps any day.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, taking the armful of gear the man offered me.
“No problem. Any friend of Flock is a friend of mine,” he said with a wink, and once more, my gut tottered. Was this whole tryout one big Flock love-fest?
I looked over at the girls in the Scalper uniforms. They stood in a line, ready to start, mumbling to each other, eyes narrowed in my direction. Their sour looks gave me flashbacks to high school, waiting to be picked for a team in gym class. I’d always been one of the last chosen.
The line of women straightened up, and I glanced over my shoulder, following their gaze. Brody had arrived back with a hockey helmet in his arms. “Here. You can wear this.” He handed it over, its silver paint shining in the overhead strip lights. The word FLOCK shouted loud and proud on its back. It’d show everyone I was here with him if I wore it. They’d probably think I was his girl, proudly wearing his helmet like a tattoo of ownership. The idea made my stomach roll, but I was out of options.
I crinkled my nose, pushed the helmet onto my head, and turned around to face him. He stood in front of me, adjusting the straps as I stared at him through its clear half-shield. When he was happy with the fit, he stood back and grinned. “It looks great on you.”
I brought my lips together in a tight line. Damn him for being all attractive and thoughtful when I wanted to be pissed at him.
I undid the straps, took it off, and thanked him before disappearing into the locker room with my cargo. I put everything down on a red bench on the far side of the room, tucked around from the showers. The smell of antiperspirant and leather filled the air. With a sigh, I dug through the skate bag, desperate to find something I could wear instead of my jeans. I was sure I’d left some shorts in there after a hot shift at the Plume the other day.
As I groped around, my hand closed around the soft fabric, and my lips curved. With a smile, I pulled it out of the bag, but the moment I held it up, my heart plummeted. I wasn’t holding a pair of work shorts, but one of my mum’s old competition skating dresses. I slumped down on the bench. The dress wasn’t just old; it was ancient. I used it to protect my crochet projects if I needed to transport them. I’d brought my latest mis-shaped owl along to day in case I felt anxious and fidgety.
I unwrapped my yarn, setting it safely on the side before holding up the dress. Its lemon nylon sagged where the age-old spandex had withered, but what choice did I have? At least it would allow me to move. I quickly stripped off my clothes and stepped into Mom’s dress, carefully feeding my arms into its sleeves without putting my fingers through the hole at one armpit.
I looked in the mirror at the end of the lockers, spinning around on my skates. The dress had three dark patches of ink where one of my pens had leaked. There was a big hole in one side of my waist where the stitching had come away and a rip in the lacy underskirt. Any sequins had long gone. Mum had worn the dress for a Peter Pan routine, but with the ladders and scuffs in the fabric, I looked more Stinkerbell than Tinkerbell. I shrugged. At least with all the holes, I’d be air-conditioned.