Chapter 12 Carson
CARSON
“Am I dead? Am I a ghost? Is my sweaty corpse out there on the track?”
A tall, skinny, pale girl named Madelyn, who looks like she’s spent most of her life in an art studio, is beside me. She’s got her hands on her knees as she pants.
I can’t manage to suck in enough breath to answer her.
Because roller derby? Yeah, turns out it’s hard. Good hard. Powerful hard. I-want-to-kick-someone’s-butt hard.
But it’s hard.
A whistle slices through the thick air of the old community center where the Bloomington Brawlers practice on a slick, shiny basketball court.
Violet is standing in the center of the track in full gear while the rest of us, half collapsed on the floor, the rest doubled over and panting, are waiting on the jammer line.
We are almost at the end of our very first fresh meat practice, and we’ve just finished our first attempt at one of the minimum skills required to play the sport: twenty-seven laps in under five minutes.
Only two girls accomplished it the first time, and one of them is a transfer from another league in Michigan—she’s been playing for two years already. The other twelve of us in the fresh meat group fell short.
I got twenty-two.
Turns out watching some game tape and having all the right gear doesn’t make you an athlete.
For the last three hours, we’ve done skating drills, worked on posture and stride, practiced crossovers and weaving through cones.
We started learning stops, which for most of us meant either a slow coast to a wobbly halt or a quick splat on the floor.
We balanced on one foot and made some attempts at turns.
I was okay at most of it but by no means good.
And there were a few times when a voice I recognized came creeping into my brain.
It sounded an awful lot like my middle school gym teacher, telling me to stop draggin’ ass, Webber.
Back then, I fully believed that moving my body was awful, that I wasn’t good at it, that I shouldn’t even try.
But for the last three hours, no one has said anything to me other than good job or great start or I can’t wait to see that ass in the back of the pack.
So even though I might be a ghost and my corpse might be in a heap somewhere on the track, I’m still smiling.
A little.
I think I might love this?
“Okay, folks, we’ve got one final task for you,” Violet calls, her voice bouncing around the gym.
“It’s the last minimum skill you’ll be working toward over the course of fresh meat training.
Each of you will begin at the jammer line and take off for one lap from a dead start.
You need to complete that lap in under thirteen seconds in order to be game-eligible.
Remember, this is just a first attempt. Some of you are still new on skates.
That’s okay! That’s what freshie training is for.
If you stick with it, you’ll get there. This is just to establish your baseline. ”
I glance around to see if anyone else thinks that thirteen seconds seems like an impossibly short amount of time.
A couple of people look confident (namely the transfer, a skater named Maude Forbid who I’m pretty sure managed damn near thirty laps in five minutes), but most everyone is staring at Violet with eyes the size of dinner plates. One girl looks a little bit green.
“Let’s go, skaters! Last hurdle—you can do it.” Violet claps her hands, her wrist guards making a little clacking sound. Beside her, KO holds a clipboard and looks bored. “Line up!”
Slowly, we all make our way to the line on wobbly legs.
I can tell everyone is trying hard to be very cool and also not be first. We sort of bully Maude Forbid to the front, and when Violet blows the whistle, she takes off with three quick steps on her toe stops before digging her wheels into the floor.
She hits the turn with her left hand tucked behind her back, leaning deep into her crossovers like an Olympic speed skater.
It looks incredible.
Suddenly I’m not struggling to breathe. Suddenly I’m not breathing at all as I watch her whiz around the track, crossing the jammer line again in a blur.
And even though my legs are jelly and my entire body is soaked in sweat, even though I know my face is red as a tomato and there’s no way in a frozen hell that I’m going to make this lap in under thirteen seconds on my first attempt, I can’t fucking wait to try it.
And try it again.
And again.
And again and again and again until I can take those turns with as much speed and grace as Maude.
When it’s my turn on the line, Violet gives me a quick wink before blowing the whistle.
I try to do that little run on my toe stops that Maude did, but the movement is new to me, and I pitch forward, stumbling a few steps.
But I manage to get my wheels under me and push hard into the floor, finding a grip on the short straightaway.
When I hit the turn, I lean and cross my right skate over my left, my arms swinging like they can propel me faster.
I don’t even try to tuck my arm behind me like Maude did, because I know I need both of these babies for balance.
I feel my left foot start to slip as I come out of the turn, but I hang on, my heart in my throat.
The straightaway looks endless, and I sprint with everything I have, hitting turn three at a speed I didn’t think was possible.
As a result, I take the turn a little too wide, but I bend my knees like Violet taught us and push through to turn four.
I cross the jammer line more than a little out of control and have to drop to my knees, sliding like a rock star across the floor in order to stop.
“Twelve point nine seconds!” Violet yells, following it up with a whoop.
Behind me, my fellow freshies erupt into cheers.
Holy shit. I did it.
And on my first attempt. Wobbly and awkward and ending in a heap on the floor, but I did it.
Violet skates over and grins down at me, her purple hair spilling out from beneath her black helmet.
“Well done, bitch!” she says, offering me a hand. “Now get your ass off the track before you become roadkill.”
“I think my blisters have blisters,” says Jax, a willowy skater with they/them pronouns on their name tag. They yank off a skate and peer at the hole in the big toe of their sock.
“Epsom salts, everyone,” Violet says, weaving through us as we peel off our gear on the floor. “If you have a bathtub, pour a cup into hot water and soak. If you don’t have a bathtub, make friends with someone who does.”
“Tempted to book a room at the Holiday Inn just to use the hot tub,” Emme, another freshie, groans.
“I’ll go in on that with you,” Georgia says.
There are fourteen of us in this fresh meat class.
At the beginning of practice, Violet explained that we’ll have six weeks of fresh meat training, during which we’ll learn skating skills and game play.
At the end, we’ll take a skating skills test and a rules test, and if we pass both, we’ll be drafted onto one of the league’s three teams and be eligible to play in the first game of the season at the end of July.
My fellow freshies, as Violet called us, are a diverse bunch, ranging from eighteen-year-old college freshman Madelyn to Tilly, who looks to be in her forties and has a teenage daughter.
About half of the prospective skaters are IU students—mostly undergrads, but Mercedes is working on a PhD in biochemistry.
“Anybody want to go for a drink?” Jax asks.
“I’m not twenty-one yet,” Madelyn sighs.
“We can totally go somewhere with NA options,” Jax replies, and Madelyn smiles gratefully. “Who’s in?”
There’s a chorus of yeses as everyone starts shoving gear into bags and climbing off the floor. Tilly bows out so she can pick up her daughter from soccer practice, and Georgia has go home to shower before meeting her girlfriend’s parents for dinner.
“What about you, Carson?” Jax asks.
“Oh, I’m actually meeting up with some friends back in Cardinal Springs,” I tell them, thinking about the text I sent to Grace and Wyatt before practice began. I dig through my bag for my phone.
“You’re seriously going to drive forty-five minutes each way twice a week for practice?” Mercedes asks.
“It’s not so bad,” I tell them, finding my phone. “I’m an audiobook girlie, so the time is well spent.”
“Well, if you ever don’t want to make the drive and need a place to crash, Casey and I have a really great couch,” Jax says, nodding at their partner, another freshie.
“I’ll let you know, thanks!” I say, waving as they file out of the gym.
I shove my skates into my duffel and then reach for my phone, which displays a few missed text messages. My group chat with Wyatt and Grace has a notification, which I figure is about plans for tonight, so instead I open the one from Violet.
Violet
Hey bitch! Good work today. Mayhem snapped this pic while you were doing your sprint. Can’t wait to see you on the track this fall!
The photo is of me on the last turn of my triumphant sprint lap, approaching the jammer line.
I’m crouched low, my blond ponytail flying behind me.
One arm is forward, the other back as I sprint.
But it’s the look on my face that catches my eye.
It’s one I’ve never seen before. My brows are knitted, my jaw sharp, my mouth set in a firm line. I look determined.
The feeling of crossing that finish line and hearing my time comes roaring back. Yeah, I have a lot to learn in the next eight weeks, but I’m going to be riding this high all the way through training.
With that fizzy feeling in my body, I click over to my group text with Wyatt and Grace.
Before practice, I texted them to see about having a girls’ night.
It’s been a while since we’ve all gotten together.
Grace has been busy with her bookstore and the house her boyfriend is building for the two of them.
And Wyatt, on top of falling madly in love with Grace’s older brother Owen, has been deep in auntie life.
Her sister had a baby last year, and the three of them are living together, along with Wyatt’s mother, who recently returned from prison. It’s a whole thing.
But it’s Saturday, and I want to get together with my girls. I want to tell them all about roller derby and my sprint and how I haven’t hit anybody yet, but I want to.
Grace
I want to hear all about roller derby! But Dad called a family dinner tonight, so I’ll be there. Maybe next weekend? I have an event at the store, but we could do a late-night thing after closing?
Wyatt
I’ll also be at family dinner tonight with Owen, but I could maybe do next weekend? I might be watching Eden so Hazel can go to a movie, but I’ll double-check. What about tomorrow? Sunday brunch?
Grace
Decker and I are going up to Indianapolis to look at tile for the bathrooms. I could be back for dinner though!
Wyatt
I’ve got plans with Owen tomorrow night. But we’ll figure out a time.
Wyatt
Kick ass out there, Carson! I can’t wait to hear all about it!
By the time I’ve read through all the texts, the fizzy feeling inside me has gone flat. My best friends are going to be with their best guys, both at the same family dinner.
Without me.
Because now they’re practically sisters.
Maybe Dan wasn’t totally off base when he said I needed a friend.
Trying to fit a girls’ night in between all their hot dates is sounding impossible.
Just when I’m about to sink into the most rockin’ of personal pity parties, the door to the gym flies open with a loud creak. Jax comes rushing across the floor, their sneakers squeaking on the polished wood.
“Forgot my water bottle,” they say, picking up a dented Hydro Flask covered in faded stickers from the bleachers. “You sure you don’t want to join us? We’re going to Upland.”
I glance down at my phone and the encouraging-yet-disappointing text thread, then back up at Jax, my new teammate.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, hoisting my gear bag over my shoulder. “My plans fell through, so I’ll meet you there.”