Page 31 of Dahlia Made A List

Just to the right of where we’d entered someone had set up a folding table in front of a concession counter. Dahlia approached with slower steps, her lips parted on a silent gasp as she took everything in. The enthusiasm that kept her chattering and me entertained the whole trip into Richland nowhere to be seen.

“You pre-register?” The woman barking out the request from her seat behind the table stared up at Dahlia, eyes narrowing when Dahlia seemed to hesitate.

I moved up to stand just behind her right shoulder.

Dahlia straightened. “Yes,” she blurted, “Yes, I did pre-register. Dahlia Whitcombe.”

The barker scrolled through her tablet before nodding. “Gotcha.” She pulled a paper number from a stack. “You’re brand new, so you’ll be setting up with Kitty Bomb.” She pointed to the back corner of the room where a small group of women gathered. “You can use the room behind me to change—it’s set up like a locker room, some privacy, if you’re the shy type. As stated in the application and consent, wrist, elbow, and knee pads are mandatory. And a helmet and mouthguard. No one’s touching the track without the right safety gear. Understood?”

“Got it.”

“Next!”

Dahlia gripped her number between white-tipped fingers, and taking a couple of rubber bands from the basket on the corner of the table, turned back to face me. Her face flushed, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones, her full pink lips, her overbright eyes more blue than gray under the fluorescent light. She blinked up at me, her lashes fluttering too fast and when she rolled her lips and looked away, I curled my finger beneath her chin to bring her shiny eyes back to mine.

“Killblossom sounds about right.”

She blinked again, and still rolled her lips, but they pulled up at the sides. Her smile broke through with another long inhale. “You would pick the meanest-sounding name.”

I accepted her purse as she passed it over, while she hauled her equipment bag over one shoulder and took off to the back room to get changed. The hustle was back in her step when she moved into the wide hallway Barker had indicated, her ass swinging like it did when she was buzzing around her kitchen making us dinner.

An event that happened more nights than it probably should. I’d sampled her baked chicken, her fried chicken, and her short ribs and could honestly say the best thing about her meals was the sweet tea. But she kept trying and a man had to admire her determination.

One thing I’d figured out spending all this time with Dahlia, she never lacked for ideas. Like lightning bugs lighting up a summer night out at Beckley Lake, sparkling with a frenetic kind of energy until something new snagged her attention. A new recipe every day.

I rolled my shoulders and faced the rec room again. The straps of her house-sized purse in my fist, I strolled over to the aluminum bleachers. People spread out along the rows, mostly women with a few kids and men thrown in. I stepped onto the third row, my boot scraping noisily across the metal. I settled in with space between myself and everyone else, but kept the edge. Propping my forearms across my legs, I settled in for some Grade A people watching.

The chairs across the way started filling up. Another garish pink sign over the chairs read “Fresh Meat”, and gauging from the nervous looks the women filling those chairs all shared, I guessed they were the newbs.

As the rec room filled, the noise of the crowd bounced off the walls. Long moments passed, spectators and families taking up the empty spaces on the bleachers. I widened my sprawl, keeping the area around me clear.

“We’ll be right here, honey. Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine.” A broad-shouldered woman settled onto the aluminum bench in front of me, planting a tiny kid to sit beside her and looking up at a woman in a camo green get-up, prettified with sparkling pink sequins.

The woman leaned down and kissed the cheek of the little girl. “You behave for Grandma, now.”

“Eden is gonna be fine. Stop worrying and go do your thing.” The older woman waved her off. Both Grandma and the little one wore matching green shirts with the number 88 on the back. Looking around, a lot of the people wore gear with numbers.

I’d never given much thought to roller derby, and if I had, I wouldn’t have pictured this room. Women in booty shorts and schoolgirl skirts. Faces painted with everything from pink stars to grim sugar skulls. Some with serious faces, athletic uniforms. Others dripping glitter and rainbows.

One common theme, though. The women moved with confidence. From the ones skating in the center, to the people practicing jumps and fancy maneuvers in the corners. Even the ones I could tell were newer to the sport moved with a certain dead set determination, if a little unsteady on the execution.

I tuned them out and scanned the room, my gaze drawn again and again to the hallway Dahlia disappeared down. Seeing the get-ups some of these women were wearing, my curiosity was aroused. Just then a leggy blonde skated onto the mat taking up the entire center area of the room. She wore metallic gold short shorts and a white T-shirt with writing scribbled across the front, and REF in giant black letters across her back. A whistle dangled from one hand and a tablet from the other. I darted another look toward the hallway. My girl didn’t hustle, she might miss the start.

As though my thoughts conjured her, Dahlia skated out of the hallway. Her eyes scanned the area, landed on me and she pushed off to skate in my direction. She’d changed into a pair of skin-tight black shorts that ended at the top of her toned thighs and a dark purple top that conformed to her tits in a way that had my dick pushing against my zipper.

Thank fuck she wasn’t staring at it again just then. No way I’d keep her from seeing what she did to me. What she did to me more times than I’d like to admit.

No, her eyes were wide again, verging on panic as she reached me and passed her equipment bag up without any of her usual chatterbox commentary. She’d rearranged her cotton candy hair to feather out from beneath her pink helmet and along either shoulder in braids as she shifted from one hip to the other. Matching black wrist, elbow and knee guards finished out her protective gear. I leaned over to eye her skates. “You got a problem here, Killblossom.”

Her eyes shot up to mine. “What?”

“See that little girl there?” I nodded toward the pair in front of me.

I let my voice carry and the grandmother shot me a look over her shoulder, dark eyes narrowed.

“Yeah,” Dahlia said, the panicked edge gone from her voice as she waved at the little girl.

“Her mama’s gunnin’ for your spot.”

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