Page 119 of False Start

Without paying attention.

You know, to the rest of us.

His teammates.

His friends.

The shit.

Skates tangled, arms flew, legs kicked out to the side before flipping over in the air.

One of the fuckers caught my edge, knocking me over onto the heap where I took an elbow to my solar plexus, knocking the fucking breath right out of me.

Through the haze of sweat running into my eyes, I spotted Mayhem skating away with her team in tow, their eyes on us, their laughs echoing through the barn.

“My balls,” Linc groaned, from somewhere under the pile. “Why do I feel air on my balls?”

They all started squirming under me then, the word balls like finding out someone just took a piss in the hot tub.

“Why is there air on my balls?” His frantic shouts more erratic, his eyes wide—well, the one I could see from where it peeked through the crease of a knee and calf folded over his face.

I rolled off the pile and pushed up to my feet. “Fuck you and the air on your balls, Linc. I fucking told you to wear a cup, you dumbass.”

“Hey, Linc,” Dom piped up from the other side of the pile. “Why in the absolute fuck do I feel your balls on my hand?”

They scrambled to stand, but failed miserably as they drove knees into guts, elbows into necks while they scrambled for a grip with their skates, their hysteria rising every time someone said “balls.”

“Get your fucking balls off my hand, Linc!” Dom’s voice raised about two octaves. “Holy shit, man, I just felt them twitch. Get the fuck off me.”

“And this guy thought his abuela coming at him with a flip-flop was bad,” I joked with Remy as I gave him a hand up. “Kind of hard to put muscle rub in his underwear when the dude’s freeballing it.”

“You probably shouldn’t talk,” Rory said, skating past before rolling into the infield.

Remy looked at me and held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. If you don’t mind, Parker’s mouth looks like it could use my tongue,” Remy said before skating away.

I caught a glimpse of Mayhem handing a helmet to Lana as Linc and Parker tossed insults back and forth, my scrimmage quickly turning to absolute shit.

Rory rolled up to Lana next, handing her a pair of wristguards and elbow pads, followed by Sean with knee pads.

What the hell?

In under a minute, they had Lana geared up with Mayhem on one side and Marty on the other as they rolled her to the track and stopped with her just behind the jam line.

The rest of the team piled on, all taking blocking positions.

Lana gave Zach a thumbs-up and he blew the whistle.

Mayhem and Marty pushed off, their legs flexing as they thrusted Lana forward right along with them. The blockers shifted, gaps opened and closed, as they propelled around the track, giving Lana the closest thing they could to a banked track derby jam for a woman who could no longer use her legs.

I sucked in a breath and held it. Watching Mayhem laugh, not caring how much exertion she had to put in to not just rolling Lana around the track, but sending her up and back down again.

The pack shifted again, and Mayhem and Marty guided Lana through, breaking away, taking her low into the corner, and high along the straightaway, propelling her around the back, the sound of their laughter drifting away at their retreating backs and growing louder again when they turned the last corner and rolled toward us.

Yeah, I was definitely in love.

So damn in love with her the air sucked straight out of my lungs when she winked at me.

The truth of that, of the consequences—the decisions that came with the realization—would all have to wait.

And still, she’d never said my name.

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