Page 100 of False Start

twenty-two

“Jackson lefthis dad in charge of the cash register so he could be here helping us today. Let’s make it worth it,” Priest said from the edge of the track as we got ready to go for a full day.

Fucking weekend practices were the worst. Long hours, packed lunches reminiscent of days without the less discerning palates we needed to actually find them awesome, and sun shining over fresh snow crystals blanketing the ground from the night before whispering to us to come out and play.

I need a playday so freaking bad.

In true Jackson form, he’d managed to snag a pink tank top for his stint reffing from the infield. He’d even gone so far as to scrawl Beautifully Brutal over the chest in thick Sharpie. And on the back, the number 6-6-6 with a scribble of the grim reaper wielding a scythe, his evil laughter spelled out in a word bubble over his head.

Rory watched him skate by, spotted the back of his tank, and choked on her coffee. “We should see if he’s willing to be one of our officials.”

“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Sean said as she clicked the buckle to her helmet. “Then, if anything happened to our deal with Sid’s, we’d have a direct line on somewhere else to play…you know, since Jackson would have a vested interest and all. He’d make a great skate mechanic too.”

I pulled on my wrist guard and glanced up at Jackson and Priest, their heads together as they scanned their notes. “I’m kind of digging this plan.”

“Or we could use Sid’s for our very own banked track and use Rockabilly’s for flat track,” Marty said. “I’d be up for it.”

My fingers froze and my heart perked up its tired little head after the wave of adrenaline and pure fucking joy from having the kids here to watch us waned far too fast. Not that I wasn’t still driven. I was. I just wanted my kids. Wes could totally drive them here every few days for mandatory hugs, couldn’t he?

“What do you mean, start our own league?” I said as I tucked a nonstick gauze pad on the inside of my elbows. Anything to help soak up the buckets of sweat coming my way today. If I could get out of this unchafed, it’d be a damn miracle.

“We could. If we really wanted to,” Marty said, her crooked grin telling me she was latching on to the idea.

The money girl, guys. The money girl was latching on to the idea.

She never got all tingly for ideas that cost a bunch of money. Or meant more paperwork for her.

This definitely sounded like a recipe for paperwork.

And attorneys, permits, insurance companies, basically any entity designed to both protect you by making you all legal like and make your eye twitch.

I dropped down to the bench and glanced up. “But what about the WRDF?”

“We can still do that and this. And if that doesn’t work out, maybe we could just do this,” Marty said with a half shrug.

But there was no reason for it to not work out, unless the WRDF took issues with us working with Priest, even if that working was only temporary. Unless Marty was thinking about him staying which she shouldn’t, because he wasn’t.

Tilly skated past without a hint of interest in what we were talking about and tossed my wristguards with a barely audible “thanks” before she skated off to the other side of the infield.

My stomach plummeted to my toes, a familiar apprehension creeping in on me. A hesitance that would unfold on the track and have Priest tearing me a new asshole.

“What’s up with her?” I asked as I watched her go.

Rory shook her head, her mouth grim. “She’s been weird ever since last night.”

“Did she get a call or something while I was in the bathroom?”

“Nope. She just got really quiet and said she had to go,” Rory said, giving Tilly a dose of side-eye.

I watched Tilly out of the corner of my eye as she pulled on her elbow pads, followed by her wristguards, and a gave a firm tug to the strap under her chin to tighten her helmet. She stood alone, avoiding eye contact, her mouth tight, and a crease between her eyebrows.

“Okay, ladies, round up,” Priest called. He waited for us to skate in a circle around him and glanced down at his notepad. “On team one: Hate Puck, Spread ‘Em, Wall of Duty, and…Come Queen.” Priest scratched his head. “And they say guys are pigs.”

“I don’t know, I kind of like them,” Jackson said with a grin.

“You would,” Priest said, scoffing at him. “Team two: Anarch-Eve, Hazy Eights, Tilly the Hun, Mayhem, and Hot West. Get on the bank and let’s do this.” He skated past me, his palm landing on my hip. “Hey,” he said quietly, his lips brushing over my temple, sending a shot of pure fucking lust straight into my shorts. “Kick some ass.”

I leaned into him, siphoning the feel of hot, hard, towering man pressed up against me for every second I could. “Did you at least wear underwear today?”

---