Whipped, p.13
Whipped, page 13
The good news was that there was no chance of Earl making landfall before the exhibition. The bad news was that the entire southeast was in his possible projected path.
Worry fatigue hit Cheyenne hard. She was starting to think Erica was onto something with her conspiracy theories. She was almost hoping the storm would hit just so she could stop thinking about it. A morbid wish.
Cheyenne parked in front of the flower wholesaler a few loading zones down from the rink. Two hours before the exhibition, the parking lot was already buzzing with activity.
As a last-minute addition, someone had donated a massive inflatable obstacle course connected to a thirty-foot-high water slide and bounce house. The rainbow-colored spires were a happy beacon drawing the eye into the fun.
Various food trucks lined up on one side of the lot where a large white tent was being built to house a dozen picnic tables.
Those had been the Sore Losers’ major contribution while the Give’em Hells and their supporters had taken care of everything else that hadn’t been donated.
Dressed in her white and lime green team uniform, Cheyenne didn’t let herself care about the Hells as she carried a huge bouquet of white and lime balloons. Outside the main entrance, The Rust Bucket made a bar of a long, L-shaped table. She offered them a fistful of balloons before continuing inside where music was blasting.
Sammy Smackdown, her hair still short but a paler shade of green, was helping one of the Hells tape down the track they’d be playing on. Big Red, standing next to an older version of herself Cheyenne guessed was her mother, oversaw the hanging of a large vinyl sign from the rafters.
Cheyenne’s chest tightened. She wished her mother had agreed to come, but after a thousand excuses, Cheyenne knew there was no way to change her mind.
Without wasting time, Cheyenne got to work lending a hand. She was surprised to discover that most of the Hells were nice when they weren’t in game mode.
Erica, however, was unchanged. Apparently whether she went by Erica, Ricky, or Sandra Day O’Clobber, she was still missing the spirit of cooperation. Skipping all the hard work of set up, Erica rolled in half an hour before game time looking like she just waltzed out of the shower. Cheyenne was already covered in sweat leading her black eyeliner to run all over her face.
They were getting ready for the bout when Cheyenne skated up to Erica. Crouched down and adjusting the laces on her skates, Erica’s muscled calves flexed.
“Nice to see you got here when we’re finished with the hard work,” Cheyenne joked as she approached.
Erica straightened and replied without missing a beat.
“Someone had to go buy all those tablets we’re raffling.”
Show off.
“Too bad you didn’t get that extra practice in,” Cheyenne said with a smirk. “We’re looking pretty good.” Smack talk wasn’t in Cheyenne’s repertoire, but she tried.
In an unexpected display, Erica flashed her perfectly white teeth. Not in a sneer, but an actual smile. It was as surprising as it was arresting. Cheyenne’s pulse jumped as she became aware of the heat crawling over her skin.
Erica leaned forward, blasting Cheyenne with the silky incense and cedar scent of men’s cologne. “You think I need practice to kick your ass?”
Cheyenne’s head spun. Beneath her, her skates faltered.
Erica licked her lips before she laughed again. “See?” Her gaze flashed down Cheyenne’s body before slowly rolling back up to her eyes.
Speechless, Cheyenne held her gaze. There was more than Erica’s icy glare. In her big, dark eyes there was a fire too. It wasn’t angry, but rather … playful. She had no idea what to do with that.
“Learn to talk less with your mouth and more with your actions, Ms. Flores-Moore. It’ll do you a world of good,”
Erica advised as she clipped on her helmet.
While Cheyenne waited for her brain to reboot, Erica skated away. The further she got, the more Cheyenne’s surroundings came into focus. The noise of a million conversations assaulted her ears. Somehow people had packed the bleachers and spilled out into the scores of folding chairs lined up around the track without her notice.
Cheyenne wheeled around and joined her team where they’d started grouping together by their row of folding chairs.
She slid in next to Anwar, who looked like he had questions.
Join the club.
“Alright,” Big Red started while Cheyenne tried to tear her attention away from Erica, who was gathering her team on the other side of the gym. “We usually play this like a regular bout, but the Hells proposed something a little different this year.” Big Red tipped her head to the side. “They just sprung it on me, and I told them I wouldn’t decide without the whole team’s agreement.”
Big Red didn’t normally beat around the bush. Cheyenne swallowed hard and paid attention.
“They want to mix the teams up. Six of them come over here and six of us over there.” Big Red didn’t appear convinced as she relayed the offer.
Sammy Smackdown crossed her arms over her chest.
“Could they be trying to steal our plays? Why would they want to do that?”
“Probably because we’re here for publicity and watching us get trounced isn’t that much fun,” Fran guessed as she skillfully wiggled herself into a pair of fingerless padded gloves.
“I reckon the same,” Big Red agreed.
“What do we really have to lose?” Trauma Queen, her hands on her hips asked with a shrug.
Cheyenne wanted to object. She didn’t want to play with Erica. This was the only place where she didn’t have the pressure of impressing her. There was no way she could frame her objection in way that wasn’t pathetic or selfish, so she shot Anwar a pained look instead.
“You got this,” he mouthed silently. “It’s just for fun.”
Taking a deep breath, she decided he was right. This was just messing around; it didn’t matter.
“The captains will stay with their teams,” Big Red said after they tacitly agreed to the switch. “Do I have six volunteers?”
Cheyenne stood perfectly still as if trying to avoid getting snatched by a T-Rex. If she didn’t make eye contact with Big Red, she wouldn’t get volun- told to join the Hells.
Within seconds, Cheyenne let go of the breath she’d been holding. More than six Losers offered to trade. Cheyenne wondered how many of them would abandon Big Red for a chance to play with a winning team for real.
The Losers were the first to bolt to the Hells’ side. Don’t look so eager. Play it cool.
“What are they doing?” Anwar muttered when the Hells didn’t move.
Cheyenne squinted as if that might help figure out what was going on. “Are they taking them hostage?”
Anwar started to laugh until the first Loser pulled off her shirt and traded with a Hells.
Damn, that’s a good idea.
Moments later, six Hells, dressed in their counterparts’
white and lime tanks, skated over. With alarmingly friendly smiles, they introduced themselves. To Cheyenne’s surprise, the Hells sent three of their best players in the group.
Big Red glanced at which five skaters were starting for the Hells before turning her attention to her team.
“Okay, they’ve got two starters and the rest are newbies,”
Big Red said as she looked at the skaters huddled around her.
“Let’s do the same.”
Clenching her jaw, Cheyenne waited. A mix of excitement at the prospect of playing and terror that she’d get picked made her stomach heave.
“I’ll take the jammer position because it looks like Clobber is going in,” she said, her attention shooting off to the side where Erica was slipping the red star over her helmet. “Fran, you’re pivot. And you three,” she pointed at the first group of newbies to her right. “You’re in.”
The skater to either side of Cheyenne cheered, unable to contain their joy. Cheyenne tried to match their energy, but inside she questioned the wisdom of playing. Her mother’s words haunted her. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was insane to put herself at risk for a silly hobby.
“Eva,” Big Red’s voice snapped her out of her spiral. “You don’t have to go in if you’re not ready.”
“No,” she protested with as much conviction as she could muster. “I want it. I’m in.”
Big Red nodded. “Let’s roll.”
ERICA LINED up behind the jammer line. The Loser captain, unquestionably their best player, positioned herself at Erica’s right.
“What do you think?” Big Red leaned over and spoke quietly. “Skate a few jams, give the nice people a show, and let the kids play?”
It was the same thing she’d been thinking. They should show just enough to wow them and then let the regular people in the crowd see themselves on the track. The idea was to entice, not intimidate.
Erica nodded as the three referees skated toward the center of the track. They were all retired players from Key West who’d never lost their love of the sport.
Cheyenne skating toward the track obscured Erica’s peripheral vision. Her body moved with the trepidation of a rookie while her face tried to tell a different story. Even if she wasn’t blushing, she was still broadcasting her emotions.
Cheyenne was terrified.
Erica clenched her fists. She remembered what it was like to be new. To want so badly to prove herself while still being afraid of getting hit.
She’ll learn. Erica’s chest tightened. It had taken a torn ACL, several smashed toes, a sprained ankle, and a couple of concussions to excise Erica’s fears. She didn’t like the thought of Cheyenne getting hurt. If she wasn’t ready yet, she shouldn’t be playing. The Losers never kept their fresh meat in training long enough. It was no wonder they suffered so many injuries.
Taking a deep breath, Erica looked away. Maybe Cheyenne would be a quicker study than she’d been. Cheyenne being shorter meant she had a lower center of gravity. It should be easier for her to keep her skates on the ground.
Around her everyone moved into position, and Erica forced herself to stop worrying about Cheyenne. She’d chosen this for herself. She was an adult who knew what she was getting into. If she got hurt, that wasn’t Erica’s problem.
With seconds before the whistle sounded, she hoped her new team would be able to execute her simplest play. Two blockers would lead her into the pack and act like gates opening. While they pushed the opponents back, Erica would skate through the path they created. It should give Big Red all the runway she needed to pull off something cool. Letting her go first was the most generous gift she had to offer.
Taking long, deep breaths, Erica steadied herself and focused. Leaning forward on her toe stops, she was primed and ready to run at the sound of the whistle. The muscles in her thighs twitched in anticipation as she pushed out the distraction of the crowd. In that moment, her life’s goal was singular: get through the pack.
When the whistle blew, Erica exploded over the line. The sound of clashing plastic and forty polyurethane wheels digging into the track filled her ears.
With her eyes on her new teammates working to give her a little room, Erica skated hard into them. Using her elbows and forearms, she groaned as she strained to push them forward, struggling in between them to get herself through.
The pack pushed back, forcing one of the new skaters hard into her belly and knocking the wind out of her. Erica bit down on the hard plastic guard in her mouth and tried to hold the line.
Before her, a familiar play formed. It was clumsy in the hands of the Losers, but Erica knew what they were doing because she came up with it.
While the three Loser blockers kept Erica and her Hells fenced in, another broke off and skated backward. Dipping down, she reached out and gripped Big Red’s waiting hands, whipping her out of the pack before anyone noticed her.
Thanks to the burst of momentum, Big Red flew like she’d been shot out of a cannon before standing up and skating like her life depended on it.
Nice to see it works even when performed by a subpar team. For the entire first jam, Erica allowed herself to be kept at bay. She hadn’t counted on how much the crowd wanted to root for the underdogs.
When they lined up for the second jam, Erica glanced at Big Red and winked. My turn.
As soon as the whistle sounded, Erica bolted for the inside of the track. One of her Hells, dressed in lime and white, charged toward her immediately. They knew all her moves, but that didn’t let Erica stop her because she knew their weaknesses.
Faking a move to the left with her shoulders, Erica thrust her hips to the right. Juking and spinning, Erica twirled around her before she knew what had happened. She made a note to teach her to watch a jammer’s lower body and not her shoulders.
Before she could get very far, another Loser skated in behind her and crashed into her side. Erica looked over, not expecting to see Cheyenne. She’d gotten so focused she’d forgotten she was there.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Cheyenne asked, already out of breath as she smashed into her again.
Erica didn’t so much as wobble. “Get outta here, kid, before you get hurt.”
Cheyenne, her face flushed, laughed before skating out in front of her and squatting. Erica laughed. A textbook shoulder block wasn’t going to work on her.
Using a waltz jump, she moved to the outside of the track.
Leaving Cheyenne behind, she couldn’t help but do a few toe spins before approaching the pack and picking up some easy points.
The crowd cheered her showmanship, but Cheyenne wasn’t amused. She caught up to her again, shoving her from
the side.
“You didn’t see me crying when I let your team score points,” Erica reminded as she crouched and met Cheyenne’s shoulder with her own, pushing her a little off balance.
“Don’t be such a narcissist, Erica,” she said, struggling against her and overexerting herself unnecessarily. “Big Red scored fair and square.”
Erica laughed before diving to one side to avoid another hit from Cheyenne. She’d put all her weight into it and couldn’t recover her balance. After jumping over the fallen Cheyenne, Erica spun to skate backward. “You can’t really think that.”
At the end of the jam, Big Red called a timeout and signaled for Erica to move to the sideline with her. Erica did, accepting a small plastic cup of water from a guy with a Losers t-shirt on. She was gulping it, happy to refresh her parched throat when she registered his identity.
“Thank you, Anwar.”
He stared at her with wide eyes as he handed the other water to Big Red. “Uh … you’re welcome?”
Erica wanted to ask whether he was posing a question, but graciously left it alone.
“Ready to change it up?” Big Red asked after gulping down her water and wiping her face with the bottom of her shirt.
Erica’s gaze drifted to Cheyenne. She should sit out the rest of the bout and let them play, but she couldn’t abide Cheyenne harboring any doubt that she’d been letting them win.
“How about one more jam?” Erica glanced at the clock.
They’d be leaving them way more than half the game.
Big Red grinned. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”
Tilting her head, Erica confirmed her suspicions by not objecting.
“One more. Let’s do it,” Big Red agreed.
This time when Erica lined up, she took an outside spot across from Cheyenne. They were linemen digging their fingers into the grassy gridiron itching to barrel into each other, but with a little more makeup.
Cheyenne was going to admit, even if just to herself, that Erica was in full control of the game.
“If anyone on your team can stop me from making it around the track and becoming lead jammer, I’ll tell Toni you’re ready to be off probation early and let you fly on your own,” Erica promised, brimming with complete confidence.
Cheyenne furrowed her brow. Somewhere along the way she’d picked up some red glitter on her face. “You wouldn’t do that,” she replied, obviously unsure of what to do with Erica’s offer.
“You have my word,” she promised. “Do you want me to have your little friend come over and act as a witness?” she challenged.
“Let’s rock,” Cheyenne said, her face hard as she dropped into a skating position. Shouting to her team, Cheyenne instructed that keeping the Hells from getting the lead jammer position was a matter of life and death.
Do you really hate learning from me so much?
Signaling to her own team, Erica told them not to cover her. All efforts were to be directed to keeping Big Red back.
She didn’t need them; she could take on a whole team on her own.
The whistle blew, its shrill cry echoing from the rafters.
Erica hurled her body forward. Bending over and dipping her shoulder, she targeted Cheyenne’s torso as she slammed into her.
By luck, one of the Losers was shoved back, keeping Cheyenne from falling on her ass. When she bounced back, Cheyenne’s face was painted red with rage.
“What’s wrong, princess? Didn’t think there was any contact in a contact sport?” Erica teased as she struggled against two Losers holding her back.
“It’s the cheap shots I’m not used to,” she replied, joining the end of the conga line of players assembled to block Erica in.
In her periphery, Erica kept track of Big Red. She was still trapped in a tangle of Hells fighting to break free from the wall of bodies built around her.
If half of them weren’t Losers in Hells’ clothing she’d trust the line to hold as long as she needed it to, but these weren’t her people despite their uniforms.
Cheyenne crashed into her again, the collision moving Erica back an inch. Any ground was too much to lose. Erica bared down before pushing the trio back while she spun toward the outside of the track.
The trio followed, but Erica juked, dodging the one who charged at her. The Loser landed splayed out on the floor.
Erica jumped over her with both feet.
Laughing, Erica broke free. She was about to turn and skate the rest of the lap backward just to taunt Cheyenne a little when an unexpected and illegal tackle to the back sent her tumbling forward.
