Watching them absorb the sideswipes and hip checks of the other team’s blockers and jammer, I could practically feel bruises form on my own body. The anticipation became excruciating. After the past few days, the impulse to draw all my focus into my skin and muscle had resurged with a vengeance. I wasn’t proud of it, but the familiarity gave me a kind of relief.

In my impatience, I rolled over to Charlotte, who was stretching at one end of our bench.

“Hey,” I said, nudging her with my padded elbow. “What are the chances of me getting back on soon?”

She laughed, still following the pack with her eyes. “Raring to go. I like it!” She didn’t say anything else for a few seconds. Then she side-eyed me and said, “Okay, once this jam is over, lemme ask Kat what’s what. Not promising anything, though.”

We won the third and fourth jams too, which made it easier for Kat to let me on with her for the fifth jam, when our lead had grown to twelve. But she made sure to grab me by the neckline of my shirt and tell me to “Block the shit out of the other team” for her and then added, “No soft shit out there, got it?” before skating out to the jammer’s start line. The contact sent a jolt of fury through my stomach.

No soft shit?

No problem.

Now I was standing at the blockers’ line with Dom, Lena, and Saba, feeling like a freaking Tasmanian devil—ready to whip into a tornado of destruction for the other team. No more holding back.

As soon as the whistle blew, the four of us found our designated positions and began pushing and jostling the other blockers. All three of their blockers instantly zeroed in on Dom and Lena, while their pivot—taller and wider than Lena or Dom—took on both me and Jin. This kinda pissed me off, but I stuck to the plan and started shoving her back to the outer edge of the track, creating some space for Jin to get past her and help the others.

I was skating backward and eyeing up Kat while simultaneously trying to shove back and ignore the chick in front of me. She’d pinned me for a rookie and had been smack-talking me the minute the bout started.

“ ’Sup, fresh meat? This baby steak’s first bout? Ready to be ground up for dinner, rook?”

Jesus. Shut it already. More annoying than her trash talk, though, were her slappy-ass hands. Hitting with your hands was against the rules, but she kept smacking her palms against my arms and thighs so the refs wouldn’t see and it was driving me nuts. Shoves and sharp elbows I could handle—even invite—but this shit wasn’t going to get me any bruising. It was just fucking annoying. I started slapping her hands away, harder and harder.