I could be better and stronger than this guy, all right. Maybe this was just what I needed—a chance to show I wasn’t going soft.

“Daya?” Worry wrinkled Fee’s brow. My body had tensed back into rock, but seeing Fee’s concern, I instantly felt guilty. They were so excited about everything, and I was making them worry about me instead.

I cracked my neck back and forth, trying to work out some of my irritation. “Yeah, sure,” I replied, and took another hostile bite of my hot dog.

“Great. Meet you back here in ten.”

“What the eff? How long does it take you to pee?”

“Okay, maybe I need to take a dump, all right? Jesus. Can a kid just do their thing without everyone knowing about it?” They play-punched me in the stomach before turning toward the all-gender bathrooms.

As I turned to the merch tables, I thumped the heel of my hand against my thigh a couple of times, mostly out of habit, since it didn’t seem to help much. I found myself wishing I could beeline straight for the roller derby track for a more intense pounding instead.

Chapter Eight

Squeezing through the still-busy crowd, I took in the team names—Hell Beasts, Hair Force Babes, Skintastics, Killa Honeys. They plastered everything from water bottles to wristbands to T-shirts to stickers. I stopped at one table—the Killa Honeys—and perused their collection of shirt buttons.

“Hey, don’t get hot dog juice on the goods, you know?”

Still frustrated and needing an outlet, I whipped my head up, ready to take down whoever had spoken, but when I looked up at the person who’d said it, she was smiling. And so unassuming that my anger had the wind knocked out of it. She was wearing a Killa Honeys ball cap and bright aqua glasses. A near-black braid rested over her bare shoulder, which had light brown freckles across it. “Killa Honeys” was written across her tank top as well. She looked to be about my age or a little older.

Without thinking, I said, “What kind of person doesn’t love a little hot dog juice?”

“Uh, every kind of person. Everywhere.” The girl leaned back in her metal chair and folded her hands in her lap, amusement in her eyes. “Tell you what—I’ll let you handle the merchandise if you can shove the rest of that hot dog in your mouth.”

Say what? But I actually looked at my hot dog, and the competitive part of me kicked in. There were maybe two bites left. Easy.