Shanti led me around the arena to an entryway near the concession stand. A guy was leaning against the wall, scrolling away on his phone. He didn’t look up as we approached. Shanti stopped abruptly and whispered, “Pretend you’re my girlfriend? Just for a second?” She held her hand out in front of her, her face somewhere between friendly and questioning.

Hmm. Fighting my instinctual response to scoff and turn away, I kept my face neutral and lifted my hand. She smiled and took it. I made sure to keep my hand as limp as possible, in case she got the wrong idea.

The guy finally dragged his head away from his phone and stared at Shanti, then looked at our hands, then pushed open the door to his left. Shanti gave him a head nod and my hand a squeeze as we passed by. A sting surged through my palm just as something twinged in my stomach.

We walked up a concrete corridor, and with all the cheering and lights, I felt like a boxer entering the ring. My breathing increased a little as I remembered the punching bag in the garage. I automatically clenched my hand and regretted it when Shanti looked back at me, her hand still in mine and a searching look on her face. She didn’t show any sign of letting go, though, so I went to take off my jacket and shook my hand free of hers to do so. Holding hands wasn’t really my thing either.

As we made our way through a crowd of people, a single, sharp whistle blew across the arena.

Shanti shouted, “A jam’s just starting. Come on!” I followed her through to the front of a cordoned-off area at one side of the track. Shanti waved me forward to an open spot just behind a rope separating the track from the Crash Zone. On the other side of the rope and farther down a bit was a set of folding chairs, and on a bunch of those chairs were team members wearing gold and black uniforms.

I squished in next to Shanti and she explained, “That’s our bench. My sister’s the jammer—do you know what that is?”

My head turned sharply toward her to see if she was patronizing me. But her face held what looked like genuine curiosity.

Chill out, Daya. “No—what is it?”

“It’s the skater who scores the points—the fastest one, usually.” She said this with a little pride, which made her eyes shiny beneath her glasses. “Number forty-four—see her? With the gold star on her helmet?”

She pointed to the girl that Fee used to play hockey with—the one who looked like she didn’t take any bullshit from anyone.