“She play?” The woman gestured at a table full of oversized trading cards.
“No, I don’t think she does,” he said, eying the pictures of the women. Some of them were larger, heavyset, and muscular. Some were dainty, posing flexing their arms. Some had a star on their helmet and some were covered in tattoos. A few looked all business while there were a couple in heavy makeup, their track uniforms altered to be sexier and more provocative. He scanned the faces on the cards, gravitating towards the purple-and pink-bordered cards. Chelsea’s bag was purple and pink.
Sure enough, posing with a vicious looking snarl, was his new wife, her hair in pigtails. She was one of the ones in a more provocative costume, the neckline gathered at the breasts, her skirt a lot shorter and pleated. She wore stripy knee-high socks and held up a fist as if she’d like to smash it into someone’s face.
She looked incredibly fucking sexy.
Chesty LaRude, number 34DD. Broadway Rag Queens.
“I want this card, please,” he said, and pulled out some cash.
Ten minutes later, he was inside the small stadium with a beer in hand and a lot of damn questions. He sat down in the bleachers near the top, glancing around. The floor was overlaid with some sort of strange blue flooring, the lines of the flat track marked in pink. Chairs were set up in the center of the room, and girls skated around, warming up. He didn’t see Chelsea, but the uniforms were the wrong color. So he kept watching and waiting, sipping his beer.
Roller derby. It didn’t make sense, and yet it did. His cheery, happy Chelsea who had a smile for everyone, got along with him like peas and onions (he really had to work on his similes), who sold fruity soaps . . . she played with these rough and tumble women? She didn’t seem the type. As a bruiser of a girl with a Mohawk and huge biceps rolled past, he wondered at the constant sets of bruises Chelsea had on her body.
A woman sat next to him, beer in hand, her hair in a blue buzz cut. She nodded at him. “Derby virgin?”
“Huh?”
“Are you a derby virgin?” She grinned at him. “You don’t look the type.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s my first game.”
“That’s adorable,” she said. “And it’s a bout. Not a game. Like boxing.”
“Boxing with roller skates. Got it.” He held his hand out. “Sebastian.”
“I know,” she said with an evil grin. “I watch your mom on that show. She’s fucking crazy, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m Diane.” She gestured out at the floor. “My wife’s Morning Whorey, number sixty-nine for the Rag Queens.”
“My wife’s this one,” he said, holding up his playing card of Chelsea.
“Oh, shit, did Chesty get married? Fuck, that’s awesome. Congrats!” Diane looked thrilled. “She’s fun to watch on the track. Downright nasty and swears a mean streak. Gets a lot of penalties when she’s in a bad mood.”
That . . . did not sound like the Chelsea he knew. But then again, it sounded like he didn’t know her all that well after all. He nodded at the track. “So how does the game work?”
“Bout, buddy, bout,” she corrected. “Like you’re about to wear my beer if you don’t start calling it a bout.”
He grimaced. “Sorry.”