False Start

42. Harvey

42

HARVEY

It’s eight forty-five in the morning when we pull into the lot. The other skaters are already there, and it literally feels like it’s a fucking showdown. Us versus Scott. Deandra called me at four in the morning saying she had a solution; apparently, she and Phil stayed up the entire night discussing logistics.

The smile stretches from ear to ear on my face when I open up those double doors like they belong to Helm’s Deep, ready to slay my enemy. Deandra’s waiting, a pen in hand and Phil next to her. Phil, her husband. Phil, our one trusty cis-het-man who has always been there for our derby shit. Phil, who never undermined his wife’s need for community.

Phil, who volunteered his free nights as zebra until their kids were born.

Phil, the fucking lawyer.

I chuckle to myself.

The contract is the contract, and there’s not much that can be done about that. What I can do is make sure this asshole doesn’t fuck me over, and that’s exactly why Phil is here. The skaters are packed into the lobby, no one bothers to space out or pretend to give a damn about privacy when it comes to Skateland.

It belongs to all of us.

I squeeze Nia into my side, more for her benefit so that I’m holding a majority of her weight. She’s frail, weaker than she’s ever been, and it’s going to be a while before she’s back to one hundred percent again.

“Didn’t realize this was a team gathering,” Scott says with an exhausted sigh as he opens the door to the office.

My fucking office.

“We do everything as a team. You would have realized that if you had taken a second to get to know us.” I clear my throat, gesturing to Phil and Deandra to enter as well. I don’t close the door behind us; the skaters can watch.

Nia sits next to me across the desk from Scott. D takes her place on the ratty couch while Phil stands.

“Did you decide then?” He slaps a hefty pile of Helvetica type eight font documents onto the table, the gust of it hitting Nia in the face and forcing a literal frown over her lips.

“We did,” I tell him, nudging Phil over.

It feels like I’m holding a fucking sniper rifle pointed right at the crocodile.

“County law states no business transaction involving the sale of a trademarked entity can be inflated by more than ten percent within a six-month handoff,” Phil states calmly, pulling the proof of his words out of a folder and laying it on the table for Scott to review. “It’s been three months since the sale of the Devil’s Dames, so the max you can request for transfer of ownership is…” He lingers on the s, pulling out his phone to look at the math. “Four thousand, three hundred, and forty-three dollars.”

“Take it or leave it, asshole. I’m not selling you the rink.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, nodding toward Nia. “We’re not selling you the rink.”

Her smile makes me melt.

“Maybe I don’t want to buy anymore,” he sighs, like he’s been defeated but he’s not done fighting. “Maybe I’ll just burn you all out until I can get a fresh batch of skaters in. Maybe I’ll just wait this contract out until you’re all too old to skate.” He sucks at his teeth.

“Unfortunately, this entire transaction has been recorded.” Phil points to the nonfunctioning camera in the corner. “And bad faith contracts will be terminated immediately. Take your money, or leave with nothing.” His voice turns a scary tone I’ve never heard before, and suddenly, I never want to end up on Phil’s bad side.

“Write the check.” The sour look on Scott’s face is priceless, but it’s Nia’s panicked voice that has me swinging my head to the side.

“We don’t have that kind of money,” she whispers.

“No,” Deandra says. “I do.” She stands from the couch and pulls her checkbook from her purse.

“D—” I’m about to ask her if she’s sure, to tell her that I don’t know how long it would take to pay her back, but she’s got her hand in my face to shut me up while the other writes the check.

“Get the fuck out,” she says once Scott takes the check and Phil looks over all the signatures.

Only when he’s gone does D finally talk. “That man doesn’t get access to us—to our team, how we feel, and the shit we go through. Only we do.” She sounds like fucking Lonnie, but for some reason, the thought doesn’t make me cry. It makes me feel good.

The other skaters file into the office, and it’s immediately far too crammed for all of us, but nobody cares.

We’re here.

Together.

We’re home.

Nia is the first to break the silence. “I-I don’t know if we can pay you back for this D?—”

“You’re not.” She follows with a wink. “I own you bitches now.”

“What?” I can’t help but laugh.

“I’m gonna sell the boutique. I’ve been depressed for months trying to figure all of this shit out. Losing Lonnie didn’t help, and then Scott came and changed everything. Made me feel like it was a sign that my time was up.” She exhales loudly. “I read the wrong sign.” She shrugs. “I’m not supposed to leave; I think my role has just changed.”

“You’re not retiring?” Star’s voice is so full of hope that my chest swells.

“No, babe, I’m retired as fuck. These knees can’t take a hit anymore,” she jokes. “Lonnie was doing the work of like fifteen people, but maybe with enough of us to spread it all out, we might be able to do this.”

“You love the boutique,” Nia laments.

“No. I loved the boutique. Now, it’s a money pit, and I’m lucky to get a sale or two a day. If I sell the inventory and the building, I’ll make five times what I just spent on the rink, and I get to keep my friends. I’ll pay the cost every day if that’s what it takes, as long as someone tosses me one of Mo’s old assistant coach shirts so I feel useful during practice.”

I’m pretty sure every fucking skater in the room is crying, but they’ll all swear they just have allergies later.

The fissure is gone, no longer an endless depth but a scarring wound where flesh regenerates.

We will heal.

All of us.