My mouth drops open. “Oh, really? You’d do that? You’d leave a bar meetup with your ex-girlfriend to pick up the date you ditched and drive her home? Wow.Wow. You’re, like,sucha good guy.”
Gabe’s nose wrinkles. “I’m sensing a little sarcasm.”
That loosens the lid on my personal swear jar just enough.
“Sense this, asshole,” I say, and then shove him right in the chest with both hands as hard as I can. His feet fly up damn near over his head, and he lands flat on his back with a dull thud, a shockingly high-pitchedoofescaping his lips.
Seeing him on his ass, small children leaping over his splayed legs, doesn’t wipe about the fury I feel.
But it helps a little.
“Hey, we okay over here?” The skate referee comes skidding over, assessing Gabe, who is still flat on the floor.
“She pushed me!” he cries, sounding for all the world like a small child.
“I was talking to her, ya jackwagon,” skate girl says, then turns to me. “Want me to eighty-six him?”
I glare down at Gabe, who looks like if they made Morgan Wallen-branded Zyn pouches. I try for a moment to find even a hint of the guy I matched with. I can barely remember what it was about his profile that made me swipe right. Maybe it was the dimples, or the fact that there were no fish in any of his photos. I remember that he messaged me using full sentences and punctuation, which seemed promising.
My god, the bar is in hell.
“He was just leaving anyway,” I tell her.
“Oh good.” She grins down at him like she wants to eat him for lunch. “I love when the trash takes itself out.”
“Bitch,” Gabe mutters as he climbs to his feet and skates toward the exit.
“Do you think he meant me or you? Oh, I hope he meant me. I collect pathetic men calling me a bitch like Pokémon cards.” Skate girl grins and sticks out her hand. “I’m Violet, by the way.”
“Carson,” I say, then groan. “Crap. I’ve got to get an Uber.”
“Nice to meet you, Carson. But why are you leaving?” She nods down at my rental skates. “You were just starting to get good.”
“Well, my date peaced out to go on another date, so it seems like a good time to call it a night.”
She scoffs. “Do not let that skid mark masquerading as a man ruin your evening. You’re wearing roller skates on a Friday night, and you’ve got nobody to answer to but yourself. Be your own date.”
And then, like a little punk-rock fairy godmother, she disappears.
Well, actually she races over to a kid who’s about to skate onto the floor with a fountain soda, herding him back off the hardwood.
I nearly follow her, imagining thunking my skates onto the counter and sinking into the back seat of the nearest Uber.
But then “Call Me Maybe” comes blasting from the ancient sound system, a hint of static from the mounted speakers giving the song even more pep. My body reacts like I’m a deep cover spy and the song is my signal. I push off with my neon-orange wheels and pick up speed. I dig my feet into the floor to the beat, mouthing along with the words, my hips swaying on their own.
“Carly Rae Jepson works every time,” Violet says, skating up beside me, and there’s no judgment in her voice. She sings along with the chorus for a few bars. “I had the DJ throw that one on to keep you going. Have you ever thought about playing roller derby?”
I blink at her, my chest heaving with exertion. “What?”
“Roller derby,” Violet says. “Roller skates, full contact, fun? You familiar?”
“I went to see it once in college,” I tell her, recalling the outing with my sorority pledge class. I remember thinking it looked cool and also a little terrifying. I know I don’t have nearly enough guts or tattoos to do it myself, to say nothing of my athletic ability.
“I coach the team here, and I think you should try out.”
“Oh, I don’t really do sports,” I say.
Violet scoffs. “That sounds like a story you tell yourself because of public school gym class trauma, but I’m telling you, you’ve got natural form and an ass that could lay a bitch out.”
