“I’m sorry, my dear, I think ye dropped this.”
I turned to see a short, round woman with wild red hair and a glint in her eye.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
She handed me a flyer. “I do believe ye dropped this,” she said again in her Scottish brogue.
I took the piece of flyer from her.
The Grimm Reapers vs. The River City Sirens.
“This isn’t mine,” I said as I turned to give it to her, but she was gone.
But then I saw a building across the street. It was the same address as the flyer, and it looked like the bout was about to start.
The building looked like nothing special from the outside, a small, run-down skating rink, but the inside pulsed with music and light. Through the open doors, I caught flashes of skaters whizzing past, neon helmets gleaming under the spotlights, and a crowd chanting something I couldn’t quite make out.
I hesitated only a second before hittingCancel Ride.
My mother would probably call it impulsive.
Ethan would’ve called it brave.
I crossed the street.
The moment I stepped through the doors, the world exploded into color and sound.
The floor vibrated beneath my feet with the rumble of wheels on wood. Whistles blew, people cheered, cowbells clanged. The air smelled like popcorn and sweat and something sweet, like adrenaline turned tangible.
On the track, women of every size, shape, and color flew past in a blur of muscle and glitter. Tattoos flashed. Helmets sparkled. Someone in fishnets shoulder-checked another player hard enough to make the audience roar, then they both laughed, skating back into formation.
Everywhere I looked, there was power. Loud, unapologetic, alive.
I stood just inside the door, transfixed. It felt like stepping into Oz, after years of living in black and white, someone had turned the saturation up to impossible.
A girl at the ticket counter grinned at me. “First time?”
I nodded, still staring.
“Five bucks,” she said, sliding me a wristband. “Welcome to the Reaper pit.”
I fished a crumpled bill from my purse and moved toward the bleachers. The music shifted into something fast and wild, a bass line that thudded right through my ribs.
One of the skaters skated tall, fierce, and grinning behind her mouth guard and slammed into an opponent, sending her spinning. The crowd went feral.
I laughed before I even realized it was happening. The sound felt foreign in my throat, rusty, like something I hadn’t used in too long.
For the first time in a year, maybe longer, I felt awake.
Alive.
And I couldn’t look away.
Then I saw her.
Belle.
For a second, I thought I was imagining her — but no. There she was on the track, flying past in black fishnets, a torn jersey that read “Belle Ringer” across the back, and a spray of glitter shining like starlight on her arms.
