Surfaces -- Flash Fiction

"Will you need anything else?" Polly asked.

"No. That should do it." Diana closed her brief case. She would not open it again until Sunday afternoon. "Have a good weekend."

"You, too. And be careful."

"Polly, Polly. Being careful is not what it's all about."

Polly shook her head. "Whatever. Remember you've got a meeting first thing Monday. I don't think they'd appreciate your having a broken nose."

"Me either. Don't worry. No stars on the helmet for me."

She hadn't forgotten Monday's meeting. She had the figures in the brief case and she'd run over them Sunday. Farris, Martin, and Bach were ready to buy. She was ready to lead the negotiations. No problem. On the surface she was a shrewd lawyer. A maker of deals. A financial facilitator.

She took off her heels and dropped them in her bag. Red sole, pointy-toe pumps. Very plain, but not black. Nude. Proper for the office. Thank God she had small feet. Louboutins only went up to size 10. Well, her feet were small for her size.

She thought the Assault Queens took her more for her size than her athleticism. Five foot, ten and a hundred eighty pounds. But she could move. It probably didn't hurt that she was the Martin in Farris, Martin, and Bach. Amateur sports of all stripes could use money and a successful law firm could afford to invest in sports -- advertising write-off.

She tied her sneakers. A quick stop at the apartment to grab a bite and her equipment bag then back to the arena. She'd eat a proper dinner after the bout. It wouldn't do to throw up her first time out.

She'd been practicing with the team four nights a week for two months now. And working out on her own on Sundays and Tuesdays. She was ready.

In the locker room, she slipped into her high impact sports bra like a vest, hooking the ten front clasps, beginning at the bottom. It wasn't bullet proof but it was necessary.

She pulled on black and yellow striped tights, black shorts, a black sleeveless jersey with the gun toting bee logo on the front, a pair of heavy yellow athletic socks, and her good-luck red wrist bands. The wrist bands didn't match, but red was her color and there was no rule against them.

She thanked Coach Tina for marking a big 14 on her upper arm. Wrist guards over her red wrist bands. Elbow and knee pads in place. Mouth guard tucked into the top of her bra. She hung the quad skates over her shoulder, put her helmet under her arm, and headed up to the rink. She was Lady-Die-N. She was ready.

Roller Derby is like the law. Skaters and lawyers play offense and defense at the same time. Diana liked the immediacy, the intensity. The constant requirement that she be ready to shift focus. Attack and defend.

She chose corporate law because if she lost, it was only going to cost somebody money. If she lost at criminal law, it could cost somebody their freedom, maybe even their life. Plus corporate pays better.

Okay, so Roller Derby doesn't pay, but no one's likely to get killed. A black eye, maybe. Or a broken nose.

The first half came and went without her. But that was okay. She was sitting in a team chair, not in the bleachers. "Put me in, coach..." the John Fogarty lyrics looped over and over. "Put me in, coach. I'm ready to play today."

Tina waved her over. The Queens were up 193 to the Junkyard Dogs 89. What could it hurt?

She joined the blockers in the engagement zone. And they were off. She and her two fellow blockers walled-up trapping the Dogs' Jammer. Enemy blockers broke in, elbows flying. One caught her across the face and she retaliated sending the opposing blocker off the track. Exhilarated, she skated backwards, recycling to force the opposing blocker to reenter the track yards behind the pack.

She felt no pain. Unaware of the blood running down her face, she resisted the team doc's call to get off the track. Then she felt it. Tasted it. Warm, metallic blood seeping around her mouth guard, down her chin.

"Sit up straight and lean slightly forward," the doctor ordered. "Now pinch your nose like so," she said pinching her own nose just below the bone up against her face. "Hold it for five minutes. Watch the clock."

Oh God. She'd broken her nose. It was obvious. She was a skater only on the surface. Underneath the pads and high impact sports bra, she was just a forty-two year old lawyer. She couldn't show up at the meeting with a broken nose. Maybe two black eyes. Who would take her seriously?

"Is it broken?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

"What?" The doctor was watching the action on the track.

"Broken? Is it broken?"

"No. Just a little blood. You'll be all right. Give it five minutes."

Five minutes later, the bleeding had stopped. She rubbed her nose tentatively on her good-luck wrist band. No blood showed. At least she hadn't thrown up.

The Assault Queens, her team, were winning and John Fogerty was in her head again. "Put me in, coach. I'm ready to play today."