He spun around and jogged back and through the open doorway. He was surprised to find it open. The center had several smaller stadiums for the minor and junior leagues that didn’t get the size of crowds that the pro teams did. This particular stadium had become the domain of the tri-state derby teams that had become quite popular, and the space was rarely open this early since their games and training only happened in the evenings or on weekends.

Bo jogged to a stop and watched as Blayne picked herself up off the track. She readjusted her helmet, since it was currently blocking her eyes, and let out another frustrated breath. Then she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands and he realized she was crying. Wow, she either hit the floor really hard or she needed to toughen up a bit.

He thought for sure she was about to quit, but she suddenly squared her shoulders, crouched down, her hands fisted, her arms bent at the elbow, and after a brief moment, shot off again.

She was fast. Really fast. She was doing well, too, until she sort of . . . wiped out. He had no idea what she’d done, but she went down hard, flipping head over ass in a jumble of long legs, arms, and skates.

Bo grimaced, wondering if he’d have to take her to the health services floor. He stepped forward, and that’s when she suddenly bounced back up. Her shoulder looked a little off until she grabbed it with her opposite hand, gritted her teeth, and jerked it back into place. The crack of bones echoed in the empty room, and Bo grimaced again.

He stepped in closer and, keeping his voice even and calm, asked, “Are you okay?”

Blayne spun around, startled even though he’d tried not to startle her. But once she recognized him, Blayne nailed him with a look so loathing, he was sure she still thought he was a serial killer.

“You,” she hissed at him. “This is your fault!”

Shocked, Bo asked, “What did I do?”

“You’re an asshole!”

“You don’t even know me.”

“On the ice. You’re an asshole on the ice. And now everyone wants to be assholes! That’s expected now!” She rolled closer. “And because I’m not an asshole, I’m suffering! Your fault!”

Not used to having people accuse him of something so stupid before, Bo said, “Okay,” turned, and walked out. He was halfway to the gym when he turned back around and returned to the derby track. Blayne had her arms on the railing and her head resting on them when he walked back in. She stood tall when she saw him.

“What?” she asked when he stood in front of her.

“You know, instead of standing here and crying and blaming me, maybe you should do something to fix whatever your problem is. I have no idea what your particular problem is, but I feel pretty confident it’s not my fault.”

“It is your fault. Because of you and your bizarre ideas about sportsmanship, everyone has to become an asshole or you’re considered the weak link on your team. The one who has to be replaced because no one thinks you can handle the Texas Longfangs. The one who needs to be replaced because maybe once, or sixteen times, you’ve said sorry whenyou’ve accidentally harmed someone during rigorous game play.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Have you ever said you’re sorry after accidentally harming someone during rigorous game play?”

“No. Of course, I’ve never accidentally harmed someone during a game. I have, however, purposely harmed someone during . . . what was it? Rigorous game play?”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

She let out a sigh, her whole body sort of deflating. “I’m doomed.”

“But,” he added, “you don’t have to be an asshole to be a winner. I’m an asshole in the rink because that’s just how I am when I’m out there. I’ve known other, really good players who were nice guys.”

“Like who?”

“Like Nice Guy Malone. He was extremely nice. And that first time I played against him, when he cross-checked me into the stands, giving me a concussion and a laceration that took forty-two stitches to close, if I remember correctly, he apologized.”

“What did he say?”

“ ‘Sorry, kid.’ But more importantly . . . he meant that ‘sorry, kid.’”

“Okay.”

“I’m guessing, though, that being nice is not your problem.”

“But Gwen said—”

“It may look like it’s your problem, but it’s not your problem.”

“Fine. Then what is my problem?”

Bo gestured to the track. “Why did you end up falling?”

“Which time?”

Bo frowned at the question. “Do you fall so often you need clarification of timeline?”

“Sometimes. And sometimes I’m thrown, tripped, slammed, flung, battered—”

“Okay,” he cut in, sensing she could keep going. “Five minutes ago before we started this conversation, you wiped out. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you trip? Lose your balance?”

“I said, I don’t—”

“Don’t get frustrated. Answer my question.”

She looked back at the track. “I was skating, everything was fine, and then . . .”

“And then,” he pushed when her voice trailed off.

“And then I started thinking about how unfair this all was and how no one was giving me a chance and then I realized I was being unfair and I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and then I realized I was hungry and I would need to get something before I get to work and then when I realized I still had to go to work, I knew I’d have to see Gwen and she’d want to talk and any time Gwen wants to talk it’s like a form of torture because there’s no subtle with her, you know what I mean, she’s just like in your face just like my dad and then I thought, ‘Oh, great, I’ll need to tell Mr. I Told You You’d Never Be Good At Derby that I was being bumped for a Howler,’ a full She-wolf no less and I knew that conversation would get—”