Chapter 8: Practice, Not Treatment

The first reporter pressed a microphone against the rink's glass door.

Behind her, a camera crew stepped into the street to catch the sign.

Toni arrived in scrubs and banged her bag against a van mirror by accident.

The driver shouted at her.

She shouted back, then came in grinning.

"My shift starts in an hour. You've got me until then."

The Rollers had come early too.

They lined rental skates along the inside of the lobby windows, heel to toe.

"That won't stop a camera," I said.

"It's for us," the skater with purple wheels said.

Joel had locked the snack bar till and was making coffee.

He poured one mug, tasted it, and made a face.

"At least you're finally learning," I said.

He held the mug out of my reach.

"It's still yours."

I put on my helmet and checked the tape across its front.

CRACKED PORCELAIN. 26.

Toni handed me my pads.

"Do you want the team around you?"

"I want you at the door. Then I want room to speak."

"Done."

I asked the skater with purple wheels to keep the younger recruits on the floor.

They had come to practice, and several had paid bus fare to get there.

She waved them toward the music booth and turned up the warmup song.

The bass reached us in the lobby.

Joel unlocked the front entrance.

The reporters surged up the step before I got outside.

Toni held one door, and Joel stood at the other.

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