CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE | BOUTMAS EVE
the night before a bout when all good rollergirls get excited and go to bed early so that bout day comes quicker.
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My first reaction was to laugh right in Coach's face, which probably wasn't my smartest idea.
With Corinne, I was laughing out of nervousness because she was intimidating in an endearing kind of way, but I was deeply afraid of Coach and had no doubt in my mind she was well aware of that fact. Though I was nervous and being in the same room as her was unnerving, part of me couldn't help but find some humor in this situation.
It took a lot of nerve to ask such a thing from me, especially when she was the reason Corinne was no longer part of the team in the first place. I'd spent a lot of time blaming myself for it, and it had taken countless people to convince me otherwise, so I refused to spiral down that black hole again. It was time I put the blame in its rightful place and remembered I hadn't directly caused Corinne's expulsion—Coach had.
It was so ridiculous that she even dared to ask me to do her dirty work for her. I respected her as a professional and I liked to believe I was mature enough to acknowledge her gray areas, but there were things not even I could excuse. I could talk to Corinne in Kat's place, no problem, and it wasn't something that would piss Corinne off or upset her that much, realistically, but this was a family matter above all other things. Even if they argued it wasn't, there was still a matter of hurt feelings and pride, too, and that wasn't a thing I wanted to get involved in.
I'd said it once, and I'd say it again—I would not be used as a pawn on other people's feuds. Some things were better off if the people involved solved them out between themselves without third parties getting involved, either by choice or by force. Boundaries were important and I didn't want this to escalate just because I'd been nominated as a messenger against my will.
Besides unreasonable, it was disrespectful. Coach needed to be the one to talk to Corinne, not me, and she owed her an apology regardless of her intentions—a real apology, not a forced one just because it was convenient.
I knew Corinne and I knew how badly she missed skating and roller derby, but I also knew she would never accept an apology from her mother unless there was something in it for her. These wounds were much deeper than just an expulsion; they were personal, something a simple apology couldn't erase, and, even if she forgave her for that, there were years and years of emotional damage to back it up.
"I'm glad you find this so funny," Coach eventually said. I cleared my throat, hiding my mouth behind my hand, but that hardly stopped my lips from trembling. Realistically, objectively, it wasn't funny at all, but it was such a ridiculous request that I couldn't stop myself from laughing. "I need to know if I can count on you to help me with this. It's happening with or without your input, but your help just makes it all a lot easier and quicker. You'd have a different approach—"
"Coach, with all due respect, have you stopped to think about what you're asking me to do? Have you thought about the implications of me doing this in your place? Do you think I'm the one she wants to hear this from?"
"I'm asking you because you'll have an easier time pitching her the idea—"
"Coach, come on. Even if I do it, she'll know I'll be doing it for you, and you know that's not what she wants to hear. It's not what she needs to hear. If this were just because of a spot on the team, she would have tried so much harder to come back. Has she reached out asking for a second chance?" The stone-faced look on her face was all the confirmation I needed. "I know roller derby is an important thing for both of you, but you have to understand what everything that happened these past few months meant to her. Having to become a co-captain alongside her ex-girlfriend, have you fawn over me when you knew it would piss her off, getting kicked out of the team when she hadn't done anything to deserve it, not to mention the insane amount of pressure you have been putting her under for years. All of that is exhausting just to list, let alone to actually go through it.
"I told you this on Christmas; all she has ever done was try to make you proud. She just wanted you to look at her and give her a genuine compliment, tell her she doesn't need to be perfect all the time, tell her there's more to life than just roller derby. Roller derby was her whole life because you made it that way. When she got injured, all those years ago, she was glad it could be a way out because she just couldn't take it anymore, and no one helped her. She went through what could have been a career-ending injury all by herself because you never even tried to help her. It took her years to realize this wasn't normal. Where were you when she needed you? Were you only there for her when she won? Or did you ever stop to think about how much this was affecting her?"
I took a deep breath, amazed as to how she was still able to keep her face straight, even after everything I'd just told her. It shouldn't have to be me telling her all these things, but, if Corinne wouldn't, someone would have to. I was overstepping, I knew that, but, if Coach truly wanted her back, if she truly wanted to make things right, she needed to know.
Sweat ran down the nape of my neck, though it wasn't hot in the office. My palms were clammy, even when I tried to wipe them on my jean-clad thighs, and I wished she'd say something—anything—instead of us sitting in awkward silence.
I hated, hated the thought of potentially worsening the situation, especially when I was just trying to help, but it was so recurrent I was starting to think I was the problem. No one cared about my intentions when the results were catastrophic and I was the only one who knew said intentions, so what good did it bring me to try and convince myself my heart was in the right place?
I exhaled deeply through my mouth, ultimately deciding one of us had to be the bigger person—and I knew it wouldn't be her. It would probably kill her to admit she'd made a mistake, as evidenced by my mere presence in this office. "Coach, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump this all on you, but—"
She raised a hand to cut me off. "I understand. I think you're right, actually."
I blinked, my heart jumping in utter shock. "Sorry?"
"You're right. Is that so hard to believe?" Coming from her? Abso-fucking-lutely. In general? Probably not, but it depended on my mood that day and what the subject was. I wasn't sure people knew how much it mattered to me to be right about all things all the time. "Even if it's not quite . . . what I wanted to hear, I think you're coming from a good place. I can trust you to look after Corinne and her best interests." Finally, finally, she allowed herself to relax in my presence and leaned back on her chair, her icy posture shattering. It was one hard step out of the way, but there were still many more to be taken, and I couldn't take them for her. "I don't expect you to understand the way I've raised her. I don't expect you to understand the way I was raised by my parents. This is not criticism," she added, as soon as she saw me scowl. "It's a statement. We belong in different realities and were raised by different people with different values and goals. Were you born in the US?"
"My parents are second-generation immigrants."
She nodded. "And still, things worked out completely differently for your family and mine. I understand that you might view my way of coaching and raising Corinne as archaic. Some people have called it barbaric. I know how it comes off. You probably think I'm some kind of monster."
"I don't agree with most of the things you do or with how you do them. I don't agree with the way you treat Corinne or with how you think that's healthy. She's not happy."
Coach sighed, running her hands down her cheeks. "I know that."
"You don't even have to try and explain yourself to me. You're right. I won't understand. If anything, I'll just be sitting here and thinking about how all of this sounds so wrong because you don't get to treat your child that way. You don't. You might have been raised that way, but you had a chance to break the cycle while raising Corinne and you voluntarily chose not to. All of this should be going through your head, not mine, and I shouldn't have to be the one to tell you this. This is on you, Coach, not me." Gathering all the courage left in me, taking advantage of how my words had left her speechless for once in her life, I straightened my shoulders and reached for my bag, ready to bolt out. "I can try to get her to listen to you, but at the end of the day it's her choice. I'll stand by whatever she decides to do, but I won't stand around and pretend I don't see all the damage you've caused. If you're sorry, if you're truly sorry, you'll let her go. You'll let her heal. Life's more than just this sport or this championship."
I didn't expect my words to get to her. I really didn't.
All I knew was that I'd spoken from the heart, from experience, from assumption, but I could still call it what it was. Emotional abuse was damaging, even when masked as a wish for one's child to succeed and be the best at what they did, and no one had ever stopped to make sure Corinne was okay. If anything, the rest of her family had just enabled and excused this treatment.
"I'm sorry about your brother, Wren," Coach said, when I was about to head out of the door, and I immediately stiffened. The sheer nerve of this woman. "I shouldn't have been drinking before we went to your house. I was out of line."
"You were."
She pressed her lips together, then lowered her head. "My mother . . . we haven't always seen eye to eye. More often than not, we don't. That was one of those times. She heard about Corinne . . . not being in the team anymore." She purposefully avoided my eyes. "She didn't agree. She thought what Corinne did didn't warrant an expulsion. She has always thought I've been too hard on her, but she'd been twice as hard on me when I was Corinne's age. That's why we were arguing. If you talk to Corinne, at least tell her that. Tell her she'll still have someone."
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I didn't.
I let Corinne rest, oblivious to everything that had gone down between me and Coach, which meant the team didn't get to have her help during the semi-finals, but they ended up not needing it. Neither of us went to watch the team, as they had travelled all the way to Atlanta, out of all places, and we were far too busy with our coursework to follow them around, especially since we'd have to pay for the travel costs from our own pocket.
They won just fine, like we hadn't ever been needed, and, though the irrelevance of my absence continued to be a harsh blow on my self-esteem, I was getting through it. I had Corinne with me, understanding exactly what I was going through, and I found myself sneaking into her dorm room for the sake of company—something we both needed.
I had to admit, though—there was something indescribably comforting about knowing I was coming home to her at the end of the day. My body was marked, sometimes purple from the hickeys she left by my collarbones, sometimes red or pink from her lipstick, but I knew I'd left my mark on her, too. Whenever morning came and the weak light kissed her skin and her hair, turning her into a small golden angel right in my arms, it was easy to believe this was my own little piece of heaven.
My ankle was healing well, too, keeping up with the pace the nurse and Corinne had predicted, and, after three weeks of sheer agony, I was back in the game. My last week of recovery was one I had to take seriously, but the championship finals were right around the corner and I was terrified of losing my skills thanks to all the time I'd spent benched.
Then, on Kat's birthday, I decided there were two things I needed to do. I needed to tell Corinne about Coach's proposal before it was too late, in case she was to accept it and would need time to get back into skating shape, and I needed to get a grip. With Jordan's discharge scheduled for the end of the month, right after the finals, I needed to keep a cool head so I wouldn't project my frustrations and fears onto him and my parents.
As per usual, the birthday party would be held at the sorority house, just like mine had been, and I had both fond and not so happy memories associated with that evening. That house was also the first place where I'd been officially introduced to Corinne, so it was important to our history, something she wouldn't let me forget—that, and my thinly veiled threat to slash her tires.
"Do we want to be that kind of couple and wear matching outfits?" Corinne asked me, standing in front of her closet. I was already dressed and ready to head out—and was mentally cursing Kat for making me wear a stupid dress and heels when my ankle was barely healed—but Corinne had waited until the very last minute to get ready. "We probably shouldn't. I don't think people will care, honestly, but this isn't a wedding."
"People will care if we're late, though," I pointed out. She pouted. "We're the last two people who are allowed to be late for Kat's birthday."
"You're right. I'm thinking maybe I should have planned my outfit days ago. What kind of best friend am I?" She dramatically shook her head, then pulled out a short, flowy red dress with spaghetti straps. "Still hate that Kat's making you wear heels. You shouldn't be pressuring your poor ankle." With a sigh, she turned to me, looking at me from head to toe, and I found myself blushing at the mischievous glint in her eye. "What I do like, though, is you in that dress. What a shame."
"Why is it a shame?"
She shrugged, taking off her casual clothes and pulling the red dress up her legs. "It's a shame I'll be ripping it off you."
I choked on my saliva as she rose back to her feet. "Corinne."
"You wanted me to be honest. Can you help me zip it up?"
I was a smug little bastard, able to beat her at her own game, so I stepped behind her to zip up her dress. She didn't even have to move her hair away so it wouldn't get caught, which I knew she knew, and it made it so much more entertaining to feel her shiver when the tips of my fingers lightly grazed over the bare skin of her shoulder blades and trailed up to the nape of her neck.
"You're bad," she muttered, with a small chuckle, and sharply held her breath when my lips brushed against the crook of her neck as light as a feather. We were standing directly in front of a tall mirror so, even with her back turned to me, I could see exactly how she was reacting. "Keep it up and that dress won't last until after the party."
"I'd love to see you try."
"Is that a dare?"
"Is it?"
Corinne spun on her heel, standing so close to me our chests touched, and I insisted on looking her right in the eye through it all. I had just helped her put on that dress and she was already more than ready to jump out of it. "Wasn't that what I told you when you threatened to knock my ass down in roller derby?"
"Look at us being consistent."
She threw me a devilish grin, then stepped away towards her vanity mirror to start working on her makeup. As she did so, I fell back onto her bed, careful not to crease my dress, and wondered if this would be the right time to tell her she was, unbeknownst to her, running out of time to make a decision.
Realistically, there was no right time. I should have talked to her weeks ago—or, better yet, I should have never let Coach Fontaine rope me into this mess—and, the longer we went without talking about it, the higher the likelihood of it going sour. She just looked so peaceful sitting there, applying a coat of mascara to her lashes, that I hated even considering the possibility of ruining this moment for her.
I had to, though.
"There's something I need to tell you," I began. She briefly looked up at my reflection in the mirror. "You're not going to be happy with me."
"Go on," she replied, with a slight note of hesitation tainting her voice.
"A few weeks ago, Coach asked me to meet her in her office." She set down the bottle of mascara and, even though I wasn't right behind her, I still saw her hands shaking. I would have given everything to be able to hold her, but I knew I had to go through with this now that I'd opened my mouth. If I stopped now, I wouldn't be able to continue. "She asked me for help."
"That's a first. She never asks anyone for help."
"She told me I needed to help her get you back on the team."
Her face fell as she straightened herself. "You're kidding."
"Not at all."
"She can go suck it, for all I care. All this time, she could have asked me directly, but she has to make you do all her dirty work like the filthy coward she does. She can't even look me in the eye and admit she made a mistake. Fucking grand." She tossed aside a tube of lipstick without a care in the world. Her anger was more than justified, yet I couldn't help but feel guilty over it. Had I kept my mouth shut . . . "Why did you wait so long to tell me? Why wait until tonight? You said weeks. For how long have you known about this?"
I took a deep breath. "Since . . . since right after I got injured. Before the semi-finals."
Corinne let out a humorless laugh. "Wow. Okay. This is nothing like the whole Kat and Drew thing." I recoiled. Though I had also taken a while to talk to her about that, she hadn't been nearly as upset about it as she currently was. Kat would get Drew's help with songwriting, but this was so much different; that didn't directly affect her personal life or her emotional life, awkwardness aside. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't know how to approach the subject—"
"On Kat's birthday. Now I can't stop thinking about it when I should be thinking about her. God. Jesus Christ." She leaned forward, burying her head in her hands, and I swallowed my fears when I walked up to her, slowly setting a shaky hand on her shoulder. She didn't brush me away, which was a good sign. "This is the literal worst."
"Is there anything I can do? Can I help?" Corinne glared at me from the corner of her eye, raging hurt sparking across her face, but I didn't back away. I was staying with her through thick and thin. "What do you want to do? Do you want to get back on the team and help us win the championship? I'm not forcing you to do anything," I added, as soon as she opened her mouth to protest. "I'll support you regardless of your decision. Would I want to play alongside you? Yes, obviously, but I'll understand if you don't want to go back. What you went through must have been pretty traumatic. I did tell her, though, that she needed to apologize to you if she wanted to stand a chance at having you back for the finals and that it couldn't be a half-assed apology, so, at the very least, I think she's going to try. I think everything I told her must have had some effect on her." Corinne significantly softened, but we weren't out of the woods. "One more thing. Remember when you said she and your grandmother had been arguing over the phone on Christmas Eve? Your grandmother was defending you. She thought expelling you from the team was unnecessary and mean. Even if you don't think there's any family left on your side, your grandmother was standing up for you, regardless of what Coach wanted you to believe. Even then . . . even if she weren't, you'd have me. You'll have me no matter what."
Corinne let out a deep sigh, took a good look at herself in the mirror, then rose from her seat, shoes in one hand. When she told me she was talking to Coach, I could barely believe my ears, but made no motion to hint towards it in case it would make her change her mind. I believed this conversation between them was long overdue, but I was also done with meddling in their private business.
Coach was in her office, like she'd been expecting us, but she still jumped in her chair when Corinne slammed the door open without a sliver of courtesy. I stood right next to her, a knight in silky armor—the stupid dress—but kept an eye on the door, just in case I needed to make a run for it.
"You wanted to talk," Corinne spat out. "Then let's talk."
"Okay," Coach blurted out, being taken aback for the first time since I'd met her. It reminded me exactly why Corinne was her mother's daughter. Then, she glanced at me, expectantly, and I realized what she wanted me to do.
"Oh, no," I chimed in. "Absolutely not. I'm not doing this for you. I told Corinne you wanted to talk to her, but I'm not doing the actual talking. That's on you, Coach." I shot her a pointed look, one I prayed would reflect my thoughts—remember what I told you—and knew I had to trust her to do the right thing.
Unsurprisingly, Coach parroted my words back to Corinne. Most of them, anyway, and there were some details she changed because I wasn't part of their family and, like she'd made sure to remind me, I would never understand what it was like to be a Fontaine. I didn't want to understand, based on the living hell Corinne had gone through, and I was lucky that I couldn't. My own experiences with my family hadn't been easy and, if left untreated, they could have brought terrible consequences.
I'd reached out to Doctor Nguyen, asking for a referral to one of her colleagues to prevent any conflict of interests between us both. She'd agreed, thinking it was beneficial for me to talk to someone.
With Coach and Corinne, it was different. There were no third parties involved, no mental health professional putting toxic behaviors and patterns on blast, and, though Corinne managed to stay silent during Coach's explanation and supposed apology, she was still seething. Tears burned on the corners of her eyes, with her being far too stubborn to let them fall, but she listened, which was far more than I expected.
On my end, Coach's apology felt genuine, like it wasn't something she'd bullshitted through just as an excuse to get Corinne to come back to the team, but it wasn't my place to accept it or decide on its validity. Sometimes, not even a sincere apology could fix things.
"You've made my life hell," Corinne muttered, through gritted teeth, and kept her arms firmly crossed against her chest. "All my life, I kept bending and breaking just to please you, just to make you proud. All that weight I've lost, all those hours I spent practicing, all those injuries, all the time and effort I've put into this sport were all for you. All of that, and never once did you tell me you were proud of me. You never told me you loved me. What kind of mother is that? I spent years wondering what else I could do to get you to love me, but then I learned you could only love what I could give you. The accolades. The praise. Never me." Both of them kept their chins held high, but Coach looked a lot closer to breaking than Corinne did. "I tried, Mom. I tried so hard to be what you wanted me to be, and I was perfect, but the second I made a mistake, all my accomplishments meant nothing. You just tossed me aside like a piece of wet paper.
"All this pressure and for what? For a trophy? For four trophies? What about me? What about everything I've done, everything I've sacrificed for you? My health, my happiness, my team. I made that team what it is today, not you. They needed me, and I needed my girls. You fought so hard to keep us apart. You fought so hard to keep me at arm's length, harder than you ever did to make sure I was happy. What good did that bring me? The realization that none of this was normal? That none of this was okay? That this was abuse?"
"I never hit you—"
"Does it fucking matter? Do you think that's the only kind of abuse that destroys people's lives?" Corinne threw her arms up in frustration. "I'm done. I'm done destroying myself for your sake. You want me back for the finals? Fine. I'll do it. I'll play. But I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for my team. I'm doing it for myself. I earned my spot on that team, and you know it."
"Corinne—"
"I'll be staying with my grandmother after graduation." Corinne gulped, finally wiping away a stray tear from her cheek, and I instinctively stepped closer to her. She firmly gripped my hand, fingers laced with mine, and I swore to us both I would never let her go. "Thank you for not telling me she's always been on my side, by the way. Guess it was convenient for you to make me feel isolated from everyone who cares about me."
Coach's eyes were, too, filled to the brim with tears. "I hope you know I really am sorry. You're my daughter. You're my baby. I should have never—"
"It's a bit too late for that." With her free hand, she grabbed her leather jacket. "See you on the track. Don't expect me to dedicate the win to you."
Then, she was gone, disappearing into the cold air of the evening.
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here's your daily reminder that you absolutely do not have to forgive your abusers. you don't have to forgive your abusers even if they're related to you.
everyone is different, everyone handles their trauma differently, and no two stories are the same. even if someone were in the exact same situation as corinne, maybe they would have reacted differently. maybe it would have had a different outcome.
in this book, there won't be a different outcome. in this book, corinne cannot heal through forgiveness and turning a blind eye. in this book, corinne doesn't need to feel the guilt of knowing she didn't forgive someone who put her through hell all her life just because she's family.
on other news, go support jennette mccurdy.
in the meantime, you can go read adrenaline by my wife smidorii just in time for the 2022 wattys. she deserves more readers. go go go