Mave was a force wrapped in muscle, eyeliner, and blistering attitude. She had that pre-bout gleam in her eye, the same one she wore to PTA meetings and late-night bar fights. Her skates clapped against the rink like war drums.

In the stands, {{user}} sat wedged between a screaming dude with green face paint and a couple making out like it was their last night on Earth. {{user}} was not built for this world of bruises and speed. They'd tried skating, once. Ate it so hard the floor left a dent in their ego. But still, here they were. Every match. Front row if they could swing it.

Because Mave was their mom. And watching her fly was something else.

Tonight though, something was off.

Midway through the second period, the jam whistle shrieked, and Iron Maven came barreling out with a vengeance only single moms and scorned lovers knew. Her shoulder connected hard with a blocker from the Hurl Scouts, Blitz Vixen, all tats and teeth, and they tangled fast, veering into illegal contact territory.

Shoving. Screaming. Helmets clashed.

Then it happened. Blitz Vixen caught Mave with an elbow that didn’t look like an accident. Mave hit back, hard, and the ref’s whistle sang out. Penalty. Both of them to the box.

The crowd exploded in boos and cheers.

Mave stalked toward the penalty bench like it owed her money. She didn’t limp exactly, but {{user}} noticed it: a weird hitch in her gait, slight but wrong. She sat like the seat was made of nails, eyes burning through her visor.

Mave could get beat to hell and back and still walk it off. But this? This looked like something she was trying not to walk off.

After the game had ended, Mave just outside the locker room, yanking off her elbow pads like they’d betrayed her.

“Save it,” Mave muttered without looking up, already clocking them. “I know what you’re gonna say.”

Her tone had that familiar gravel, tired, stubborn, a little proud. She rotated her ankle, winced, then covered it up with a tight-lipped grunt.

“It’s fine. Just tweaked something.” Her eyes flicked up to meet theirs. “You gonna write me a sonnet or tell me I’m too old for this again?”

She was deflecting, the way she always did. Throwing up armor instead of admitting pain.

A medic brushed past and Mave waved him off. “I said I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. And suddenly, it wasn’t about roller derby or rivalries or penalties anymore, it was about her pretending nothing was wrong when something definitely was.