Page 66 of Robbin’ the Rich

"Micah."

"I already told you I was done."

The disappointed silence that followed felt familiar. The kind that had existed in my family my entire life.

"You've always helped when the church needed you. The family needs you."

There it was, time to give guilt a try. My mother was an expert with wielding guilt. And the worst part was she wasn’t wrong. For the most part I did as I was told. I went to church, did what my family needed me to do, and then went on with the rest of my life. It was as if I had a double life, one of familial obligations and beliefs I didn’t share, and one where I truly got to be myself with friends who understood me as much as I allowed them to. Guilt was the key that kept me locked in my cage. But it would seem that hanging out with Robin was making me brave enough to rattle the cage a little.

I stood and started pacing.

"Mom."

"It would just be one Sunday."

"It's never one Sunday." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Mom spoke carefully. "Your father is counting on you."

I closed my eyes. Of course, he was. My father always counted on everyone. That's what happened when your life was built around an entire congregation of people trained to support your dreams with their pocketbooks.

"I'm not part of the worship team anymore."

"You're part of this family." The words landed hard. I leaned against the wall. "That makes you part of this ministry whether you like it or not."

This is what they all thought. I’d been born into this role, and I was expected to perform it without complaint.

For a moment I almost fought harder, but then years of conditioning kicked in. For years I kept the peace, avoided conflict, and been the easy son. I was the one who showed up with a smile. I played my music and did what I was told.

I exhaled slowly. "What time?"

Mom's relief was immediate. “Nine-thirty rehearsal.”

One sentence.

And just like that, the battle was over. A few minutes later the call ended. I stood there, staring at my phone. I thought about Robin, and guilt hit me so hard it nearly took my breath away. I needed to tell her. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Tonight. I would tell her tonight. I couldn't keep sitting across from her while she talked about Ascension and have her not know who I was and the family I was a part of. She deserved better than that. She deserved the truth. The problem was that after last night's conversation, the truth felt infinitely more complicated.

Because Robin didn't just hate Ascension. The church had failed her in an unimaginable way. I knew the moment I told her who I was, everything would change. The only question left was whether we would survive it.

I was still thinking about the phone call when I pulled into the parking lot outside the rink. That was the thing about family. Even when they weren't physically present, they somehow occupied space in your head. Expectations had a way of doing that. The constant pressure to become the version of yourself someone else had already imagined.

By the time I stepped inside, I was carrying all of it. But then the music hit me, followed by the crowd, the wheels, the whistles, and so much laughter. This was what was missing in my life. Here you could be messy, loud, unapologetic. No one cared, they just accepted you.

Immediately, some of the weight eased. I found Nate in the bleachers and dropped into the seat beside him while the teams finished warm-ups.

In front of us, the Grimm Reapers circled the track. Robin skated alongside Belle near the inside line, both of them moving with a confidence that still fascinated me.

The whistle blew and the bout began. The first jam exploded into motion. Robin sprinted through the pack while blockers slammed together in a wall of hips, shoulders, and determination.

It was hard to follow what exactly was going on sometimes, but I sure did love to watch her with the determined look on her face.

14

ROBIN

The second I spotted Micah in the stands, I almost missed the whistle. He sat halfway up the bleachers beside Nate, one arm draped over the back, looking entirely too comfortable for someone attending a roller derby bout on a Saturday night.

As if sensing me staring, he looked up. Our eyes met. Then he winked.