direction, anyway.”
“It’s is a long way for a seven-year-old,” Magnus said. The district prison where Natasha was serving her sentence was on the other side of the city, nearly thirty kilometers away.
“Yes,” said Nina. “But if you were Rina, where else would you go?”
T HE GIRLS WERE almost half an hour into their match by the time Nina found her way to the asphalt rink in one of the southern suburbs. They were playing outdoors today and had been lucky with the weather. The rink was dry and clean, and the air was cool. Nina settled next to the coach on the spectator side of the graffiti-covered boards, and looked around for her daughter. She caught sight of Ida’s helmet, black and decorated with pink skulls. Ida had been playing on the Pink Ladies team for almost two years now and was small and lightning-fast and impressive to watch, out there in the thick of the action. Most of the girls Ida’s age were taller and heavier, but that did not appear to bother her. Not even if it cost her bruises and countless scrapes.
Ida was playing the attack now. She crossed in front of a player fromthe other team and stole the ball with a couple of rapid jerks of her stick, then raced toward the goal at full speed, cannoning the ball into the net with an explosive and totally clean shot. She only just managed to evade the goal’s metal bars and slammed into the boards with a hollow thud instead.
Nina had seen that kind of move before and knew it was part of the game, but it still seemed to her that Ida was playing even more offensively than she usually did. She glanced over at the coach, who nodded briefly at her and then turned back to look at the rink again.
Ida was on her way back to her half of the rink with her stick raised in a short victory celebration. Her hair shone wetly under the edge of her helmet; her face was clenched in concentration. Nina followed her with her eyes and felt a joyous tug in her chest at the sight of Ida surrounded by all the others.
Another face-off.
Ida was ready at the front of her own field, and as soon as the ball was in play, she hammered her stick between the legs of the other team’s forwards. The sticks scraped and struck the asphalt until Ida finally got the ball free and continued, running amok in a new attack on their goal. She almost seemed to be alone on the court. The other players set out after her in a halfhearted job until she again hammered the ball in behind the goalie. This time she didn’t manage to slow down properly; she stumbled, took a couple of quick tap-dancing steps in her rollerblades, and smashed onto the asphalt with her stomach, chest, and hands in a brutal smack. She lay there doubled over in front of the goal without making a sound, and the coach swore and hastily leapt over the sideboards.
“Goddamn it! No one was even on her.”
Nina followed. She tried to ignore that distinctive jolt it caused because it was
Ida
. Of course nothing serious had happened to her. Of course not. She squatted down next to Ida in front of the goal. She probably just got the wind knocked out of her, Nina thought, her wrists and hands ought to be pretty well protected by her equipment. She cautiously touched her daughter’s shoulder.
“Try to stretch out a little,” she said. “It’ll help.”
Ida glared at her angrily.
“You keep out of this,” she said, rolling away from Nina with a stubborn groan. “What the hell are you even doing here?”
The other Pink Ladies were there now. Anna and the new one, Josefine. They helped Ida to her feet, shooting awkward glances at Nina.
“We thought you couldn’t make it,” Anna said in a tone that Nina couldn’t quite interpret. “It took forever to find a cab. And with all our equipment.…”
“Look, I’m really sorry, but.…”
With a jerk, Ida turned her back and skated slowly back toward her team’s goal. Nina was left to deliver her apology to Anna and the empty space where Ida had been.
T HEY
“It’s is a long way for a seven-year-old,” Magnus said. The district prison where Natasha was serving her sentence was on the other side of the city, nearly thirty kilometers away.
“Yes,” said Nina. “But if you were Rina, where else would you go?”
T HE GIRLS WERE almost half an hour into their match by the time Nina found her way to the asphalt rink in one of the southern suburbs. They were playing outdoors today and had been lucky with the weather. The rink was dry and clean, and the air was cool. Nina settled next to the coach on the spectator side of the graffiti-covered boards, and looked around for her daughter. She caught sight of Ida’s helmet, black and decorated with pink skulls. Ida had been playing on the Pink Ladies team for almost two years now and was small and lightning-fast and impressive to watch, out there in the thick of the action. Most of the girls Ida’s age were taller and heavier, but that did not appear to bother her. Not even if it cost her bruises and countless scrapes.
Ida was playing the attack now. She crossed in front of a player fromthe other team and stole the ball with a couple of rapid jerks of her stick, then raced toward the goal at full speed, cannoning the ball into the net with an explosive and totally clean shot. She only just managed to evade the goal’s metal bars and slammed into the boards with a hollow thud instead.
Nina had seen that kind of move before and knew it was part of the game, but it still seemed to her that Ida was playing even more offensively than she usually did. She glanced over at the coach, who nodded briefly at her and then turned back to look at the rink again.
Ida was on her way back to her half of the rink with her stick raised in a short victory celebration. Her hair shone wetly under the edge of her helmet; her face was clenched in concentration. Nina followed her with her eyes and felt a joyous tug in her chest at the sight of Ida surrounded by all the others.
Another face-off.
Ida was ready at the front of her own field, and as soon as the ball was in play, she hammered her stick between the legs of the other team’s forwards. The sticks scraped and struck the asphalt until Ida finally got the ball free and continued, running amok in a new attack on their goal. She almost seemed to be alone on the court. The other players set out after her in a halfhearted job until she again hammered the ball in behind the goalie. This time she didn’t manage to slow down properly; she stumbled, took a couple of quick tap-dancing steps in her rollerblades, and smashed onto the asphalt with her stomach, chest, and hands in a brutal smack. She lay there doubled over in front of the goal without making a sound, and the coach swore and hastily leapt over the sideboards.
“Goddamn it! No one was even on her.”
Nina followed. She tried to ignore that distinctive jolt it caused because it was
Ida
. Of course nothing serious had happened to her. Of course not. She squatted down next to Ida in front of the goal. She probably just got the wind knocked out of her, Nina thought, her wrists and hands ought to be pretty well protected by her equipment. She cautiously touched her daughter’s shoulder.
“Try to stretch out a little,” she said. “It’ll help.”
Ida glared at her angrily.
“You keep out of this,” she said, rolling away from Nina with a stubborn groan. “What the hell are you even doing here?”
The other Pink Ladies were there now. Anna and the new one, Josefine. They helped Ida to her feet, shooting awkward glances at Nina.
“We thought you couldn’t make it,” Anna said in a tone that Nina couldn’t quite interpret. “It took forever to find a cab. And with all our equipment.…”
“Look, I’m really sorry, but.…”
With a jerk, Ida turned her back and skated slowly back toward her team’s goal. Nina was left to deliver her apology to Anna and the empty space where Ida had been.
T HEY
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