AN1: This is my first attempt at a Calzona fic, so please be kind! This is the first chapter of what could become a novel-length story, should feedback be positive/indicative of continued interest. I would like to give a huge, huge, huge thank you to my two betas. Enjoy, and review, please!

AN2: Also, I'd just like to clarify that I am aware that most derby girls have clever names. I did look for some to suit Callie, but they were all incredibly cheesy. I'd like a pardon just this once. I know for a fact that not everyone is super witty when it comes to their "derbified" nomenclature. Besides, Callie Torres is definitely cool enough to just go by her last name.


Arizona Robbins' glacial blue eyes were fixed on the surface of her meticulously organized desk, surveying the abundance of study materials that she was yet to examine. Her pharmacology midterm was in two weeks, and the course material wasn't only painstakingly boring, but incredibly demanding of one's brain cells and memorizing ability. Combined with her other classes (pathology, physiology, and their respective labs), Arizona was vaguely concerned that she was about to surpass her brain's mental capacity. Her worry was fleeting, that inkling of self-doubt vanishing the moment she felt two hands on her, fingertips digging into her sides. Her eyes widened and she braced herself, her mouth opening ever so slightly, allowing a string of giggles and mild threats to pass through her lips.

"Tim!" The blonde squirmed, attempting to break free from her brother's tickling, but all efforts were futile. "I'm going to kick your ass," she warned, her voice laced with a combination of humor and feigned fury.

It didn't take much else. The older Robbins sibling took a step back, raising his hands up in surrender.

"What? I had to do something to snap you out of that trance." He shrugged his broad shoulders, offering his sister a dimpled grin. "You promised me you'd come out tonight, take a break from all this studying and play wingman." Arizona arched an eyebrow at him and folded her arms across her chest.

"You want me to be your wingman…at a Roller Derby, uh -", she paused, wracking her brain for the proper terminology.

"Bout," Tim offered, nodding his head enthusiastically. "Tough chicks are hot."

Unable to refute this claim, Arizona shrugged – and kept her predictions on the night's outcome to herself. Playfully pushing past her brother, Arizona navigated through her small apartment to check her reflection in the vanity mirror. After giving herself a once over, she smiled in satisfaction. She was slightly overdressed for the occasion, but she was hot. There was something amiss, though, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Her eyebrows knit together as she stared at her own reflection, hoping that the answer would become apparent. Her nose crinkled slightly as she pursed her lips – until finally it hit her. Bouncing lightly on her toes, springing into action, Arizona leaned down and tugged open a drawer, grabbing a handful of cosmetics. Within five minutes Arizona had finished applying the make up that she so often neglected. She always preferred the natural look and felt as though she rarely needed help with her appearance. The sapphire hue of her eyes was only complimented by the eye shadow she had miraculously applied, lashes elongated by her mascara. She looked pretty damn good, if she dare say so herself. If Tim wanted to bring a girl home tonight, he was going to have to work for it. Arizona could bring it. Especially clad in a skirt that fell just above her mid thigh, a white shirt buttoned down to reveal a generous amount of cleavage, and wedges tall enough to strain her well-toned calf muscles with every graceful step.

Feeling particularly confident, she flipped her hair over one shoulder and sauntered out of the small vanity room before throwing a challenging smirk in her sibling's direction.

"If we're going, hurry up. And if we're late, you're buying the beer." This sentiment was all the encouragement Tim needed to grab his car keys and practically sprint to the front door, yanking it open and pulling his sister along with him. He had purchased the beer for their last three excursions and he wasn't about to pay for another round. There was no way in hell he'd give Arizona that satisfaction.


"Torres! That better be blocking strategies that you're thinking about. We don't have time for another existential crisis right now. Equipment check is in ten." Mark Sloan cast a weak smile in the direction of his best skater, Callie Torres – his concerned expression betraying the snark in his tone. She simply rolled her eyes, nodding in compliance, and pulled the ankle strap on her skate just a little bit tighter. She'd need all the stability she could get, and not just on the track.

"Got it. Now get out of here Mark. I'm already dressed. You missed the show." The slightly older man shook his head in mock disappointment and left the changing room – leaving Callie and a few of her teammates to their own devices.

Callie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply in attempt to ground herself. Tonight would be a tough bout. It was going to be challenge, even to a player of her caliber. And she needed a win. Her personal life had been bombarded with misfortune, from failed relationships to the abrupt emptying of her trust fund. The only constant in her life had been her team and the undiluted joy she felt after taking her victory lap around the banked-track. Callie Torres was a rock star, an enigmatic athlete in her own right; a little pressure wouldn't kill her. No matter how emotionally damaged she was feeling. She always played best under pressure, and it was often self-imposed.

Another steadying breath, and she was ready to go. Gracefully standing up, she glided across the tile floor of the changing room, pushing the door open and taking a few steps over the carpeted floor that lead to her team's bench. She quickly pulled her mouth guard out of the makeshift compartment created by her wrist and wrist guard, popped the purple protective device into her mouth and lined up beside her teammates, waiting for the routine safety check. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and she tried her best to ignore the anxiety that knotted her stomach, her aversion to performing in front of large crowds never failing to drive her crazy, even after a year of competition.

"Okay," she mumbled to herself – avoiding eye contact with the audience, consequently missing the set of eyes that were glued to her.

Bright blue eyes with dimples to match.


Arizona stifled a yawn as she watched each player line up. The referees were taking their time making sure everyone's protective gear was in order, and she briefly wondered how many of these women would end up with some kind of injury by the time the night was over. The crowd around her was buzzing with excitement, but she couldn't find it in herself to get deeply invested in any kind of sport. Her focus shifted from player to player, bouncing down the line of heavily stickered helmets until she fixated on one of the skaters. Craning her neck to get a better view, Arizona's eyes opened, her tired mood vanquished by the promise of one very, very good reason to get invested in sports.

"502," she whispered, reading the skater's number out loud. Her brother leaned to the side and bumped her with his shoulder.

"Don't even think about it," he warned.

The blonde scoffed, her eyes not once leaving the form of the player. Chocolate tendrils cascaded down over her shoulders, the richness of her hair only served to compliment her glowing caramel complexion.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied, her eyes continuing their descent down the skater's body. Just as Arizona's tongue moved along her bottom lip, a whistle was blown and the skaters broke their formation. Some went to sit on the bench, while others lined up on what Arizona could only assume was the starting line. There were five girls on each side and one player from each team had a star on their helmet. The mysterious number '502' was among them, sweeping her hair over one shoulder to reveal the name "Torres".

Another whistle blew, and the pack of girls took off in an all out melee; pushing, shoving, hip-checking, jumping and skating. Entranced by the violent athleticism of the women, Arizona found herself disappointed when the whistle sounded out two minutes later, signaling the first point-count, and the changing of the line up.

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" Tim asked, in regards to gameplay. Arizona simply shook her head.

"No idea…but I like it. And – we're so going to the after party." She grinned and settled in her seat, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth. Arizona had never been a sports fan, but there was certainly a first time for everything.