CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
J ean
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F ear of violent retribution was a miraculous thing. The master was missing, the Ravens were half the country away, and Riko was ash and bone in a decorative urn somewhere, but tonight, the distance didn t matter. Jean locked down every brutal instinct of his beneath the simple understanding that acting out against the Bobcats would have horrific consequences for him. He would honor his contract no matter what and endure whatever was hurled his way. It was offensive to the core to let this inferior team push him, but Jean would rather be pushed than suffer his coaches heavy-handed wrath.
Hinch went to trip him, but Jean had grown up laying teams flat on their back. He saw the telltale swing of the man s body and he moved in time, bracing his feet against the ground at an angle. The striker s foot slid off his ankle with minimal force, and the effort he d put behind it thinking he would connect had him stumbling. Jean gritted his teeth behind a placid expression and caught Hinch s shoulder to steady him. He didn t need this arrogant bastard blaming his clumsiness on Jean when Jean had been warned again and again that Trojans couldn t trip their opponents.
The man had not yet stopped speaking. He had plenty to say about the Ravens rumors and an abundance of theories regarding Jean s crooked parents. Jean did his best to tune it out. He had a game to play and a temper to throttle; he didn t have brainpower to spare for whatever rude drivel was being hurled his way. If Hinch wanted to burn up valuable oxygen speaking instead of conserving it for a long half, that was his problem.
Jean! Min called, before firing the ball in his direction.
The slide of a stick against his warned him what was coming. If Jean was a Trojan, he d avoid injury by letting go, but Jean locked his wrists and held on for all he was worth. It sent a warning twinge up both forearms when Hinch gave his racquet a violent twist, but it would have been worse if he hadn t braced. Jean locked eyes with his striker, taking satisfaction in the moment of surprise on Hinch s face when he failed to disarm Jean, and said, Did not work as intended.
Hinch answered with annoyed mockery: Hon hon hon.
Jean tugged his racquet free, and the pair took off for the ball. Hinch could have caught up, but he seemed content to stay two steps behind. See-through intention of violence; Jean had done similar many times in his own career. Jean couldn t turn to see where his offense line was, but he had a clear shot to Laila, and he knew she would get the ball where it needed to go. He fired it to hit the ground a safe few feet from the edge of her goal. He had a second to see her move for it before his mark crashed into him.
Knowing it was coming helped; years of practicing full-speed impacts was better. Jean used the momentum to his advantage, crouching as he slid so he could use his racquet and free hand to steady himself against the floor. Instead of tumbling over, he skidded several feet and was back up and moving.
A few seconds later, Cat s mark ended up with the ball. Cat was too good a screen for him to risk a shot on goal, so he passed it toward Hinch. Jean had the longer reach; he knew how this would end. He had a half-second to look for Jeremy, and then he moved. He had to let go of his racquet with one hand to get the extra inches he needed, and he snagged the ball from the air just in time. Hinch s racquet head missed Jean s stick by a hair, and Jean didn t wait for him to recover. He got his second hand on his racquet even as he turned, needing the momentum and force of a two-handed throw, and he heaved the ball as hard as he could.
The throw was good-of course it was-and Jeremy caught it with satisfying ease. That was as much as Jean saw, because Hinch slammed both hands into his chest to shove him. Jean forced his stare back to the man in front of him, who rewarded that attentiveness with another hard shove. This time Jean refused to give ground, silently daring the man to put a bit more effort into knocking him over. The unspoken challenge pissed the other man off; Jean could see the ugliness on his face. Jean desperately wanted to erase that disrespect. All it would take was a quick finger in his helmet grate to tug him closer and a headbutt the man would feel for days. Jean could already taste blood in his teeth from impact.
You are very lucky they have me on a leash, he said in French.
You re in America, the striker said. Speak English, you illiterate fuck.
The buzzer sounded. The Trojans had scored again to put the teams at six-three. Jean offered his mark a thumbs-up and intoned in English, Have a winning day.
Cat hadn t lied; the innocuous words earned him an immediate gloved fist in the mouth. Jean moved with the hit to save his teeth. The Are you finished? look he gave Hinch worked exactly as intended, and the striker dropped his racquet to launch at Jean. Jean thought of Tetsuji and Riko and let the blows land unanswered. The referees were likely on the court already, but the Trojans and Bobcats were closer. Cat wriggled in between them, taking more than one stray punch herself as she acted as a human shield. Jean wound an arm around her waist to pull her out of the way.
That s enough, Jeremy said as he filled the space next. He put a hand flat to Hinch s chest to warn him off. We re here for a game, not a brawl. Walk it off and let s get back to it.
I m doing you a favor, Hinch said. Let me take out his teeth and he ll have an easier time sucking your dick.
I m sure I misheard you.
I m sure you didn t. We all know that s why you signed him-no chance in hell two fags ended up on the same western team by coincidence.
Oh, Jeremy said, affecting surprise. That s rude, considering your current roster. I hope you apologize to them later.
The fuck did you just say?
Hinch took a threatening step forward to get in Jeremy s face, but the referees caught up with them then and shoved them apart. Jean had only a moment to see the red card flashed at Hinch before Nurse Davis was in his face. Cat took advantage of the distraction to catch hold of Jeremy s elbow, and Jean heard the warning in her quiet, Careful, Jeremy. If Jeremy said anything in response, Jean missed it, because Davis was speaking.
Over here, he said, and Jean obediently went still so the nurse could inspect him. Light fingers touched his jaw and cheek, and Davis tapped a thumb to the swelling corner of Jean s mouth. Bleeding?
Jean swallowed it and lied, No.
Fingers? Davis asked, holding two up.
Two, Jean said, and then Three, when Davis changed them.
The nurse flicked a quick penlight at his eyes before nodding and stepping back. Line change in ten, then.
The referees wouldn t leave until both teams were at their starting spots, so the Trojans passed Jean one at a time to knock their sticks against his. Jeremy was the last to stop by. His smile didn t reach his eyes, and his stare was intent as he studied Jean s bruising face. Jean kept his expression bored, but it did little to reassure his captain.
All right? Jeremy asked.
I have had worse.
Jeremy winced and tapped their sticks together at last. Not comforting, Jean.
Jean shrugged his indifference. Jeremy jogged toward the half-court line, and Jean returned to far-fourth. As he took his place, he looked down the court toward his new mark. The man was heavyset and broad-shouldered, but it took Jean a moment to recognize him: JJ Lander, Connors friend from the banquet.
It was immediately obvious that Lander was better than Hinch. He didn t have Hinch s running commentary, but his aggression was better-timed and harder-hitting. The number of elbows he got right under Jean s chest pads was genuinely impressive; moreso was the deadly accuracy. Every single blow landed in the same spot on his diaphragm. The warning ache in Jean s chest was molten hot as it crawled up toward his lungs. It was a familiar burn that he could ignore and work through. He had to; he had no choice but to hold the line.
The eighth time Lander got him, he dug in hard enough to knock the breath from Jean. The need to break his racquet over the man s arm was so fierce Jean had to let go of his stick to avoid taking a swing. Lander laughed as he took off across the court. Letting his mark get such a lead on him was unforgivable. Jean pressed one hand hard into his side, digging in his gloved fingers like he could claw the air back into his crumpled lungs, and snatched up his racquet. Lander was halfway to Cat now; one side-step and pass from her mark, and Lander would have an unchallenged shot at goal. Jean had failed to protect the backline.
He couldn t fight Lander, so he did the only thing he could and slammed his racquet into his own shin guard with a one-handed swing. Over the new ringing in his ears, he thought he heard fists beating on the court wall and a horrified Jean! from somewhere up-court, but Jean didn t stop to look. He ignored the raging fire in his leg and the burn in his side, and he chased Lander down.
Lander had the ball already, and he threw it at the goal with every ounce of strength he had in him. Laila dove for it, taking a swing with her paddle racquet, and somehow managed to catch the ball with the corner of her net. She hit the ground so hard she slid, but the ball was cleared-for now. It didn t have much speed when she d only glanced it, and Lander went after it immediately.
Lander caught it and swung again, and Jean put his racquet up. He caught the ball two inches out of Lander s net and had to twirl his racquet to counter the momentum before the ball could pop loose. Lander turned on him, every inch a violent promise, and Jean spiked the ball off the floor. That got it clear of them when Lander slammed into him, buying Jean a few precious seconds to set up. He caught Lander s shoulder and used it to launch himself up and around the other man. He snagged the ball on a one-handed swing and dropped to his feet.
Here! Laila called.
Jean passed to her even as Lander used his shoulder and racquet to throw Jean. Laila cleared the ball with a ferocious swing, and Jean rolled on impact to protect his joints. He was up and moving as soon as he could brace his feet against the court floor, but the warning twinge in his side had him swaying on his first step. How ridiculous, to be so slowed by pain when he d spent years playing through it. Had a few months of peace really made him so weak? He checked his glove for blood, was satisfied to find it clean, and slowed to a stop a few steps later when the buzzer sounded on a Trojan point.
A whistle from the court door had both teams turning to look. Rhemann had the Home door open, and he held up three fingers. He was subbing all three players at once: Nabil for Jeremy, Shawn for Jean, and Haoyu for Cat. Jean obediently started for the door, and Cat jogged to catch up with him. Rhemann stepped back to let them off, and the Trojans three assistants were waiting off to one side. Each approached a different player, hands out for racquets and stray gear. Jean shoved his gloves into his helmet before letting Tony take his things.
Rhemann put a hand in Jean s path before he could step away. You want to explain that hissy fit to me?
I m sorry, Coach. He should not have gotten away from me.
Not that, Rhemann said, aggrieved like it was the answer he d expected but hoped not to hear. Jean wasn t sure what else he ought to apologize for, but Rhemann didn t make him guess. I never want to see you swing at yourself again, do you understand? Everyone else is eager enough to hurt us; you don t need to do it for them.
Yes, Coach.
Rhemann gave a jerk of his chin, and Jean looked to see Davis and Nguyen waiting to one side. Get checked out and come back when you two are ready.
The two included Jeremy; Jean realized too late that Jeremy was favoring his left foot. As soon as Rhemann went back to watching the game, Jean fit himself against Jeremy s side. Jeremy offered him a grateful smile as he let Jean take some of his weight, and they followed the nurses back to the locker room. Jean got Jeremy settled in one of the nurses offices before following Davis to the next. He peeled out of his jersey and chest armor when ordered, then his socks and shin guards when Davis pointed.
You could have seriously hurt yourself, Davis said, crouching so he could test the line of Jean s shin with his thumbs. What were you thinking?
I failed to control my mark.
Would a fractured tibia make you run faster? Davis demanded, and Jean stared down at him in silence. Davis stared back, waiting for the obvious to sink in, and finally removed his half-moon glasses so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. The good news is your guard took most of the impact. You ll probably feel it for a while, and I m sure you ll have some nasty bruising, but you didn t break anything. This time, he emphasized as he straightened and set to work on Jean s chest.
A quick scan showed nothing serious to be worried about, so Davis settled for wrapping an ice pack in a thin towel. You ll probably want to put your glove back on for this, he said as he pressed the pack to Jean s bruising ribcage. Send Tony or Bobby to get a new one when this one starts to get too warm, understood? Hold this, he said, and wrapped Jean s lower leg. At last Davis helped him get back into his jersey. It was too big without his chest armor, but Jean could fit an arm under the hem to keep the ice in place.
Leave the gear here, Davis said as he passed over some pills. I ll have Tony sort it out later.
Jeremy was waiting for him in the hall. Nguyen had wrapped his ankle and half his shin before fastening an ice pack over top of it. Jeremy offered Jean a smile in greeting. All good?
Nothing serious enough to need all this, Jean said.
I heard that, Davis said from the office.
Jeremy laughed and collected the crutch he d propped against the nearest wall. At the severe look Jean sent him, Jeremy shrugged and smiled. Nothing serious, he promised with cheeky irreverence, but no point aggravating it further this early in the season. Ready to head back?
They were almost to the door when Jeremy caught his sleeve, and Jean slowed to a stop. Jeremy s smile was gone, but his tone was earnest as he searched Jean s face.
You were incredible out there. I know everyone else will say the same at the post-match roundup, but I wanted to say it first. And I know you re only going to get better from here, because I know you re still second-guessing this new style. I can t wait to see how far you can go this season.
I was outstepped, Jean reminded him.
Maybe, Jeremy said, but you were never outmatched.
He should have scored. That he didn t is a testament to Laila s skill, not mine.
It s not about being perfect, Jean. It s about being better overall, and you were. You are in every way, he insisted when Jean tried to wave him off. If I threw a rock into the chasm between your talents and his, I don t think I d ever hear it hit bottom.
It was so uncharacteristically rude Jean could only stare at him. He didn t have to say anything; Jeremy grimaced and dropped his gaze. Sorry, that was uncalled-for. I know better than to let them get to me, but they ve always brought out the worst in me.
It makes you more interesting, Jean said, and watched the way Jeremy s jaw worked on silent protests. That he wouldn t even defend himself said worlds to how disappointed he was in his thoughtlessness; he didn t want Jean to like this side of him. Jean finally took pity on him and explained, Not your capacity for unkindness, but how fiercely you fight against it.
It wasn t the answer Jeremy was expecting, judging by the look on his face, but this was not the time or place to get into it. Jean held the door open so Jeremy could hobble through it first, and their return to inner court was hailed with a round of cheers from their teammates. Emma hurriedly made space on the nearest bench so they could sit. Angie flagged Bobby down to say something at her ear, and the sophomore took off at full speed. She was back just a few minutes later with hard foam blocks from the weights room, and she set them up so Jean and Jeremy could elevate their injured legs a bit.
Thanks, thanks, Jeremy said, and Bobby shaped her hands into a heart for him.
Lisinski came by briefly to check on them, and she accepted Jeremy s version of the nurses assessment with a serious nod. After she left, Jimenez shooed an enthusiastic Tanner out of his way so he could study his injured defenseman. Jean fixed his gaze on the buttons of Jimenez s red-and-gold polo as the defensive line coach said, You hit yourself like that ever again and I ll bench you for two months. Do you understand?
Yes, Coach.
Brilliant otherwise, Jimenez said. They wanted a fight; thank you for not giving them one. Just tell me if we ve got damage control to do-I know something set Hinch off. What did you say to him?
Jean glanced past him to where Cody and Cat were hovering. I told him to have a winning day.
Cody whooped loud enough to send Derrick staggering dramatically away from them, and Cat used Cody s shoulder for support as she bounced up and down. That s my boy! she yelled, wild with shameless delight. Hell yeah, let s goooo! She thought better of jumping at Jean and instead took off on a lap down the length of the court. Her Let s go, Trojans! Fight on! carried back easily enough, and the stands nearest her picked it up with rowdy enthusiasm.
All right, all right, Jimenez said, motioning to the Trojans who d gathered close. We re still in the middle of a match here, so let s keep our eyes on the prize.
The subs obediently scattered to where they could keep an eye on the game, leaving Jean and Jeremy alone on the bench. Jean didn t have to look at Jeremy to know he was smiling; he could practically feel the warmth radiating off his captain.
Did you really? Jeremy asked.
He took it personally, Jean said.
Jeremy laughed. They usually do! Cat struck gold with that one.
They d wasted ten minutes with the nurses, so there were only fifteen minutes left on the clock. Jeremy and Jean watched the rest of the match side-by-side, comparing notes on the players battling back and forth across the court.
Shawn had been put against Lander, as he was closer in skill and weight class than Haoyu. Either he knew Lander better than Jean did from painful experience, or he d been watching them very carefully, because Shawn fought tooth and nail to keep space between their bodies. When they had to get close and he didn t need his racquet ready, he kept it crosswise over his chest. It made it harder for Lander to hit him, though it wasn t a perfect defense. Even through the court wall Jean could see his pained grimace when Lander broke through to drive an elbow home.
The match ended at nine-six, Trojans favor, and Jeremy gave Jean an enthusiastic shake. Best gap we ve had on them in years!
Ass on bench, Lisinski said when Jeremy started to get up.
Agh, Coach, Jeremy protested, but he obediently settled down again. The rest of the Trojans were allowed onto the court to celebrate with their teammates and go through a quick handshake, and Jeremy settled for waving both hands over his head in solidarity. Rhemann led the coaches onto the court to meet the Bobcats staff, leaving just the three assistants to keep an eye on the bench.
It was perhaps inevitable that a reporter would swoop in as soon as the coast was clear. She stole the open spot on Jean s other side as her cameraman crouched across from them.
We re here at the Gold Court with Jeremy Knox and Jean Moreau, she said, beaming at the camera. The final bell s just sounded on a nine-six victory over longtime district rivals White Ridge Bobcats. A fantastic start to the season, with stellar performances all around. How are we feeling tonight, boys?
An exciting opener, Jeremy agreed with a toothy smile. I couldn t be prouder of my team for the effort they brought to the court tonight. You never know what to expect from a first match, right? Summer practices can only prepare you so much for the season, so snagging a win here feels unbelievably good. And against such a talented team? he added, looking toward the court once more. We re going to have so much fun this year, Ingrid. I can t wait.
And you? Ingrid asked, turning her smile on Jean. I have a confession, before you answer that: I ve never really been a Raven fan. She briefly hid her face as if this was a shameful secret to air, then tossed her curls out of her face and leaned into his space. I ve watched Edgar Allan, of course, but I grew up in Anaheim. The Trojans will always be my first love. I was a vocal naysayer when your transfer was first announced, but wow . Consider me a convert.
There wasn t a question there, but she tipped the microphone toward him anyway. Jean wondered if he could simply get up and leave. Jeremy gave him an expectant look, and Jean barely managed to fight off a scowl. He refused to look at her when he said, The Trojans deserve your devotion. They are very good.
He could imagine Jeremy s tired we , but there was no easy way Jeremy could correct him with an audience.
I m happy to be wrong, Ingrid promised him. You re a natural fit for the team, and it s clear your team adores you. There s this-I m going to butcher this, I m sorry-this joie de vivre when they re around you. Butchering it was an understatement. Jean bit the inside of his cheek to bleeding so he wouldn t comment on her pronunciation, but Ingrid wasn t waiting for a response. She said, Speaking of teammates, though, we couldn t help but notice one in attendance tonight. I hope you don t mind that we invited him down here for the postgame interview?
Jean refused to believe another Raven had come this far, but then a familiar voice spoke up with a simple, Johnny.
Jean stopped breathing, but he was already turning. In no world could he ignore that voice; they had been partners for too long. At the end of the bench was a security guard, and at his side stood Zane Reacher. Four months away from the Ravens, he was still dressed head-to-toe in black, but even from here Jean could see how much weight he d lost. He looked ghastly enough to knock Jean s heart out of rhythm. Jean was on his feet before he realized he was moving, but he wasn t sure if he meant to approach Zane or retreat.
Ingrid was introducing Zane to the camera, but the security guard didn t wait for her to finish. He looked between Jeremy and Jean and said, What s the verdict? I can escort him back to the stands if you don t want him down here.
When Jean took too long to answer, Jeremy said, Reacher, good to see you on your feet. I m sorry for your losses this summer.
Talk to me again and I ll break your other ankle, Knox, Zane said.
Jean put himself between them. Do not threaten my captain, Zane.
Zane dragged his stare back to Jean s face. Or what? Are you going to stop me? He didn t miss the onceover Jean gave him, judging by the mean smile tugging at his mouth. He knew Jean was doing the math, weighing his chances against Zane s diminished state. The lazy challenge in his, Try me, warned Jean not to press his luck.
Jean, Jeremy started.
Johnny s busy, Zane said, holding Jean s stare.
I was, Jean agreed, tipping his hand toward Ingrid.
I came all this way. You owe me your time.
I don t owe you anything.
No? Zane demanded, heavy and hateful and angry.
Next to talking to Zane at all, doing it with an audience was the worst thing Jean could think of, so he waved for Zane to follow. Locker room.
Jeremy reached for him. Are you sure?
Jean caught and held his gaze for a moment, but he had no easy answers for the questions in Jeremy s searching stare. The best he managed was an uncertain, I don t know. Behind him Ingrid was getting up off the bench, intent on following him and Zane out of inner court. Jean motioned at her, and Jeremy nodded a silent promise to run interference. Zane fell in at Jean s side with the ease of long practice, matching stride and pace like they d never spent a day apart. It was familiar enough to turn Jean s stomach.
The locker room door had barely closed behind them before Zane said, You ve got to be fucking kidding me, Johnny. He yanked hard at Jean s sleeve, a fierce scowl cutting his face in two, and said, You were a stranger out there. No fight, no bite. You let that team run over you like you have a fetish for getting bullied. The master would beat you within an inch of your life for such a cowardly performance.
Jean braced for a blow that didn t land and instinctively looked to see if the master was about. Of course they were alone, so he gritted his teeth and said, Perhaps he would, but I am not one of his Ravens anymore. I signed a contract with the USC Trojans, and I am required to uphold their standards. If that means throwing a fight on the court, then that s what I will do.
Toothless bitch, Zane accused him.
We are not in public anymore, Jean warned him.
Zane got a hand around his neck easy as breathing, and Jean hit the wall so hard he lost one of his ice packs. Zane looked his fill, searching for something familiar in the red-and-gold clad man he d spent so many years protecting. The disgust on his face said he came back empty-handed, but Jean was not the only stranger here. Once upon a time, Jean would have taken Zane s disappointment personally, but Zane had burned every bridge between them. He was not Jean s teammate or his partner anymore; his disapproval was worth less than a fly s tiny shit.
The sunshine court, Zane said, thick with derision. You . Aren t you embarrassed?
Says the man found in his own puke this summer.
Zane s fingers dug in so hard Jean knew he d be bruised by morning. He didn t try to fight back. Zane had always beaten Grayson in their brawls, and Jean had never stood a chance against Grayson. He settled for glaring at Zane as he waited for Zane s grip to ease. At last Zane snatched his hand back and vigorously wiped it off on his shirt.
Asshole, Zane said at last, heated and hoarse. You should have let me die.
I should have, Jean agreed, with a vehemence that had Zane stepping back from him. But you were my partner, once. That meant something to me even if it meant nothing to you.
It meant everything to me, Zane exploded, hot with rage. Do you know what it cost me to stand at your side? Do you? The mockery I ignored for defending you, the punishments I suffered every time you couldn t keep up, the side-eyes and sly remarks from our coaches and teammates? Every fucking day was a miserable fight, but I stuck with you because we were going to be something incredible together. And then you threw me away.
I had nothing to do with that.
Tell me you didn t want Josten to have my number, Zane demanded. I saw your interview, Johnny. The Wesninskis and the Moreaus? You can t convince me it s a coincidence that two European crime lords got their sons into Class I Exy. You knew who he was all along, and you wanted him as your partner instead of me. I came here because I need you to say it to my face. Am I wrong?
Jean couldn t deny it; all he could do was stare at Zane in mute defiance.
Zane got the answer he needed in Jean s silence, and he hit Jean hard enough to take him off his feet. The backliners bench broke Jean s fall, and the pain that lanced through his already injured chest was enough to turn his stomach inside-out. Jean gritted his teeth and pushed himself back to his feet. It was almost impossible to hear Zane through the new cotton in his skull, but the hatred in Zane s voice helped his words carry:
You destroyed everything I fought for. I wish I never met you.
I am not the one who inked him! Jean shoved Zane and asked, What was I supposed to do, argue with Riko? Rip the pen out of his hands when he tried to put it to Neil s face? Tell me!
The look on Zane s face was answer enough. The Ravens didn t know how to deny Riko anything. He was the centerpiece of their world, the venomous heart that bound the team together. January had carved indelible caverns into Zane s soul but had done nothing to dim his unwavering, unquestioning loyalty. Zane had screwed up, and he d paid the price owed. The unhinged cruelty of his punishment didn t matter because it still balanced out in Zane s desperate, broken calculations.
You of all people know how much the King hated me, Jean said. Zane tried waving him off and turning away, but Jean caught hold of his shirt and held on for dear life. You don t honestly believe I could have talked him into elevating a disobedient shit-stain to the perfect Court on my own. You knew it had nothing to do with me, but you betrayed me anyway.
Fuck alive. Zane pried his hands off and pushed him away. Get over it.
Get over it , because that was the Raven way. Cruelty was integral to the Nest; violence was necessary to ensure everyone stayed in line and performed to their best abilities. Aggression and talent determined the pecking order, and the only way to survive Evermore was to understand and believe that everything they suffered served a purpose.
But January was different; it would always be personal. The insinuation that Jean could ever forgive or forget had him seeing red, and he swung at Zane with everything he had. They were so close he couldn t miss. Zane crashed into the lockers behind him, and Jean followed to grab his shirt collar in both hands. Zane pressed a thumb to the blood at the corner of his mouth, unimpressed by Jean s anger even as Jean twisted hard enough to cut off his air.
Tell me why. It didn t matter; it couldn t matter. Nothing Zane said could fix what had shattered between them. But it didn t stop him from trying again. Tell me why. You were the only person left I- Jean choked on his words and had to try again. I trusted you.
For a moment the man staring at him was achingly familiar. A half-second later he was the stranger January made of him. Zane dug cruel fingers into Jean s wrists, forcing him to let go, and shoved Jean out of his space again. But his hand was still on the knife in Jean s back, and Zane couldn t resist giving it one last ugly twist: You should be thanking me for setting you up. Couple years without any ass? You must have been about to burst. I did you a favor.
Jean s fist went back again when a new voice from the doorway piped up with an uncertain, Jean?
USC had four coaches, three assistants, and twenty-nine Trojans, but somehow the one person to walk in on them was Lucas fucking Johnson. Zane went still as stone to stare at him, and Lucas sent a bewildered look between them. Jean put an arm out, knowing there was next to nothing he could do if Zane wanted to kill Lucas but needing to try anyway.
Get out, he said, right as Zane launched himself at Lucas. Jean had to use his entire body to knock Zane off-course, but his shoes slid on the polished floor as Zane tried to surge past him. He wouldn t be able to hold him for long, but he dug in his feet as best he could and tried again: Out, get out, get out .
Zane lost valuable seconds throwing his punch at Jean instead, and Lucas bolted from the locker room at full speed. Jean spit blood off to one side and fixed Zane with a deadly look. That s Lucas, not Grayson. He s Grayson s younger brother. Leave him alone.
Not Grayson. Zane rubbed his arms; his sharp and terrible laugh sent a noticeable shudder along his shoulders. He checked his knuckles, maybe looking for Grayson s blood. He d beat Grayson halfway to death in January because there was no chance in hell Grayson would let himself get mounted if he had any fight left in him. Jean had thought the bruises on Zane s hands would never fade. They had, eventually, but the festering wound in Zane s mind couldn t. Not Grayson, because Grayson killed himself. Who could have seen that coming?
Who would have? Jean sent back.
Zane had to hear the accusation in it, but instead of addressing that he said, Heard he came to visit you at the end. One last bite for the road, hm? Zane laughed again, and Jean realized too late he was holding his throat. Zane bit his own knuckles until they bled. Took the fast lane straight to hell. Must be getting crowded there, Johnny. We re all dying. All of us except you, when you re the one who should ve kicked it first. Why are you still here?
Because I keep my promises.
Except you didn t, and you got exactly what you deserved, Zane said. It was so uncalled-for Jean took a step back away from him. Zane sucked blood from his knuckles and spat it to one side. Exactly what you wanted, even. I remember. I was there. I heard you begging for it, you disgusting wh-
A flash of color warned Jean they were no longer alone. In the same breath Jean registered Coach , Rhemann decked Zane hard enough to throw him. He looked ten feet tall as he towered over Zane s crumpled body, radiating a rage he d never once turned on his own players. Zane came to his feet snarling and ready to fight, but the second he realized who d hit him he ground to a halt. Once a Raven, always a Raven; Zane was not a student anymore, but there was nothing he could do to a coach. For the first time Jean wondered if they would ever learn to stand their ground.
Rhemann gave him a moment to square up. When Zane only stepped back and averted his glare, he said, Get out of my locker room, and don t you ever come back to my stadium. Do you understand?
Sure, Zane said, with a last sideways glance at Jean. Nothing of value here anyway.
Rhemann pointed back the way he d come, and Zane stalked past him without another word. Rhemann didn t turn to watch him go but put his phone to his ear. Reacher is on his way back to the inner court, he said as soon as someone picked up on the other end of the line. Make sure he s escorted out of the park and urged out of town. Call whoever you need to, but get it done. I don t want to see his face around here ever again.
Rhemann hung up and turned toward him, and Jean quickly dropped his stare to the floor. He wasn t sure how much Rhemann had heard. Voices carried when the locker room was empty, and neither Raven had been quiet in their anger. Jean didn t have the right to ask, but maybe that was for the best. He didn t trust his voice to hold steady.
Rhemann put out a hand like he expected Jean to make a break for it. Jean, look at me.
Jean dragged his stare to the collar of Rhemann s shirt; that was as far as his gaze could go. He worked his jaw on apologies he couldn t voice, but Rhemann didn t have time to fuss at him for getting in a fight. The sudden cacophony of rowdy voices said the Trojans were on their way into the locker room at last.
Rhemann caught hold of Jean s arm and said, With me, before leading him down the hall. Somehow they made it to the coaches hall without running into Jean s teammates, and Rhemann sat Jean in the chair opposite his desk.
Give me two minutes, Rhemann said. Do not leave this room.
Jean finally managed a, Yes, Coach.
Rhemann closed the door behind him when he left. Jean stared down at his hands and tried his best not to think. Rhemann could have been gone two minutes or two hours. Time meant nothing as Jean fought for a center he couldn t find. The silence when Rhemann opened the door again was eerie, but Jean didn t care enough to ask where the Trojans had gone.
Rhemann had an armload of medical supplies with him, including some fresh ice packs. Jean hooked his jersey over his shoulders so Rhemann could strap one to his chest with fresh gauze. As Rhemann was finishing up, he started with a careful, Listen, Jean.
He was interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. The visitor didn t wait for a summons before stepping into the room. Jean catalogued the stranger from a great distance: dark hair, darker eyes, maybe early fifties. He didn t have the badging that would have marked him as press, but he didn t look like a coach. He was dressed like an uptight professor who d gotten lost on the way to his classroom.
Oh, sorry, the man said. Saw your team back on the court, so I thought it was safe.
Rhemann waved off the apology. Adi, this is Jean.
Really! Adi said, turning on Jean with renewed interest. The Jean Moreau? I ve heard a lot about you.
Hasn t everyone? Jean asked without thinking.
It wasn t at all funny, but it started an awful, hiccupping laugh out of him. He wanted to peel his face off. He wanted to dig this acidic heat out of his chest before it melted his bones away. He held onto the edge of the chair between his knees and squeezed until his fingers ached.
coward washout traitor sellout reject whore
He d thrown the Ravens furious letters away, but now he was getting mail from strangers who d never even met him but who still wanted to blame him for the Ravens downfall. He thought of Hannah Bailey s sly comments, of the irritated strangers at the mall this summer, of the paparazzi hounding him and Jeremy on the walk to campus. He thought of Hinch s rude comments on the court and Zane saying he should have been the first to die.
I do not care what they think of me , he thought, with a desperation that felt terrifyingly endless. I don t. I can t. It only matters that I play.
I m going to be a minute, Rhemann said. Don t wait for me.
Sure, was the uncertain response. Take your time.
The stranger let himself out again, but Rhemann didn t move until the latch caught behind him. Silence settled in the room once more, heavy enough to smother him. Jean focused on the sound of his own heartbeat so he wouldn t go mad.
At length Rhemann pulled another ice pack off his desk and crouched to get a look at Jean s battered face. Jean refused to return his heavy stare, but he couldn t hide a flinch when Rhemann said, Reacher had no right to say such cruel things to you.
He d heard enough, then. The only appropriate response would be a Yes, Coach, but what crawled out of Jean was a ragged, Didn t he, Coach?
Rhemann would beat Jean within an inch of his life for shoving the ice pack away so rudely, but that was for the best. If Jean was unconscious, he wouldn t have to think about any of this. But Rhemann only set the ice pack aside and sat back on his heel. He considered Jean with an unwavering gaze and said, Talk to me.
I did ask for it, Jean said. Rhemann needed to know that about him before he wasted his time getting offended on Jean s behalf. They- hated me they all hated me -asked me if I liked it, and I- was so afraid -said yes. I wasn t allowed to say no. That last part wasn t meant to be said aloud, but it was out before he could catch it. Jean pressed unsteady fingers to his lips and shoved until he tasted blood. I didn t- want it I hated it I hated them -know what else to do.
Riko was cruel, but no fool, and he d ensured only the male backliners were present when he offered Jean up on a silver platter. For three days, the Ravens had been largely oblivious to Jean s plight. Then Ellison ratted him out to the locker room unprompted, declaring himself the best Jean had been with so far. Jean couldn t save himself without undermining Riko, so he d panicked and agreed. The damage was done: the too-young freshman sleeping his way down the line had no remorse or intentions of stopping.
Grayson smelled blood in the water, and he couldn t resist taking a bite. He d set out to hurt Jean as badly as he could that fourth night, then dragged a hand through Jean s tears and said, You like this too, right? Ask me for more. Jean would have said anything to make him stop, and he d begged until he finally lost his voice. None of it had earned him any mercy; it had only fueled Grayson s hunger. Jean had kept Zane up half the night afterward, crying so hard into his pillow he nearly threw up. And now Zane dared look him in the eye and say-
Except he wasn t wrong, was he? Three years had changed nothing. Jean had held out as long as he could, but it wasn t long enough. With his arm pushed near to dislocating and him in so much pain he could barely think, he d still given Grayson whatever he demanded. He d known it wouldn t save him, but he d been so desperate for a reprieve he had to try. Jean wanted to tear his skin off everywhere Grayson had touched him, but Rhemann s low voice distracted him before he could get a good grip.
Listen to me. It doesn t matter what you said. You were just a kid trying to survive as best you could. No one can blame you for that.
But they do, Jean said. They always will. And they ve made sure everyone else will, too.
I don t care. It doesn t matter. Then why did he want to scream until his throat bled?
The pit in his stomach was the same he got when Riko shoved him down the stairs: a split-second of freefall before pain set in. Jean scrambled back from that edge as fast as he could go, trying to put as much distance between himself and Rhemann as he could: I m sorry, Coach. I have no right to complain. I crossed a line, and I got what I- But it caught in his throat with an audible choke, and Jean bit his tongue as hard as he could.
Deserved? Rhemann finished, in a tone Jean never wanted to hear from him again.
Yes, Coach, Jean said.
It was the wrong thing to say. Rhemann s hands were a sudden unyielding weight on his shoulders. Jean braced for a blow, but Rhemann only said, Repeat after me: I didn t deserve what they did to me.
Rhemann didn t know what he was asking; he didn t know what this would cost. Panic chewed a line from Jean s gut to his heart. He couldn t refuse a coach s direct order, but he could beg: Please don t make me, Coach.
I need you to say it and mean it, Jean, Rhemann said. Please.
Please was so uncalled-for Jean could only stare at him, heart hammering louder than his thoughts. He could feel every chain straining, waiting for the words that would rend them powerless at last. He was afraid to open his mouth again lest he get sick, but at length managed a hesitant, I didn t deserve- heavy hands, heavier racquets, dark rooms, darker blood, teeth and knives and drowning, I m drowning, I m drowning -what they did to me.
A warning lurch in his chest had him clapping a quick hand over his mouth. He swallowed hard against the fire that wanted to devour him whole. It didn t work; there was a knot in his throat that was impossible to breathe around. He swallowed again, trying to dislodge it, and nearly gagged. Jean hit himself instead, slamming his free fist into the fresh bruises blooming on his cheekbone, and Rhemann caught his wrist in a careful grip.
Don t, he said, but Jean barely heard him over his own heartbeat.
He was all at once aware that his hand was the only thing keeping him together; the lava that eaten through his chest and soul was now hard enough to crack, and it would surely pull him apart if he gave it an inch. Jean wrenched free of Rhemann so he could clap his second hand atop the first. He dug in so hard he thought he d break his own nose, eyes closed tight so he couldn t see Rhemann s expression.
Careful hands settled on his shoulders, not to shake him or strike him, but to hold him still as Rhemann said, We never should have let him get that close to you. We should have protected you better. I m sorry that we didn t.
I m sorry , he said, as if it was at all appropriate for a coach to apologize to one of his players. It was so unexpected and so unwarranted Jean forgot how to breathe, and the fleeting, traitorous thought that followed tore his heart wide open: he is not the one who should apologize to me. The gall of it was nearly as frightening as the truth of it, and Jean couldn t hold on tight enough to muffle a choked sob.
Don t, Jean thought, desperate. Endure it. Please-
Jean. Rhemann gave his shoulders a fierce squeeze. You re safe. I ve got you. Let go.
Jean crumpled in on himself with an awful sound, and the weight of Rhemann s arms around him wasn t enough to keep him from shattering.