Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 163209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 816(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 816(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
“You are you,” Jean said, simple and unhesitating. “I believe you.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d declared unwavering faith in Jeremy’s character, but to hear it after sharing such a miserable story took the last ice out of Jeremy’s chest. A quiet “Thank you,” was sorely inadequate, but for now it would have to do. He waited to see if anything else was forthcoming, then glanced past Jean at the clock. “It’s getting late. Is there anything else you want to know, or are you ready to get some rest?”
Jean pressed a thumb to the bruises on Jeremy’s throat. “His name.”
“I can’t give you that,” Jeremy said, scooting toward the edge of his bed. “I told you it was an accident. He was just worked up and drunk.”
“I don’t believe you. Cat has never bruised Laila like this.”
“Maybe Laila’s not as good with her tongue.”
It took him a moment to realize what he’d said, and he and Jean were left staring at each other. Jeremy didn’t trust himself to speak, but one of them had to break the silence. Luckily Jean found his voice first. Maybe that wasn’t a crack in his voice; maybe it was just his accent coming on stronger than usual. Jeremy forgot about it when the words registered:
“I will tell her you said that.”
“God, please don’t,” Jeremy said, flinging one of his pillows at Jean. “She’ll kill me.”
Jean turned away from him. “Unfortunate.”
“I’m going to buy you decaf tomorrow.”
Jean scoffed. “No, you won’t.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jeremy promised as he went to get the lights. He hit the nightstand on his way back to bed and grimaced at the shadows as he clambered onto the mattress. Getting comfortable was easy, but a waste of his time: Jeremy’s thoughts were too tangled to let him rest, and he stared at the ceiling in silence until dawn.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jean
The first week of September was short, as classes and practices were canceled for Labor Day. Despite that wasted day, Tuesday had a few unexpected bright points: Bryson moved back to Connecticut for school finally, buying Jeremy a bit of peace at home, and the press did a last-minute sweep of the western teams. A final check-in before the season got officially underway, supposedly, except every single team was asked about Jean.
If they were hoping for gossip, they were sorely disappointed, and Cat’s glee over the banquet finally felt a bit justified. Every team save White Ridge had a positive response to offer. Quiet and serious, most said, and unfailingly polite. More than one spoke of the obvious respect Jean and the Trojans had for one another, and those who had gotten a bit more of his time—Ashton’s sister, for one, but mostly the French speakers—had only good things to say. They would all reserve final judgment until they faced him on the court, but they were pleased.
Isn’t it nice? Cat had asked Saturday, and Jean had only shrugged her off with exhausted impatience. But after five years of being stepped on and half a year of nastiness he couldn’t defend himself against, it was... unsettling, to see complete strangers take his side so enthusiastically. He admitted as much to Cat when they went for their ride Wednesday night. In response she tugged him down by his shoulders so she could kiss him square in the middle of his forehead.
The peace couldn’t last. Thursday evening Cat came to pick Jean up from Raven drills on her motorcycle, and even with her helmet on Jean could tell something was wrong. He was slow to take his helmet from her, studying her tense expression for any hints, but she shook her head at the question in his stare.
“I’ll tell you at home,” she said.
A short while later she led him into their kitchen, and Jean found Laila sitting on a stool with a sour look on her face. There was a pile of envelopes in the center of the island that Cat motioned Jean toward, and Jean slowly spread a few out to look. They were all addressed to him, from names he didn’t recognize and states that held no meaning. On and on they went, some so thick they required multiple stamps but most paper-thin. Jean frowned at Cat, then Laila, but they could only shrug at him.
“Something tells me your address was officially leaked,” Laila said. “It could be the same source who tipped off the press, escalating because he didn’t get what he wanted, or perhaps someone local was asked to follow the press to you.” She gave a helpless shrug and scattered a few more envelopes. “They could be fan letters, or they could be more drivel. Do you want us to help you go through them?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
There were maybe sixteen to twenty of them, and it would take him forever to read them. Laila divvied them up into three smaller piles before passing them out, and for a few minutes the only sound in the kitchen was the rustling of paper. Laila was the fastest reader, and she’d already slapped two letters off to one side by the time Jean was finished reading his first.