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)
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.