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)
“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.”