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)
“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.