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)
“Biokinesiology,” Laila supplied, “with an emphasis on sports science.”
Cat pointed at her. “Yes. That. Thank you. You’ll only really see her at Lyon or on game nights. Tony and Bobby are the undergrads. They alternate afternoons but will also come along to all our games. Tony takes a bit to warm up to new faces, but Bobby’s the most scatterbrained sweetheart you’ll ever meet. She’s also desperately in love with Diego, so don’t be tempted by her cute face.”
“Our mascot,” Jeremy said, assuming Jean wouldn’t recognize the name.
“A useless expenditure,” Jean muttered into his coffee.
“Next you’ll say the Ravens didn’t have cheerleaders,” Cat said, then paused as she thought. “You didn’t, did you? I honestly can’t remember ever seeing them at your games.”
“Our fans came to watch us, not a wasteful side show,” Jean said, putting out a hand for her bowl. Cat passed hers and Laila’s over, and Jean went to rinse them out in the sink. Jeremy looked at the clock, chugged the rest of his coffee, and set his mug aside to collect on his way home that evening. The artwork was slipped into his backpack so he could show it to the coaches, and he slung his bag over his shoulder.
Cat got up and straightened their shirts with exaggerated seriousness as Jean and Jeremy tried to pass her for the door. “Oh, my darling sons, off to their first day at school. Mwah!” she added, kissing the air near Jean’s cheek. “Do Momma proud.”
Jean looked to Laila and said, “Handle her.”
“Oh, I do,” Laila said into her coffee.
Jean looked two seconds from willing himself out of existence, but Jeremy only laughed and turned him toward the front door. He toed back into his shoes while Jean detoured to the bedroom for his own bag. They were out of the house a few minutes later, and Jeremy breathed in the crisp morning air with a wide smile. As rough as getting up had been, there was something undeniably glorious about starting a new year. He simply had to quiet every yammering voice that reminded him this was his last year.
The peace lasted only until they reached Exposition Boulevard, and then the blinding smatter of flashing lights took a few years off Jeremy’s life. He put a hand up instinctively to shield his face, but before he’d sorted out what was going on there were three older men in their personal space. Jeremy rapidly blinked spots out of his eyes as he tried to get a good look at them.
“Jean Moreau,” one said, and Jeremy would give him points for getting it right if not for his follow-up question: “We’ve got a few questions about your parents.”
“Good morning, friends,” Jeremy said, dropping his hand to Jean’s elbow and giving it a careful nudge. Jean kept pace with him as he set off toward campus, and of course so did the journalists. “Thanks for your interest, but it’s not a good time. We’re trying to get to morning practice.”
“A word about Grayson’s visit,” a second said, undeterred.
“Clarify your age for us,” the third said, earning a dirty look from the second for interrupting. “Hannah Bailey revealed that you’re currently nineteen years old, and we were able to dig up supporting evidence.” He put a hand to his notepad, checking his work, and said, “Here it is: Jean-Yves Moreau, fourteen at time of immigration. That’s you, I assume; only Jean Moreau to enter the country that year as far as I could find.”
Jean rocked to a stop but said nothing. Jeremy filed it away for later—much later, if the look on Jean’s face was anything to go by. The man scribbled a note even as Jeremy tried again to get Jean moving. Jean didn’t need encouragement but set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. “Based on the timeline, that means you would’ve been sixteen when you enrolled at Edgar Allan.” He checked Jean’s face for confirmation. Jean kept his stare pointed forward like he couldn’t even hear them. “Two years is a tight turnaround to get a high school degree, especially in a new language and school system. I would’ve thought you’d lose years, not gain them.”
“Agreed,” the first admitted, studying Jean with interest. “I’m impressed you pulled it off but curious as to why it was approved. Starting you at Edgar Allan so young was Coach Moriyama’s greatest mistake.” Jean’s flinch was full-body, and Jeremy saw all three men take notes. Rather than comment on it, the man bulled on with, “I’m not denying your talent, but the numbers your freshman year don’t back up his faith in you. It’s not until we put them alongside your own age group—high school sophomores and juniors—that the gap widens to something phenomenal. I want to know: why the hurry to throw you up against Class I schools, rather than let you gradually age onto the lineup?”