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)
“Easier on—” he started to say, but Jean’s fingers on his neck killed his train of thought.
“Horrid creations,” Jean said as he fixed Jeremy’s collar. “No better than a noose.”
Jeremy meant to laugh or agree. What he said was, “You look good.” When Jean went still as stone, Jeremy hurried to correct himself with, “It looks good on you, I mean. But I get it—not the most comfortable thing to wear.” He was saved when his phone went off with Laila’s alert, and he retreated to a safe distance to check her message. “Looks like most everyone else is downstairs already. Shall we go?”
Jeremy passed Jean one of the room keys on their way out of the room. He kept an easy pace down the stairwell, as it was hot as the devil’s buttcrack in Tucson and he didn’t want to sweat through his dress shirt before dinner even started. They caught up with the Trojans out front and wriggled through the crowd until they found the floozies. Cody had put both Cat and Laila between themselves and Pat and Ananya, and Jeremy didn’t think it was the heat that put that flush in Cody’s cheeks. Ananya’s expression was calm as she stared into the distance, but she had her arms crossed so tight she’d leave wrinkles in her dress.
“Easy,” Jeremy said, tweaking her sleeve.
“I can’t make it any easier,” Ananya said in a low voice.
It was and wasn’t true, but it wasn’t Jeremy’s fight.
Finally all twenty-nine Trojans and their accompanying six dates were accounted for, and Rhemann led them over to the convention center.
Check-in was smooth, and each player was given a lanyard in USC’s colors. The laminated cards hanging off the hooks featured prominent jersey numbers, with surnames and positions printed below them. Their room wasn’t much further along, two turns and a short hall, and then a set of fire doors that were currently propped open.
One of Arizona’s assistant coaches was sitting just inside the door. She stood to shake hands with USC’s four-man staff before lifting a microphone to her mouth. Judging by the crowd and the noise, Jeremy guessed at least five teams were already settled, but the coach had set her mic to carry over the chaos: “USC Trojans now in attendance. Coach Rhemann, Coach Lisinski, Coach White, Coach Jimenez. Captain Jeremy Knox, vice-captain Xavier Morgan.” She flicked her mic off and leaned closer to Rhemann as she pointed. Jeremy was close enough to hear her say, “You’ll be at tables thirteen and fourteen in the gold quadrant.”
“Thank you, Coach,” Rhemann said, and set off in that direction with his team a long line behind him.
Jeremy’s heart was a hummingbird trapped in his throat. He loved the chaos and noise and crowds of game nights; having the western teams all under one roof was an even greater gift. There was so much talent in this room Jeremy felt electric, but beneath that current was the sizzling snap of too many memories. Jeremy let his gaze wander: looking for familiar faces, looking for faces that would’ve moved on years ago. How desperately and fervently he’d dreamed of events like these, and how swiftly he’d destroyed it. There was comfort in knowing he was not that person anymore, but it was a hollow accomplishment.
As one of the largest teams in the west, USC could have easily dominated an entire table. Instead they were put back-to-back at neighboring tables so they could converse with other teams. One table was split with Arizona’s Wildcats, and the other shared with Boise’s Broncos. Both teams got on well with USC outside of matches, so Jeremy was pleased with the arrangement. He caught Xavier’s eye and tipped his head toward the Wildcats. Xavier motioned from himself to Boise’s table in response. Each opponent would get a captain’s attention to avoid the appearance of favoritism, and the floozies would divvy themselves up appropriately.
Spotting Arizona’s captain was easy work; Jeremy could find his former teammate in any crowded room. Jeremy feigned not to see the question in Alejandro Torres’s stare as he held out his hand. Torres didn’t hesitate to give his hand a firm shake, but the faint smile he managed didn’t reach his eyes.
“Jeremy Knox, I think,” he said as Jeremy sat opposite him. “Last I checked you were a brunette. Senioritis giving you a midlife crisis?”
“Something like that,” Jeremy said with a laugh. “Congrats on making captain. I should have texted when I saw the roster update.”
“Implying you didn’t delete my number years ago?” Torres asked, and Jeremy could only shrug. The Wildcat didn’t care enough to pursue it but turned a considering look on Jean. “The infamous Jean Moreau, then. Heard a lot about you.”
“I don’t know you,” Jean said.
“This is Alejandro Torres,” Jeremy said. “He and I went to high school together. He’s one of the cleverest dealers I know, and he’s got a great team here. Playing in Arizona is always a treat: their fans are phenomenal, and the facilities are gorgeous.” To Torres he added, “Jean’s still learning the western teams. It might take him a bit to put names to faces.”