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)
Jeremy shrugged off his disapproval. “Stats are for coaches to stress over. I trust my gut.”
“You’re lying,” Jean protested.
“It’s worked this far, hasn’t it?”
Jean couldn’t deny that, but he didn’t have to be happy about it. He subsided somewhat grumpily and followed his teammates across the street.
Exposition Park was unusually lively today, on account of the first home game. There were booths set up selling merch, and a few groups picnicking around blaring boomboxes. A couple people they passed were good enough fans to recognize the Trojans on sight; others were close enough to see the 3 on Jean’s face and react to that. Cat and Jeremy accepted the fans’ well wishes with good cheer and warm smiles, and soon enough they were safe inside the locker room.
The Trojans had a one-hour afternoon practice, then two hours off to eat and review tapes. Here the Trojans finally sounded like a Class I team to Jean. They still slipped in unnecessary compliments and praise as they reviewed the night’s opponents, but they discussed the Bobcats’ playstyle with unrelenting focus. There was a long history between the two teams, natural when both teams were so talented but further complicated by Jeremy muddying White Ridge’s reputation a few years back. The Trojans knew these players backwards and forwards, and they knew it was going to be a fight all the way to the final bell.
“Literally,” Xavier added, with a glance toward Jean. “They aren’t quite as bad as the Ravens, but they’re violent and they have the numbers to compensate for red cards. They’ll likely try to injure Jeremy right out of the gate, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they spent most of their energy on you.”
“The weakest link,” Shane said, and hastened to add, “As far as tempers go, I mean,” when Jean flicked him a deadly look. “They’d love to see us get our comeuppance. If they goad you into a brawl in our season opener, they’ll ride that high for years. You’ve gotten a lot better at practice, but we’re not actively bullying you to test your restraint. Can you handle them?”
“Yes,” Jean said.
When he left it at that, Jeremy smiled and said, “I have faith.” Shawn looked like he might comment, but a crash down the hall and yodeling cry of despair distracted him. A helpless smile tugged at Jeremy’s mouth as he called, “All good, Bobby?”
Roberta Blackwell appeared in the doorway. “Good,” she promised. “Ignore that.”
She was gone as quick as she’d come, though her yipped “Ow, ow, ow” echoed back to them a minute later.
The Trojans only had three assistants, but Jean would have guessed the number higher tonight. They were in constant motion, flitting this way and that across the locker room as they prepared for the match. Antonio Jones was in charge of loading the stick racks, and he took his time with each racquet before locking it into place: checking tension in the strings, inspecting the heads for any troublesome wear and tear, and fixing tape for the players who preferred wrapped sticks. Bobby had started off by delivering freshly-cleaned padding to each locker, using nametags to find proper homes for each piece, and then set to work filling the players’ water bottles. Angie stuck by Lisinski’s side, filling out forms with last-minute welfare checks.
A few months ago, Jean had found the concept of assistants ridiculous. The tasks they were assigned were ones the players or coaches could easily handle, and having extra faces in the locker room at practice was unnecessary. Tonight, he finally understood the appeal. Each nonsense task that Bobby or Tony took off his plate bought him a few extra minutes to focus on the lineup he’d be facing and the bodies he’d share the court with.
Traditionally the Trojans had rigid lineups for each half: designated starters with assigned subs that would trade in halfway through. Jean had been assigned to the second-half lineup, which suited him just fine: second was where Jeremy, Cat, and Laila played, and it bought him time to study his teammates during the first half. Although Jean was officially a sub for Cat and Shawn’s line until he could prove himself reliable, Rhemann was allowing him to start alongside Cat tonight. Anticipating trouble, Jean assumed—it would be easier to pull Jean if he acted out if Rhemann didn’t burn up a sub putting him on in the first place.
A warning bell echoed throughout the locker room: they were an hour out from serve. Rhemann was meeting with the night’s officials, so White collected the team and sent them to the inner court. The stands were a third filled already, and Jeremy looked positively gleeful as he took his team on a few easy laps. All the Trojans looked excited to be here, Jean realized as he glanced from one laughing face to another, and he felt the chasm between his heart and theirs keenly.