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)
“Ready we ready we ready!” was the echoing war cry from the strikers’ row, and it was answered with a ferocious “Fight on!” from nearly every Trojan. Cat gave Jean’s hair an enthusiastic ruffle, her smile wild with excitement, and dragged him to his feet.
First-half players would practice on the Home side of the court, and second-half would take Away. The line-up for warm-ups on game nights had them alternating so they could peel off in different directions as they stepped through the court door. Jeremy had the front of the line, with Xavier right behind him, and the rest of the Trojans were arranged by court position. Although the freshmen weren’t allowed to play, they could participate in drills, so they wriggled into the spaces their upperclassmen assigned them. Jean closed his eyes, listening to the way their laughter and upbeat voices echoed off the walls.
“Good?” It was Angie, pausing at his side.
There was no reason to tell her how strange it was to exist in such a moment and place, so Jean only said, “Good.”
She continued on her way, counting players with her pen. Lisinski passed her going the other direction, and when Angie called, “Twenty-nine!” from the front of the line, Lisinski echoed it back. Tony and Bobby ran up and down the line, passing out racquets for warm-ups. Jean held his in the crook of his elbow as he pulled his helmet on and tugged his heavier gloves into place. Tony’s “All out!” when they were done had Lisinski jogging toward the front of the line. Jeremy’s whoop warned Jean the line was about to start moving, and even through Jean’s helmet it was deafening when the Trojans joined in.
They jogged back to inner court in an unbroken, endless line. The stands had filled quite substantially since Jean last checked, and he felt the fans’ roar like a weight against his bones. It was a smaller stadium than Evermore, with a far less rabid fanbase, but over the quieter summer months Jean had forgotten how loud game nights could get.
Rhemann had the court door open for them, and they ran through without slowing. The half-court line had four buckets of balls out and waiting for them. Jeremy took his group on two quick laps of their half, giving Laila time to get settled at her goal, before collecting them at half-court. He listed off the five drills he wanted them to work through, then passed them each a ball and sent them on their way with a loud, “Hey, hey!”
Jean forgot about the tacky uniforms and the crowded stands and the Bobcats that were making laps around the inner court. Only this mattered: the ball in his racquet, the team he was representing, the goal at Laila’s back. Jean spared half a mind for Jeremy’s callouts; everything else was focused on the way his body felt as it eased into too-familiar movements. He was well-rested and pain-free, sated from dinner and comfortable in armor that hadn’t yet been bent and dented by heavy blows. He would perform well tonight.
Soon enough it was time to cede the court to the Bobcats. The freshmen and sophomores were in charge of collecting the scattered balls and refilling the buckets, which they left behind for their opponents to use. Rhemann was talking to two reporters when Jean followed Cat off the court. One of the two was watching for his jersey number, but Jean feigned not to hear his name over the noise of the crowd. Maybe Cat heard the call, too, because she immediately tugged at his sleeve and pointed to the Trojans’ cheerleading squad. It was a well-timed distraction that would excuse him from having to speak to anyone, so Jean tried to care about what Cat was saying.
Not far from them was a young man in USC colors and a ridiculous plumed hat. He carried a broomstick that, in lieu of bristles, sported a plush white horse head. As Jean watched, he tucked it between his legs and went galloping wildly up and down the length of the court.
“Cat,” Jean said, in a tone he knew she’d understand as “What the fuck?”
“Our Exy mascot!” Cat said as she hooked her stick onto the appropriate rack. Jean’s racquet belonged only two spots down from hers, and he locked it into place before unstrapping his helmet. Cat pried her own off before asking, “You didn’t see him last ye—uhhh, year before?”
“I was only looking at the court.”
“Man,” Cat said, almost pitying. “You really missed out.”
“I don’t think so,” Jean said, and she only laughed.
The mascot—Diego, Jean thought—came galloping back their way to present Bobby with a carnation. It was missing half its petals, leaving Jean to wonder if he’d sneaked it down here in his pocket, but Bobby accepted it with a delighted laugh. Diego got a hug for his efforts, and he swung her into a deep dip for a kiss while the cheerleaders bounced around them. Bobby was flushed and giggling as she found her feet again, and Cat watched the pair with obvious fondness.