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)
Spotting his mark up the court was easy work. Easier still was hearing the countdown as the referee handed White Ridge’s dealer the ball for serve. The official left the court at an unhurried pace, and Jean silently continued the countdown as the door was bolted shut: six, five, four.
At center court the Bobcat dealer shifted his stance and raised his arm. Most dealers served by tossing the ball and throwing it from a high arc, but this man preferred the quick and dirty style of dropping it to his racquet. It meant he didn’t have enough momentum to reach his strikers; he would likely pass it back to his backliners for a more forceful opening push. Jean mentally reviewed everything he’d read about the man in these past few weeks, calculating his chances of going left or right, and found them favoring Cat’s side. Cat could hold off any transgressions into her territory, he was sure, so Jean turned his full attention back to his striker.
Three, two, one.
The bell sounded, the ball dropped, and Jean stopped existing for anything but the game at hand.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jean
Fear of violent retribution was a miraculous thing. The master was missing, the Ravens were half the country away, and Riko was ash and bone in a decorative urn somewhere, but tonight, the distance didn’t matter. Jean locked down every brutal instinct of his beneath the simple understanding that acting out against the Bobcats would have horrific consequences for him. He would honor his contract no matter what and endure whatever was hurled his way. It was offensive to the core to let this inferior team push him, but Jean would rather be pushed than suffer his coaches’ heavy-handed wrath.
Hinch went to trip him, but Jean had grown up laying teams flat on their back. He saw the telltale swing of the man’s body and he moved in time, bracing his feet against the ground at an angle. The striker’s foot slid off his ankle with minimal force, and the effort he’d put behind it thinking he would connect had him stumbling. Jean gritted his teeth behind a placid expression and caught Hinch’s shoulder to steady him. He didn’t need this arrogant bastard blaming his clumsiness on Jean when Jean had been warned again and again that Trojans couldn’t trip their opponents.
The man had not yet stopped speaking. He had plenty to say about the Ravens’ rumors and an abundance of theories regarding Jean’s crooked parents. Jean did his best to tune it out. He had a game to play and a temper to throttle; he didn’t have brainpower to spare for whatever rude drivel was being hurled his way. If Hinch wanted to burn up valuable oxygen speaking instead of conserving it for a long half, that was his problem.
“Jean!” Min called, before firing the ball in his direction.
The slide of a stick against his warned him what was coming. If Jean was a Trojan, he’d avoid injury by letting go, but Jean locked his wrists and held on for all he was worth. It sent a warning twinge up both forearms when Hinch gave his racquet a violent twist, but it would have been worse if he hadn’t braced. Jean locked eyes with his striker, taking satisfaction in the moment of surprise on Hinch’s face when he failed to disarm Jean, and said, “Did not work as intended.”
Hinch answered with annoyed mockery: “Hon hon hon.”
Jean tugged his racquet free, and the pair took off for the ball. Hinch could have caught up, but he seemed content to stay two steps behind. See-through intention of violence; Jean had done similar many times in his own career. Jean couldn’t turn to see where his offense line was, but he had a clear shot to Laila, and he knew she would get the ball where it needed to go. He fired it to hit the ground a safe few feet from the edge of her goal. He had a second to see her move for it before his mark crashed into him.
Knowing it was coming helped; years of practicing full-speed impacts was better. Jean used the momentum to his advantage, crouching as he slid so he could use his racquet and free hand to steady himself against the floor. Instead of tumbling over, he skidded several feet and was back up and moving.
A few seconds later, Cat’s mark ended up with the ball. Cat was too good a screen for him to risk a shot on goal, so he passed it toward Hinch. Jean had the longer reach; he knew how this would end. He had a half-second to look for Jeremy, and then he moved. He had to let go of his racquet with one hand to get the extra inches he needed, and he snagged the ball from the air just in time. Hinch’s racquet head missed Jean’s stick by a hair, and Jean didn’t wait for him to recover. He got his second hand on his racquet even as he turned, needing the momentum and force of a two-handed throw, and he heaved the ball as hard as he could.