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)
The throw was good—of course it was—and Jeremy caught it with satisfying ease. That was as much as Jean saw, because Hinch slammed both hands into his chest to shove him. Jean forced his stare back to the man in front of him, who rewarded that attentiveness with another hard shove. This time Jean refused to give ground, silently daring the man to put a bit more effort into knocking him over. The unspoken challenge pissed the other man off; Jean could see the ugliness on his face. Jean desperately wanted to erase that disrespect. All it would take was a quick finger in his helmet grate to tug him closer and a headbutt the man would feel for days. Jean could already taste blood in his teeth from impact.
“You are very lucky they have me on a leash,” he said in French.
“You’re in America,” the striker said. “Speak English, you illiterate fuck.”
The buzzer sounded. The Trojans had scored again to put the teams at six-three. Jean offered his mark a thumbs-up and intoned in English, “Have a winning day.”
Cat hadn’t lied; the innocuous words earned him an immediate gloved fist in the mouth. Jean moved with the hit to save his teeth. The Are you finished? look he gave Hinch worked exactly as intended, and the striker dropped his racquet to launch at Jean. Jean thought of Tetsuji and Riko and let the blows land unanswered. The referees were likely on the court already, but the Trojans and Bobcats were closer. Cat wriggled in between them, taking more than one stray punch herself as she acted as a human shield. Jean wound an arm around her waist to pull her out of the way.
“That’s enough,” Jeremy said as he filled the space next. He put a hand flat to Hinch’s chest to warn him off. “We’re here for a game, not a brawl. Walk it off and let’s get back to it.”
“I’m doing you a favor,” Hinch said. “Let me take out his teeth and he’ll have an easier time sucking your dick.”
“I’m sure I misheard you.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. We all know that’s why you signed him—no chance in hell two fags ended up on the same western team by coincidence.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said, affecting surprise. “That’s rude, considering your current roster. I hope you apologize to them later.”
“The fuck did you just say?”
Hinch took a threatening step forward to get in Jeremy’s face, but the referees caught up with them then and shoved them apart. Jean had only a moment to see the red card flashed at Hinch before Nurse Davis was in his face. Cat took advantage of the distraction to catch hold of Jeremy’s elbow, and Jean heard the warning in her quiet, “Careful, Jeremy.” If Jeremy said anything in response, Jean missed it, because Davis was speaking.
“Over here,” he said, and Jean obediently went still so the nurse could inspect him. Light fingers touched his jaw and cheek, and Davis tapped a thumb to the swelling corner of Jean’s mouth. “Bleeding?”
Jean swallowed it and lied, “No.”
“Fingers?” Davis asked, holding two up.
“Two,” Jean said, and then “Three,” when Davis changed them.
The nurse flicked a quick penlight at his eyes before nodding and stepping back. “Line change in ten, then.”
The referees wouldn’t leave until both teams were at their starting spots, so the Trojans passed Jean one at a time to knock their sticks against his. Jeremy was the last to stop by. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, and his stare was intent as he studied Jean’s bruising face. Jean kept his expression bored, but it did little to reassure his captain.
“All right?” Jeremy asked.
“I have had worse.”
Jeremy winced and tapped their sticks together at last. “Not comforting, Jean.”
Jean shrugged his indifference. Jeremy jogged toward the half-court line, and Jean returned to far-fourth. As he took his place, he looked down the court toward his new mark. The man was heavyset and broad-shouldered, but it took Jean a moment to recognize him: JJ Lander, Connors’ friend from the banquet.
It was immediately obvious that Lander was better than Hinch. He didn’t have Hinch’s running commentary, but his aggression was better-timed and harder-hitting. The number of elbows he got right under Jean’s chest pads was genuinely impressive; moreso was the deadly accuracy. Every single blow landed in the same spot on his diaphragm. The warning ache in Jean’s chest was molten hot as it crawled up toward his lungs. It was a familiar burn that he could ignore and work through. He had to; he had no choice but to hold the line.
The eighth time Lander got him, he dug in hard enough to knock the breath from Jean. The need to break his racquet over the man’s arm was so fierce Jean had to let go of his stick to avoid taking a swing. Lander laughed as he took off across the court. Letting his mark get such a lead on him was unforgivable. Jean pressed one hand hard into his side, digging in his gloved fingers like he could claw the air back into his crumpled lungs, and snatched up his racquet. Lander was halfway to Cat now; one side-step and pass from her mark, and Lander would have an unchallenged shot at goal. Jean had failed to protect the backline.