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)
“How much longer will her uncle tolerate me disrupting her life?” Jean asked.
“You make Laila happy, and that makes him happy,” Jeremy said. “Don’t worry.”
Jean collected his vegetables on the way out of the car, feigned not to hear his name being called by reporters down the street, and followed Jeremy up the stairs. He wasn’t sure if Cat and Laila heard the yelling or just recognized the familiar rumble of Jeremy’s engine, but they were waiting in the hall in their pajamas when Jeremy and Jean made it through the front door. The grief that twisted Laila’s face when she got a good look at his new bruises was quickly stamped out, but Cat crossed the hall in record time.
“When are they going to stop?” she demanded, sharp with anger. “Jean—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Cat insisted. “He really hurt you.”
Jean put the bucket up between them before she could feel the swollen line of his throat. Cat obediently took it, but her stare didn’t waver. Jean snapped his fingers in the air between them until she dragged her gaze up to meet his. “I am actively working to forget he exists. Do not undermine my attempts.” The stubborn look on her face said she wasn’t swayed, so Jean said, “We are not discussing it further. Take it up with Jeremy if you do not like it.”
Cat turned a disbelieving look on Jeremy, who shook his head. “It’s his call, Cat.”
Cat’s sour expression said they were going to have words later, but she was smart enough to bite her tongue now. Jean tapped the bucket to distract her from Jeremy and said, “Gifts from Coach.”
She dutifully inspected his vegetables. “Oh, he’s getting better at this,” she said, with forced enthusiasm. Jean didn’t care that it was an act; if she kept it up long enough, she’d trick herself into a better mood. “Nice. I’ll get them washed and put away.”
“Coffee?” Laila asked. “We started a fresh pot when Jeremy went to get you.”
“Coffee,” Jean agreed, and the four of them moved to the kitchen.
Cat pointed at the island on her way through the door. Her laptop was set up there with a colorful browser open. Jean sat to investigate while Jeremy poured coffee for them both. Cat was on an Exy news site—rather, the photography-adjacent section of it that archived every shot captured from last night’s NCAA matches nationwide. She’d already filtered it to display only the photographs from the Trojan-Bobcat match, and the page of thumbnails went on and on. Jean clicked through them as Cat set to work scrubbing vegetables at the sink.
The series started with the Trojans’ arrival for warm-ups. Here and there were sets that were practically slideshows; the photographer had hoped a worthy moment coming and was determined to capture the best shot of it. Most such sets centered around scoring chances, but a ridiculous amount centered around Jean: going through warmups before the match, interacting with his teammates on the sidelines, and then on the court itself. Jean tabbed through those as quickly as he could, uninterested in seeing himself through a stranger’s prying eyes.
Laila sat at his side and motioned, and Jean relinquished control to her. She clicked into the next tab. The article covering the game was pulled up there. Bold lettering across the top read: USC DEFEATS WHITE RIDGE IN HOME OPENER; GOLDEN RAVEN SOARS IN DEBUT. The photograph directly beneath it was of the Trojans’ celebration at the final bell, but halfway down the page was a shot of Jean launching off Lander’s shoulder.
“‘Soars’, indeed,” Laila said. “I couldn’t believe you did that.”
“Springboard off Lander?” Cat guessed over her shoulder. “Look at his face!”
Jean hadn’t seen it last night, too intent on reaching the ball first, but Lander looked deeply offended to be treated as a prop. It didn’t make Jean’s ribs hurt any less, but it afforded him a bit of annoyed satisfaction. He pressed careful fingers to his jersey, testing the ache that a night of rest hadn’t cured, and said, “Asshole.”
“They are a team of charmers,” was Laila’s dry response.
“At least we got them out of the way early,” Cat pointed out.
Laila scrolled to find the paragraph she wanted and read: “If not for the Ravens’ vocal campaign against him this spring and the unmistakable number on his face, anyone watching this match would be hard-pressed to remember Jean Moreau is a transfer from Edgar Allan. He looks as at home on the Gold Court as he ever did at Evermore, matching and supplementing the Trojans’ infamous good-natured playstyle with unexpected ease.”
“Not unexpected,” Cat said, belligerent. “People just don’t listen.”
Laila studied Jean for a moment before saying, “You were stellar, you know. And I mean both on and off the court.” She went to a third tab, where she’d opened one of the photographs on its own page: Cat tucked into Jean’s side, with Jean’s mouth at her temple. Without context it looked almost peaceful, but Jean remembered what they’d been talking about at the time. He was annoyed someone had captured the moment and put it up for anyone to see.