Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Sit,” Rhemann finally said, so Jean took a chair near the back.
It took him too long to understand; it wasn’t until Louis Andritch stepped up to the microphone that Jean remembered Edgar Allan’s press conference was today. His blood was static in his ears, making it hard to focus on anything the campus president was saying, and he had to fold his arms over his chest to keep his heart from shattering his ribs.
“Without further ado, this year’s head coach for the Edgar Allan Ravens: Frederico Rossi.” Andritch held an arm out to one side to welcome the man to the stage, and the sheer number of camera flashes should have blinded both men as Rossi came up for a handshake and joint picture. Andritch leaned in to say something in Rossi’s ear that no microphone could catch, and Rossi gave a stoic nod as he was left to fend for himself at the podium.
Jean was out of his chair before he realized he was moving; Rhemann’s “Moreau” caught him when he was halfway to the door. Jean knotted a hand in his jersey and willed air back into too-tight lungs as he obediently turned back toward Rhemann.
“I thought you would want to see it,” Rhemann said. “This is a step in the right direction for everyone. No offense to Coach Moriyama; he’s a brilliant man and half the reason we even have this sport. But I personally don’t think he had the right temperament or approach to be a coach. He should have stuck to the ERC in an advisory position.”
Past him Rossi was giving a speech about Edgar Allan’s historic records and the undeniable tragedies set into motion by the loss of two of their brightest players in spring. Jean fought not to hear him. It didn’t matter what Rossi said or thought. He was not the Ravens’ coach. He would never be their coach. The Ravens belonged to the master. Evermore belonged to the master.
“All right,” Rhemann said, although Jean hadn’t said anything. “If you’d rather not watch this, go on back to inner court.”
Jean was out the door as soon as he could say “Yes, Coach,” but he booked it to the bathroom when he thought he might throw up. All he managed was a rush of bile that left his mouth and nose burning, and Jean braced his gloves against the back wall of the stall as he gasped for breath. He’d known the master was out of the game; he’d known Edgar Allan would need to replace him. But knowing it was coming and having to see it happen were two entirely different monsters, and Jean clenched his teeth against a second rush of nausea.
No master, no perfect Court, no Nest.
Jean slammed his hands against the wall hard enough to feel it in his elbows and flushed the toilet on his way out at the stall. He rinsed and spit at the sink in a vain attempt to get the burn out of his throat before finally heading down to the inner court again.
“Back so soon?” Coach Jimenez asked. “Unexpected.”
“I am not a Raven,” Jean said. It was no easier to say aloud than it was to hear it in his thoughts. “What happens at Edgar Allan now is not my concern, Coach.”
“Sure,” Jimenez said, in a tone that said he wasn’t convinced. “Keep limber and I’ll get you on again in about fifteen minutes or so.”
It was a long time to be doing nothing; the easy stretches and inner court drills required no thought whatsoever after too many years of them. Jean watched the court to keep his thoughts from wandering, but here and there they fractured. How many coaches would the Ravens have? Had they brought back any Raven graduates to help, or were they going for a clean slate approach? Did the medical staff stay? Were the Ravens ready to go back, or were they being released from counseling early so as not to delay the season?
That final thought was the snapping point of his patience, perfectly timed with Jimenez sending him onto the court. For a moment Jean thought he would successfully get out of his head, but to everyone’s misfortune he was being sent on for Lucas. The backliner made sure to hit him shoulder to shoulder as Jean stepped through the door first, and his quiet but heated “Whore” was the last straw. Jean caught him around his throat guard in one easy move and threw him down on the court floor.
Jimenez had followed him to the door so he could call Lucas off, and now he hauled Jean back with a tight grip on his arm. “That’s enough, Moreau!”
Lucas started to get up, eyes flashing with rage. Jean didn’t have to yank out of Jimenez’s grip to reach him; his legs were long enough he could kick Lucas in his chest armor and knock him back down. Jimenez bodied him off the court a heartbeat before the rest of the Trojans on-court could catch up to them, and Jean shoved through the gaping subs waiting in the inner court.