Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 109903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
"Neil, look," Andrew said, and pointed up at his own face. "Do I look miserable?"
Neil wanted to tear that smile off Andrew's face, but Andrew's obnoxious response wasn't entirely his fault. Neil was dealing with the smokescreen of Andrew's medication. Neither of them could change that, but knowing why Andrew was being difficult didn't make him less frustrating to deal with. All Neil could do was keep his temper in check. If Andrew got a rise from him the conversation was over. That was what Andrew wanted, so Neil wouldn't give it to him.
"You look drugged within an inch of your life," Neil said, "and when you're not medicated you're drinking and dusting. When they finally take your medicine away, who are you going to hurt, really?"
Andrew laughed. "I'm remembering why I don't like you."
"I'm surprised you forgot."
"I didn't," Andrew said. "I just got distracted for a moment there. I told her it was a mistake to let you stay, but she didn't believe me. Now look. Oh, for once I don't even want to bother with the 'I told you so'. You ruin all my fun."
"Renee?" Neil guessed.
"Bee."
Neil's blood went cold. "What did you tell her about me?"
Andrew grinned at the look on Neil's face. "Doctor-patient confidentiality, Neil! But don't make such a scary face. I didn't tell her your sad little story. We just talked about you. Critical difference, yes? I told her you're more trouble than you're worth. She was looking forward to meeting you, but she won't tell me what she thinks of you. She can't, you see. But I know she likes you. Bee has a thing for lost causes."
"I am not a lost cause."
Denial was automatic and a waste of time. Andrew put his hand over Neil's mouth to shut him up and said, "Liar. But that's what makes you interesting. It's also what makes you dangerous. I should know better by now. Maybe I'm not as smart as I thought I was. Should I be disappointed or amused?"
The perfect retort burned Neil's tongue, but he kept quiet in case Andrew wasn't done rambling. The answer was there, right out of reach, close enough Neil could feel it, but too far for him to make sense of. Maybe Andrew felt it too, because even in his drugged haze he knew to shut up. The smile he flashed Neil mocked them both at that near-miss. He withdrew completely, leaving just the memory of his heartbeat against Neil's mouth, and spun away.
"I'll find Kevin. He's too slow."
Neil watched him go, then huffed in frustration and turned back toward the racquets.
Andrew didn't return, but Kevin showed up a minute later. He glanced over the placards and pulled down five sticks for Neil to try.
"There's a practice court upstairs," Kevin said. "Let's go."
The cashier grabbed a bucket of balls and a key and led them through the door behind the register. The fourth floor was divided into two small practice courts and a narrow walkway. The girl unlocked one of the courts, so Neil set the racquets aside and pulled on the spare gear hanging from hooks on the wall. The weighted vest provided by Exites went over his clothes and reminded him a little of the Kevlar vest his mother gave him in Europe. He shoved those thoughts aside and tugged on gloves and a helmet. Kevin set the racquets and balls inside the court while he worked, then shut Neil in alone for practice swings.
Neil thought the racquets unwieldy just holding them. Taking shots with them was worse. The racquets were four to five times heavier than the ones Wymack gave him. They sat different in his hands and dragged on their swings. Despite that, the sound the balls made as they ricocheted off the wall sent a dark curl of power through his veins. Every rebound was a small boom. Neil could only imagine what it'd sound like when he could put real speed behind his swings again. His shots would be missiles aimed at the goal, and he'd leave goalkeepers startled in his wake.
He cycled through the racquets a few times, giving himself a couple rounds to adjust and then figuring out which one felt best. They were all awkward for now, but the more he used them, the more he could guess at which ones to reject. One was just too big; he'd never get used to the feel of it. Two he scratched off after the third round. The last two he couldn't decide between, so he brought them out to Kevin. Kevin inspected them from head to butt, turning them this way and that and eyeing the slight curve of the heads.
Finally he showed one to the cashier. "We'll take this model."
Neil hung the gear up, collected balls and racquets, and waited for the girl to lock the court. They went back downstairs, and she had them stack the rejected racquets on a rack. She slid an order form across the counter to Neil. They needed to order the racquets in Palmetto colors. Exites would handle that and deliver them. Neil thought it was as easy as ticking a box and moving on, but the brand he'd gotten offered four different designs. Neil hesitated, then marked the simplest one and filled out the Foxhole Court's address.
"Do you have any in stock today?" Kevin asked while Neil wrote. "We need a plain practice stick in size three."
"We should," she said. She typed a couple commands into her computer, eyed the screen, and disappeared to the storage room. Neil was done before she returned. She scanned the racquet, then typed in the finalized numbers from Neil's form. Neil finally got a look at how much his racquets cost and almost choked on his next breath. He could get a ticket to England for the same amount.
"That can't be right," he said in French.
"If you want the best, you pay for the best," Kevin said, completely unconcerned.
"I don't need three, then," Neil said. "Tell her to put this one back."