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)
All in all, Jeremy was desperate for summer practices to start and distract them all. The Trojans’ first day back was June 25th, so by Sunday the 17th most of the staff were back in town to get their files sorted. On Monday the 18th Jeremy and Jean were summoned to the stadium. Davis was out of town on a last-minute trip, but Coach Lisinski and Nurse Binh Nguyen were on hand to do Jean’s follow-up appointment.
Jeremy left the three to each other and went to check Jean’s locker. It was packed full of gear in red and gold, so he waited on the bench across from it for Jean to catch up with him.
When Jean did, there was a purpose in his step Jeremy had never seen in him, and Jeremy knew the words before Jean had to say them: “I’m cleared for practice, albeit with a no-touch jersey for the first week.”
“That’s great,” Jeremy said, buoyed by Jean’s rare good mood. “Have a look!”
Jean followed the tip of his hand toward the locker, and he immediately went to inspect his gear. For a man who claimed he didn’t enjoy Exy, he had no disgust or weariness on his face as he held his new jersey up to the light. He traced his new number with the tips of two fingers and put his hand to the three on his face.
“Atrocious colors,” Jean said. “Whoever chose them was a fool.”
“They’ll look good on you now that we’ve finally gotten you a bit of sun,” Jeremy said. “Want to try them on? I could see if Coach Lisinski has her equipment keys on her, if you want to take your racquets for a test run.” The look Jean sent him was answer enough, and Jeremy hopped off the bench with a laugh. He found Lisinski in her office with Jean’s file open on the desk in front of her. “Hey, Coach. Mind if I take Jean down to the court?”
“I’m only going to be here for an hour or two,” she warned him as she scooped her keys up and gently tossed them to him. “Keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He stopped by the equipment room on the way back. Three buckets of balls were sitting on shelves just inside the door, and he moved one out into the hallway to collect later. There were separate stick racks for each line, with stickers labeling the rows by player name and number. He took one of his and one of Jean’s, whistling a little at the weight of Jean’s racquet. Jeremy had tried heavies at the end of his senior year of high school and into his freshman year of college, but he’d gone back to lighter sticks as soon as he could get Coach White to sign off on it. It put him at a disadvantage during stick checks, as most backliners he went up against used heavies, but he’d sacrifice that in favor of more control on his passes.
“Good news,” he said, turning into the locker room with the sticks held high.
Whatever he’d meant to follow up with was immediately forgotten, as Jean was sitting shirtless on the bench. A few months of injured reserve had inevitably taken some of the definition out of him, but Jean was all coiled strength and long limbs. He stood at Jeremy’s entrance, one hand out in silent demand for his racquet. Jeremy had a moment to notice the silver cross necklace he wore before the scars littering Jean’s skin put everything else out of mind.
To say there were too many was an offensive understatement. It was only on the second look that the niggling alarm at the back of his thoughts sharpened into focus: almost all of Jean’s scars were on the untanned stretches of him, placed where his baggy jersey would always hide them from curious eyes. Most were overlapping lines of varying thickness, but here and there were clusters of small burns no bigger than a match head.
These were not injuries from scrimmages or childhood accidents; they were far too numerous and precise. Every one of these was intentional.
How Jeremy found his voice, he didn’t know. All he got out was a weak, “Jean?”
“It is a problem for the nurses, not you,” Jean said dismissively. He was too distracted by his racquet to care about what was showing on his body.
Jeremy tried to watch the way his fingers looked as they hooked through the laces of his racquet head or appreciate the cool approval in Jean’s hooded stare as he tested the weight of his stick, but how could any of that matter when someone had carved literal whorls over Jean’s heart?
A hand on his chin startled him into looking up. When he met Jean’s eyes, Jean only said, “Focus on what’s important.”