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)
“Deserved?” Rhemann finished, in a tone Jean never wanted to hear from him again.
“Yes, Coach,” Jean said.
It was the wrong thing to say. Rhemann’s hands were a sudden unyielding weight on his shoulders. Jean braced for a blow, but Rhemann only said, “Repeat after me: I didn’t deserve what they did to me.”
Rhemann didn’t know what he was asking; he didn’t know what this would cost. Panic chewed a line from Jean’s gut to his heart. He couldn’t refuse a coach’s direct order, but he could beg: “Please don’t make me, Coach.”
“I need you to say it and mean it, Jean,” Rhemann said. “Please.”
Please was so uncalled-for Jean could only stare at him, heart hammering louder than his thoughts. He could feel every chain straining, waiting for the words that would rend them powerless at last. He was afraid to open his mouth again lest he get sick, but at length managed a hesitant, “I didn’t deserve—” heavy hands, heavier racquets, dark rooms, darker blood, teeth and knives and drowning, I’m drowning, I’m drowning “—what they did to me.”
A warning lurch in his chest had him clapping a quick hand over his mouth. He swallowed hard against the fire that wanted to devour him whole. It didn’t work; there was a knot in his throat that was impossible to breathe around. He swallowed again, trying to dislodge it, and nearly gagged. Jean hit himself instead, slamming his free fist into the fresh bruises blooming on his cheekbone, and Rhemann caught his wrist in a careful grip.
“Don’t,” he said, but Jean barely heard him over his own heartbeat.
He was all at once aware that his hand was the only thing keeping him together; the lava that eaten through his chest and soul was now hard enough to crack, and it would surely pull him apart if he gave it an inch. Jean wrenched free of Rhemann so he could clap his second hand atop the first. He dug in so hard he thought he’d break his own nose, eyes closed tight so he couldn’t see Rhemann’s expression.
Careful hands settled on his shoulders, not to shake him or strike him, but to hold him still as Rhemann said, “We never should have let him get that close to you. We should have protected you better. I’m sorry that we didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, as if it was at all appropriate for a coach to apologize to one of his players. It was so unexpected and so unwarranted Jean forgot how to breathe, and the fleeting, traitorous thought that followed tore his heart wide open: he is not the one who should apologize to me. The gall of it was nearly as frightening as the truth of it, and Jean couldn’t hold on tight enough to muffle a choked sob.
Don’t, Jean thought, desperate. Endure it. Please—
“Jean.” Rhemann gave his shoulders a fierce squeeze. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go.”
Jean crumpled in on himself with an awful sound, and the weight of Rhemann’s arms around him wasn’t enough to keep him from shattering.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jean
Jean woke in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar bed. He stared up at a pale ceiling, fuzzily trying to put the previous night together. It came in fractured moments: the sick heat of grief too-long buried, the steadying weight of strong arms, the bitter tang of pills to help calm him down when Jean couldn’t pull himself together again. Brake lights and streetlights and a rickety car that was decades past its prime; Jean couldn’t remember getting out of the car again, but he knew in a heartbeat where he was.
The horror of it sent him stumbling out of bed in a panic, but the sheets tangled around his ankle and nearly dragged him to his knees. He caught at the wall for balance, heart an unrelenting jackhammer in his temples. It took him a few seconds to fight himself free. Jean wasn’t sure whether to make the bed or strip it: surely Rhemann would want to clean the sheets before anyone else slept here, but leaving it in such disarray seemed unspeakably rude. At last Jean set it to rights with quick efficiency, though it took his unsteady hands a few tries to get the corners crisp.
They’d put him to bed in his jersey and shorts, but his shoes were just inside the bedroom door. Jean tucked them under his arm, eased open the bedroom door, and peered into the hallway. Across from him was an open doorway leading to a bathroom; nearly every other door he could see was closed. Jean weighed his options before ducking across the hall. Whatever Rhemann gave him last night left his throat unbearably dry, so he sucked down a few handfuls of water from the sink when he was through with his business. His face was a battered mess between Hinch’s punches and Zane’s violence, and a line of bruises circled his throat from Zane’s rough fingers. Jean tore his gaze from the mirror and left the room.