The Golden Raven (All for the Game, #5)

by Nora Sakavic

“Jean.” There was more regret in his name than exasperation. “Is there nothing I can do?” ​Jean thought about Rhemann delaying an interview as long as he could and barring USC’s gates when the press followed the Trojans to class. He thought of Rhemann cleaning Grayson’s bloody bites himself and the careful way he’d strapped ice to Jean’s bruised ribs last night. He’d gotten Jean out of sight before the Trojans could see him, knowing Jean’s control was in tatters, and brought him here so he could recover away from their smothering concern. ​Jean didn’t know how to handle or process these undeserved kindnesses; in no universe could he ask for more than what he’d already gotten. It was already unbearable—a coach was supposed to take, not give.

“I don’t want you to be like Zane,” Jean said, slow as he tried piecing it together. “I don’t want Coach to be like the master. I don’t want to teach Tanner contrition when he continuously fails my drills or to break my racquet over Cat’s back if I think she should have performed better. I don’t ever want to go back to how things were. Maybe you are fools, and I am the biggest fool for indulging you, but better to be reckless fools than Ravens.” ​He held the nickel out toward Jeremy. “We will do it your way, and we will win anyway.”

“I would trust him with my life,” Jeremy said, “but I haven’t had to face the things you have, so I won’t try to convince you. I know you need to get there on your own.” ​The silence that settled between them wasn’t comfortable, but it was calm, and Jean chased his thoughts in exhausting circles. In the end he only found peace by counting: A cool evening breeze. Rainbows. Open roads. Friends. Fireworks. After a beat he added a tentative, Coach, but that was so repulsive he had to reject it. Tetsuji Moriyama was also a coach, and Jean refused to associate Rhemann and Wymack with that violent nightmare.

“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.”

“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.

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.”

Jean squeezed his hands until his fingers went numb and willed himself to believe the words as he slowly spoke them into existence: “I deserve to get better.” ​“You do,” the doctor said, with an easy and unhesitating compassion that would somehow keep Jean sane during this horrible session, “and you will.” ​“One week at a time,” Jeremy had promised him. ​Jean drew in a slow breath and nodded. “Okay.”

The camera swung briefly to the Home court, where the Ravens’ coaches were trying their level best to pry their angry strikers off of Boyd and Aaron Minyard. Andrew took longer to spot until Jeremy realized he was with Wymack. Jeremy didn’t see his racquet anywhere; maybe it’d gotten lost in whatever scuffle left him so visibly unsteady on his feet. Wymack had a hand on his jersey, either to slow him down or hold him up, and Andrew was practically dragging him across the court toward Kevin and Neil. He held one arm tight to his side as he moved, and the limp way his hand dangled by his hip chilled Jeremy’s blood.

Security finally entered the court, sensing more bodies were needed to restore order. One by one the Foxes were forced off the court, until the only two left were Neil and Andrew. At last Wymack emerged from the dogpile with Andrew in a chokehold of his own, and he held fast until the referees hauled a limp Lane toward the Away court door. Smalls followed them at an unhurried pace, and only when the last Raven was gone did Wymack drop Andrew beside Neil. Jeremy realized too late the announcers were speaking. He wondered when they’d started; nothing they said had penetrated his hazy shock.

The TV was showing replays again as Jeremy turned away. It didn’t matter how many laps he ran with his team; every time he blinked, he saw Neil broken and still on the court floor.

How Jean’s kind heart had survived a place like Evermore, Jeremy wasn’t sure. It was bruised and bleeding, but it wasn’t broken. Jeremy wasn’t sure if that ache in his chest was pride or grief. Whatever it was, it was hard to breathe around.

He tightened his grip and said, “Look at me. Look at me, Jean, because I need to know you’re listening.” He waited until Jean met his gaze before saying, “If this was retaliatory, that’s still on the people who chose to cross the line. It is not your fault. It never will be.” ​“You don’t believe that.” ​“Maybe they did it to hurt you,” Jeremy allowed, “but that doesn’t mean you’re responsible. You had nothing to do with the ERC’s ruling. You’re a victim as much as Cat and Laila are, so don’t take on a burden that isn’t yours. It won’t help any of you. Do you understand?”

He was going room by room when Jean said, “I am sorry about your dog.” ​A bit of cardboard was a silly thing to grieve when these three had lost everything, but the reminder put a sharp twist in his chest. Barkbark was one of Cat’s first gifts to him, an attempt to get closer when she realized his and Laila’s friendship was a package deal. Jeremy knew he wasn’t a real dog, but… Jeremy rubbed at the ache and said, “Are you? I thought you hated him.” He meant it to come out a lighthearted tease, but it fell a little flat. The sideways look Jean sent him said he heard it. ​“You didn’t,” Jean said, like that was all that mattered.

He didn’t want to be here, and he didn’t want to be there, either. He wanted the cozy home he’d built with Cat and Laila and Jean. ​We’ll make a new one, he promised himself, but it was hollow comfort in this arctic space.

“Are you all right?” Jeremy asked. ​Jean thought it over for a bit before saying, “I carry some of the blame for this. Yes,” he said, when Jeremy started to protest. “I asked Coach Wymack how I could protect you, and Thea was his answer. He only dragged her into this because I asked him to, and she knew exactly how to break them.” Jean gestured helplessly before offering a slow and careful, “I am not sorry. Perhaps I should be. But I will choose you every time. You, and Cat, and Laila, every time. I will lose them all if I must.”

Jeremy parked at the Lofts but didn’t kill his engine. “I wish I could stay and help.” ​“Then stay,” Jean said, knowing he couldn’t.

“Starting to think blue is your favorite color,” Cat said, inspecting his finds with obvious approval. ​“It is not,” Jean said. ​“It’s Jeremy’s,” Laila said as she draped an armload of hangers over one side. ​Jean had figured that out, but he only offered a noncommittal, “Hm.”

Jean frowned as he thought it over, gaze drifting over the assortment of clothes piled in their shopping cart. At last he settled on the only one that made sense: “Brown.” It was not the answer Cat was expecting, judging by her reaction, but Jean didn’t waste his time explaining. Brown like the soil in Rhemann’s garden, or the sand where the tide washed ashore, or the dirt roads Cat had led him down time and again. Brown like the gaze that sought Jean out in every room, but that last thought wasn’t one he could linger on.