Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jean was never doing this again.

Since Sunday, he'd devoted nearly all his time outside of class to the monumental task of getting Fifteen and Twenty ready to start together against Penn State for the Semi-Finals. Unfortunately for him, they were just as bad of a starting backline as they had been at the beginning of the week. Jean didn’t know why he’d expected anything different; there was a reason their numbers were no higher than fifteen and twenty.

But there was a silver lining. It was finally Friday afternoon, he was finally done with classes for the week, and spring break was finally here; he just had to make it back to the nest. The early spring day was not beautiful by any means, but the weak spring sun had decided to make an appearance, and enough of the winter snow had melted that the campus green was filled with college students eager to pretend that dead grass and partly-cloudy skies were the perfect environment for frisbee or studying or whatever else they could think up.

Jean set a fast pace, three classmates in tow. He didn’t bother looking back to see if they were following; he knew they would. The Master may have demoted him from starting line-up, but Jean still held rank. He was still Three.

Over the weekend, the Foxes had played their match against the Nevada Tornadoes, somehow managing to win 7-6. They could’ve won 20-0 and it wouldn’t have made much difference to Riko or Jean; what happened after the game had been much more impactful. They’d watched, white-knuckled, as Kevin very publicly, and very deliberately, denounced his old team, severing any remaining ties with the Ravens. He then went on to reveal that Coach David Wymack was his father. Jean had barely believed his ears. Not Kevin’s parentage itself – Jean had been there when he’d found the letter – but that Kevin was revealing it, himself, live on national television. Riko, who hadn’t known, had been in such a rage that he’d thrown his laptop across the room, destroying it completely. They’d had to finish the press conference on Jean’s laptop.

And then, as if Jean wasn't having a bad enough day to begin with, Kevin added, “Did you know I’ve never been skiing,” completely unravelling the careful web that Jean had helped Riko weave after Kevin’s injury in December. The fallout was a nightmare.

The Master had pulled both Riko and Jean from starting line-up for the final two games of the season, then beaten them within an inch of their lives. It had given Jean the rare opportunity to stitch up someone else’s wounds; the raven's beak of the Master’s cane had found its way into Riko’s left shoulder blade. Riko hadn’t returned the favor; Jean’s right arm was littered with uneven stitches, courtesy of his non-dominant left hand.

A crowd of students blocking his way pulled Jean back to the present. The Ravens didn’t have to do much pushing through the crowd; the other students gave them a wide berth once they saw who was coming. Jean liked to believe that Kevin’s planted superstition, avoid the exy team or you will fail all of your classes this semester, was finally paying off.

It was not hard to get the student body to believe in a new myth. After all, the campus already had two major ones that somehow managed to pass down through the years. The first involved rubbing the beak of a shabby-looking raven perched on the arm of the school’s founder in order to get some sort of luck, the specifics of which varied depending on whom you talked to. The other didn’t leave as much to interpretation: avoid walking beneath the arch in the governor's courtyard if you wanted to graduate in four years. Jean walked under that arch any chance he got. As for the rest of the students on campus, he supposed few wanted to take the risk just in case the superstitions came true. The raven’s beak shone amongst feathers of tarnishing bronze. On a winter campus full of trampled slush, the snow underneath the governor’s arch remained pristine. And the students of Edgar Allan University avoided the exy team like the plague.

As Jean led his group down the sidewalk, they were joined by their teammates, all in groups of three or four, all wearing the same black clothes, all leaving class at the same time, all falling obediently into line. They were headed to the usual place: a parking lot, nestled between a collection of athletic facilities that had nothing to do with exy (therefore useless) and a crop of engineering buildings that hadn’t been renovated since the 70’s. A perfect line of jet-black sports cars waited against the far curb, each one more expensive than the rest of the cars in the lot combined. It was these cars that the athletes, silent as death, divided themselves into. Then, one by one, they turned out of the parking lot, following the winding road to Castle Evermore.

Built to serve both Edgar Allan’s university team and the U.S. national team, Castle Evermore was the largest exy stadium in the country. Looming over the west end of campus, the stadium appeared to have grown out of the mountains themselves, its high stone walls as black as the coal that had given West Virginia its reputation. To outsiders, it was intimidating; a perfect introduction to the Ravens’ exy team.

Jean led his teammates through the flashy home team entrance, into a rotunda filled with Ravens memorabilia. But instead of following the large, main hallway into the heart of the stadium, he turned to a nondescript side door which led down two flights of gray concrete stairs and into the Ravens’ dormitory.

The nest. For the past eight years, this was what Jean had called home. Most college teams didn’t even practice at their stadium; the Ravens lived at theirs. Originally meant to house visiting professional athletes, the dormitory space underneath the stadium had been taken over by the college team. Jean didn’t know when exactly the transition had taken place, but it was sometime before he’d come to Edgar Allan; the Ravens were well moved-in by the time he arrived. At its core, it was just one more way for The Master to control his team, but Jean reaped the benefits so much that, whatever the reason, he didn’t mind. It was a real time-saver, eating and sleeping and practicing in the same place.

Jean let his teammates disperse behind him and made his way back to his room. He took a deep breath as he unlocked the door, mentally preparing for the week ahead. Starting that night, the Ravens would switch to their vacation schedule: ten hours for meals, court time, film study, and weight training, six hours for sleep, rinse and repeat until classes started again. Or, in this case, until the Ravens left for semi-finals in New York. That left him two days. Two days to really work with Fifteen and Twenty over the weekend before he’d be left to the whims of the schedule for semi-finals. This would be a long weekend.

Fweet! On Jean’s whistle, Twenty rushed forwards, moving laterally down the court. Three steps forward, four quick steps back. That was worse than the previous set. Three steps forward, four quick steps back. She stumbled a bit on that last step. Three steps forward, four quick steps back. Better than the last rep. Three final steps forwards, catch the ball.

At least she’d managed to catch it.

They were almost done with their warm-up exercises; this was the last one. The rest of the line could slack off, but these two were the starters. They needed to set an example. They needed to intimidate. They needed to exude Raven excellence.

Twenty had been severely lacking.

“Great job, Jess!” Thirty-two shouted as he grabbed another ball from the bucket. Jean wished yet again that Edgar Allan would pay up for an automated ball machine.

“Still not good enough,” Jean called to Twenty. “You are thinking too much. This should be second nature.”

They were sharing the court with a few other groups, all working on drills or footwork or trick shots; whatever they deemed important enough to polish up for the games ahead.

Once Fifteen was in place, Jean blew the whistle again. He’d done this song and dance before, and was mostly up to Jean’s standards as he zig-zagged down the court.

Mostly.

“Do better!” Jean yelled.

As if it could sense his agitation, his knee throbbed dully. He'd injured it a few weeks ago and, with the arduous schedule for championships, it only seemed to be getting worse. He ignored it, watching Twenty get back into place. It would heal on its own, or it wouldn't. Pain was temporary, winning was forever.

As Twenty executed another lackluster exercise, Jean decided he'd had enough. They’d been drilling warm-ups since before Riko had been pulled from practice, and Twenty wasn’t getting any better at this one. His patience was wearing thin.

“We will move on. Take five.”

“Finally,” Fifteen said, rolling his eyes. Jean shot him a look before walking briskly over to the bench to take a swig of water. He glanced longingly at the bench but didn't allow himself the luxury of sitting down. With his knee acting up, getting back up would be a struggle. Better not to give in to the temptation.

It was Sunday afternoon, the beginning of their third ten-hour practice day. Jean didn’t know how he would last the rest of the week with these two, New York or otherwise.

Riko’s absence wasn’t helping things. Some assistant for the Moriyamas had interrupted practice, claiming Riko was needed for some urgent family business. Best-case scenario, he had been called for an audience with his father.

Jean wouldn't put money on it.

Kengo Moriyama had spent an increasing amount of time in the hospital over the past six months. With each passing week, Jean was preparing more and more to hear that he had finally succumbed to whatever ailment was plaguing him. Riko would be devastated.

He worried at a hangnail as he watched his two charges start the first drill, hoping Riko wouldn’t return in an absolutely terrible mood. This one was simple: a player would throw the ball against the court wall so that it knocked over a cone on the rebound. Once they could consistently knock over cones, they would progress to the next phase: knocking over the cones in a pre-set order. The final phase was to knock over all six cones in a random order.

Fifteen went first.

“Four. One. Six. Three. Two. Five.” Jean called out.

Jean watched him launch six balls in a fluid motion. The first cone wobbled precariously before falling; there hadn’t been enough force behind the throw. Jean opened his mouth to say something just as the last cone landed a few feet down the court.

“Consistency needs work,” Jean reprimanded, then turned to Twenty. "Your turn.”

This continued for some time, Fifteen and Twenty taking turns and Jean giving them feedback. Once he was satisfied with their performance, or tired of disappointment, they would move onto the next drill.

They were on drill four when Riko returned. The goal of this one was to hit the goal in specific locations from across the court. As a player’s skills progressed, they would move further away from the goal. Fifteen was at half-court but was doing especially poor, hitting his target five times out of ten at most. How he’d managed to get up to jersey number fifteen, Jean wanted to know.

He missed another shot, and Jean decided enough was enough.

“It is not that hard,” he said, “Let me show you.”

Jean pulled his gloves on, picked up his own racquet, and executed the drill flawlessly. He could do it from the far goal line, but he wasn’t about to show off like that; his teammates would eat him alive.

Fifteen sighed, frustratingly, “Can we just skip this one? I know I can do number five. It’s just this one that I struggle with.”

“You struggled with the last one, too.”

“I did fine on the last one. Not all of us can be Jean Moreau, drill expert.”

Jean was tired of the excuses. “Keep going.”

“We’ve been at it for hours!” Fifteen exclaimed, throwing his racquet on the ground.

It was at that moment that Jean caught movement outside the court that made him stop cold.

Riko was back.

Riko was storming into the arena.

Riko was scowling like he wanted to murder the entire team.

“Why have you stopped?” Riko shouted, agitated.

Jean needed to fix this. Now. He grabbed Fifteen’s arm and pulled him close.

“Listen to me,” he whispered urgently, “You are going to continue drilling this until you can hit the fucking target each time.” Jean gave a sidelong glance at Riko. He was headed their way. Shit. "Do not let Riko see you complain.”

Jean shoved Fifteen away, picked up his racquet, and threw it back to him. When he turned around, Riko was right in front of him.

“Three,” Riko snarled. “How is practice going?”

“Fine,” Jean replied, hoping to get the interaction over with quickly.

Riko raised an eyebrow in response before turning to watch Twenty. She was closer to goal, halfway between first-fourth and half-court. Her first throw came close to hitting her target, but was off by an inch or two. Jean had seen her do better, but it was a good try, all things considered. Riko’s gaze swung onto Fifteen, who was doing better than when Jean had taken him aside, but not much. He hit the top-left target, but missed the ones in the top-center and top-right by a considerable amount.

“Fifteen,” Riko called out, “Get over here.”

Fifteen jogged over obediently. “Yes, captain?”

“Take off your gloves.”

Fifteen looked helplessly at Jean. Jean didn’t know what Fifteen expected from him. Disobeying wouldn't get them anything good. He didn’t know what Riko’s plan was, but whatever it was couldn’t be that bad. Riko had never touched the lesser Ravens; corporal punishment was reserved for his perfect court.

“Take them off,” Jean whispered to Fifteen, eyes locked on Riko.

“You can’t be serious,” Fifteen complained.

Jean leveled him a hard stare, then flicked his eyes back to Riko.

“I’m waiting,” Riko spat out.

Fifteen still wasn’t moving. Jean grabbed his hands and ripped the gloves off. Riko stepped forward, selected one of Fifteen’s fingers, and snapped it backwards.

Fifteen started screaming. The first thought that crossed Jean’s mind was that all of his work this week had been wasted. Then he came to his senses. Fifteen was still screaming. Twenty looked like she was about to pass out. He needed to de-escalate this, fast.

Jean looked around for someone who was relatively level-headed. Thirty-two was closest. He pulled him aside and told him to take Fifteen to the medics. Then he turned back to Riko and said something truly crazy, “If you are upset, take it out on me. Not them.”

“As if,” Riko laughed, turning to single out someone else.

Jean stepped in front of Riko. “Me. Not them.”

Riko’s grin disappeared. “Fine.” He turned to the rest of the team. “Everyone out!”

The Ravens scrambled out of the court. Most of them retreated to the locker rooms, but some of them stayed behind, watching curiously from behind the court walls.

Riko rounded on Jean. “You think you can tell me what to do, Three?”

“Of course not, Riko.”

“No?” Riko smirked, taking a step forward. “That’s what it seemed like.”

Jean retreated. “That was not my intention.”

“Well, what was your fucking intention?”

“I only meant…,” Jean faltered. “You are not thinking clearly, Riko.”

“Not thinking clearly?” Riko said hysterically, like someone who absolutely wasn’t thinking clearly. “I’m thinking perfectly fine. I’m thinking that you’re the one not thinking clearly, Three.”

Riko gave him a shove. Jean stumbled backwards but managed to keep his footing.

“Well?”

“You are right. I am not thinking straight.” Jean’s brain was going a mile a minute, trying to figure out how to diffuse the bomb that was Riko. Of all the things The Master had taught them, how to handle emotions had not been on the list. “Should we run some laps? Help clear your mind?”

“Run laps?” Riko mocked. “Run? Laps? I’m not running any fucking laps, Three.”

He shoved Jean again, this time against the court wall.

“You can be so stupid sometimes, Three.”

Riko pulled out a knife and placed the tip of it on Jean’s throat. Now that he was close, Jean could tell how wrecked he was: eyes red with grief, breaths coming too quickly, hands shaking.

“Riko,” Jean whispered, “I am sorry.”

And Jean was sorry. Sorry that things couldn’t have been better. Sorry that Riko had turned out this way. Sorry that they both had.

Riko blinked, and a tear escaped, running down his cheek. His mouth trembled slightly. He sheathed his blade. For a brief moment, Jean thought he’d succeeded, bomb diffused.

Then Riko decked him in the face.

“Why are we helping this guy again?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Jean was lying on the court floor, the polished wood sticking to his cheek. His whole body ached.

“Moreau?” The second voice whispered, much closer this time.

He opened his eyes. Twenty was kneeling next to him.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said, visibly relieved. Jean couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t like she had any stake in the matter. “Be careful. Riko really did a number on you.”

Jean waved her off, “I will be fine.” He started moving, intending to get up. He needed a shower; blood had started matting his hair to his scalp.

“You don’t seem fine,” she insisted, sounding worried. She gave him a once-over. “Is it always this bad, what he does to you?”

That was a can of worms. Jean ignored her, getting to his feet.

Oh.

“Woah, there. Slow down.” Twenty placed a hand on his chest, steadying him. She called over to Twenty-three, “Austin, come help?”

Twenty-three ran over, throwing Jean’s arm over his shoulders and adjusting his weight. Jean was about to tell him that he didn’t need the help, that he could walk on his own, but then he took a step.

And his knee gave out.

“Okay, okay.” Twenty-three struggled to stay upright. “Jamie, get over here!”

Someone else, presumably Jamie, supported Jean from the other side. Jean wished he remembered which Raven was Jamie. Was it Twenty-seven? Thirty? Somewhere in the upper twenties.

“Let’s get you into the locker room,” Twenty suggested.

“You all should leave,” Jean said between heavy breaths.

“Not a chance, Moreau,” she chirped at him. Jean wondered where she got the nerve. “We’re getting you off the court first.”

“You need to leave,” Jean insisted, “before Riko comes back.”

“Oh, fuck him,” Twenty-three exclaimed.

“Austin!” Twenty admonished.

“Come on, Jessica. We’re all thinking it. He’s insufferable.”

Jean’s stomach heaved. He broke rank and hobbled to the trash can outside the court doors, making it just in time before he lost his breakfast.

“Shit, man. He really fucked you up.” Jean glanced up. His three rescuers, for lack of a better term, had caught up to him. Twenty-eight had just spoken. That must be Jamie. Not for the first time, Jean felt a pang of loneliness for knowing his teammates by their numbers, not their names.

He needed to get them out of here.

“You three need to leave. Now.”

“You need medical help, Moreau. We’re not leaving.” Jean wondered how he’d never noticed how insistent Twenty was. It was damn annoying.

“I will be fine. If he comes back-”

“At least let us get you into the locker room,” she suggested.

“No, you need to leave. Go hide out in your rooms and lock the doors. There is no telling what he will do if he finds you.”

“But, Moreau-”

“No! No arguments. You do not know what he is like. You think this is bad? It will only get worse from here.”

“We won’t let him-”

“Yes. You. Will.” Jean couldn't help raising his voice. She wasn’t getting it. “There is nothing he can do to me that he has not done before.”

“But, Jean-“

“Jessica. Austin. Jamie.” Jean said, looking at them each in turn. “Leave. Now.”

They kept their mouths shut and finally followed his orders, leaving Jean alone. It wasn’t a long walk to the locker rooms, and now that he was upright and relatively mobile, he could handle whatever was going on with his knee; it was still better than it had been a week ago.

Once in the locker room, he fumbled around for his things, pulling out the first aid kit and a change of clothes. He glanced at his phone. There were a few new texts from Renee, but those could wait until later.

He slowly made his way over to the showers. The icy cold water eased the sting in his muscles and washed off the sweat from the day. It washed off a considerable amount of blood, too.

He tried not to think about that.

Once clean, Jean turned off the water and grabbed his towel, drying off as he left the showers. He stopped in his tracks once he saw Riko was back, sitting in front of his locker. And not only that, but Riko had his phone. Riko had his phone and was looking at it with a crazed smile on his face and a knife in his hand. The phone screen read, Missed Call (1).

Riko’s smile widened once he saw he had Jean’s attention.

“Who would want to call you, Three?”

The locker room door banged open. Jean blinked, hard. He was propped up against his locker, first aid kit in his hands. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, how much time had passed since Riko had done…whatever he’d done. Jean didn’t know if he even remembered all of it. All he knew was that it was the worst thing Riko had ever done to him without The Master there to egg him on.

Voices whispered above him. A bright light shone directly into his eyes. Was it morning practice already? He didn’t think he could stand up in the shape he was in. Everything hurt. Then the light was gone. Someone was in front of him, kneeling down to his level.

It was Renee Walker.

I’m dead, he thought, before blacking out.

Chapter Text

“Obviously Jean Moreau's absence has taken its toll on this defense.”

Jean woke up with a gasp. It took him a moment to orient himself. Couch. Living room. Foxes’ medic’s house. Semi-finals.

He glanced at the TV. Five announcers were seated around a news desk, Edgar Allan and Penn State logos on the screen behind them.

Halftime. Shit. He’d slept so much over the past few days that he’d started wondering if Renee had put a spell on him when she dropped him here. Or maybe it was just the nature of this house.

The Foxes’ medic - Abby, as Renee kept reminding him (people like to be called by their real names, Jean) - lived in a small, outdated rambler in a small, outdated neighborhood. From this one spot in the living room, Jean could see the front door and into the kitchen and straight down the one hallway in the house. Through the big front window, he could watch elderly couples walk their tiny dogs and young couples walk their tiny babies. There was no exy. There was no Riko. There was no Master.

It was pleasant and infuriating at the same time. After spending so many years of his life in the high-stress environment that was the nest, Jean didn’t really know what to do with himself here. His days thus far had largely consisted of sleeping, followed by regretting that he’d slept so much.

He was doing the latter now; he certainly hadn’t intended to fall asleep during the Foxes’ game and wake up halfway through the Ravens’.

“—big hole to fill,” the man on the end was saying, as Jean tuned back in, “He's only a sophomore but you can really tell how comfortable he is out there on the court.”

They must still be talking about him. Jean wouldn’t consider any of the other sophomores to be comfortable on the court; none of them had seen enough game time.

“It sure is an added challenge,” a woman chimed in. “But I think they've managed to keep their heads well above water, even without their main defensive player.”

Jean glanced at the score. 5 to 3, Ravens. He questioned her judgement. The Ravens weren’t trailing, but even against Penn State, they should’ve had more points than that. He wondered if something was going on with Riko.

“Well of course they have,” another announcer said, chuckling, “This is Edgar Allen after all.”

“Speaking of,” the woman to his left said, “There was that really impressive steal from Jessica Fischer, number twenty. Can we queue that up?”

Jean kept his eyes glued to the screen as they rolled the replay. Twenty’s mark was Penn State striker, #42, David Chen. At 6’5” and 240lbs, he had a huge physical advantage over her. Not only that, he had an intellectual one as well. This was a guy who knew his exy. Jean had watched a lot of film over the last week, and Chen’s skills had actually impressed him. That was hard to come by.

On screen, Chen ran down the court and bouldered into Twenty, knocking her aside before making a try at goal. He was almost forty yards away, but Jean knew he had the power and accuracy to make it from that distance. Twenty did too. She pushed to her feet and ran into the firing line. As the ball left Chen’s net, she jumped and intercepted.

As soon as her feet hit the ground, Twenty was running. She located Riko and made a pass from clear across the court.

Jean didn’t know if he’d describe it as impressive. Twenty’s accuracy still needed work; Riko had to adjust and run to where she’d thrown the ball. And Jean wouldn’t have needed that extra half-second to locate Riko. Acceptable was perhaps a better choice.

Riko, now with the ball, took a few steps and shot at goal from just short of first-fourth. And missed.

Did that just happen?

Riko never missed, especially not from first-fourth. It was child’s play.

Jean didn’t get to see Riko’s reaction. The camera panned back to the Ravens’ side, where Twenty was in a heated shouting match with Chen. He tried to swat her away but she wasn’t having it. She shoved him hard in the chest, and he finally gave in. They erupted into a brawl.

For all his raw strength, Chen’s ability to fight was mediocre at best. Jean could tell that Twenty was trying to use her speed to her advantage, but was having trouble making much of an impact; Chen was a full foot taller than her. She must’ve realized this, as she soon ceased her attack on his upper body and instead kicked him in the shin. Chen stumbled, and Twenty used the opportunity to land a solid punch to his nose.

It was over as quickly as it had started. Refs and teammates stepped in, pulling the two apart. Twenty-Six ran on as Twenty’s replacement, stopping her on her way to the bench. The audio didn’t pick up any of their words, but Jean could see Twenty mouth, “worth it,” before fist-bumping him and strutting off the court.

“Wow. I mean, just, wow,” said one of the announcers. “What a play. And what a fight.”

The man next to him chuckled, “It was like watching a bumble bee pick a fight with a grizzly bear.”

“And somehow that bumble bee won,” praised another announcer. “She’s a redshirt sophomore, and I certainly am intrigued to see where the next two years take her.”

Jean couldn’t care less what they thought of Twenty; picking a fight on the court was foolish, and she still had a long way to go by Raven standards. He wanted them to talk about Riko.

“You just don’t see that level of detail anywhere else,” the man on the end emphasized. “Say what you want about Edgar Allan, but they know how to churn out top notch players.”

Why weren’t they talking about Riko?

“They sure do, Dave,” the woman said before turning to the camera and announcing that they’d be back after commercials to discuss what the Nittany Lions needed to do to turn the game around.

Jean threw a pillow at the TV. It bounced off harmlessly and landed on the floor. He wished he’d seen the first half of the game; it would give him a better gauge on Riko’s status.

The summer before Riko and Kevin started college, they’d gone on a brief press tour with The Master. Jean, whose existence was still undisclosed to the public at that point, had stayed behind at the nest. He was only fourteen, too gangly for his own good, and it was far too easy for the college students to knock him around on the court. They never passed up a chance to make him look bad in front of the coaches and would throw in dirty plays when they knew no one was watching.

Jean had resented Riko and Kevin for a long time after that. He’d spent those two lonely weeks wishing his two best friends would come back, but once they did, he didn’t want anything to do with them. It was the first real rift in their relationship, and it only grew over the years, until Kevin left and whatever remained crumbled away. Thinking of Riko in New York reminded Jean of that week. He didn’t have anyone to trust out there on the court. Jean knew firsthand how difficult it was to play exy like that. And yet, at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit delighted at the thought that Riko was finally getting what he deserved .

Back from commercials, the announcers started outlining Penn State’s chances of winning the game. Whoever won this match would move on to face the Palmetto State Foxes in the championship game, in two days’ time.

Jean rolled his eyes. The only reason the Foxes had even had a fighting chance in semi-finals was thanks to the stupidity of their opponent, the USC Trojans.

The Trojans exy team had always prided themselves on their sportsmanship, sometimes to an annoying extent. In the ultimate show of good faith, they’d decided to throw logic out the window and match the Foxes player for player. Two goalies, three backliners, two dealers, and two strikers. Nine players. For the whole game. Because that made sense.

As expected, the team that had spent only a week playing with that line-up lost to the team that had spent an entire year doing it. And now the Foxes, widely regarded as one of the worst teams in their division, had made it to the finals.

College exy was becoming a joke of a sport.

Riko didn’t start the second half.

Wasn’t on the bench.

Didn’t even run out with the team.

Had the Master punished him for that missed shot?

As the camera angles changed, Jean paid attention to the sideline, trying to gleam some knowledge from the Master’s expression.

He wasn’t there.

Where was he?

Jean picked up his phone and typed up a text to Riko, “are you ok?”

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the button to send. Riko was in his contacts, but he could probably count on both hands the number of times they’d communicated via text. The number of times Jean had initiated the conversation was roughly zero. But this was an emergency.

He hit the button. The message sent. Nothing happened.

Jean wasn’t stupid. He knew how phones worked. He hadn’t expected to get a text instantaneously. But the act of initiating a conversation with Riko, even over text, was so foreign, so against all the little rules he’d put in place for himself, that he’d expected something to happen.

He set the phone down and tried to pay attention to the game. But his brain wouldn’t shut up. What if Riko was hurt? What if Riko needed help, right this moment? What if Riko was bleeding out, and no one else realized he was missing?

But who could Jean go to? Certainly not Kevin. And Neil wasn’t an option; his mouth would get in the way. He started typing out a text to Renee. As usual, it was an arduous process. He mulled over his words so much whenever he texted her, afraid of saying something that would make her think he wasn’t worthy of being her friend. Granted, she had driven through the night to find him when she thought he was in danger. That had to mean something. People didn’t just do that. Or maybe they did. Jean wasn’t sure.

He had just deleted the majority of his message for a third time when another text came in. One character, "?", from Riko. Jean dialed him immediately.

The call connected. No one spoke.

“Riko?” Jean asked.

Silence.

"Riko?" Jean asked again, fear creeping up his throat.

“Yeah, it’s me," Riko finally confirmed. "I’m surprised you called, after pulling a Kevin.”

Jean hated the comparison. Kevin’s departure was still fresh in his memory. He remembered the last conversation he’d had with Kevin before he left, that one last chance to convince him to stay. It didn’t work, of course.

He’d gone from talking to Kevin daily to not speaking to him for months, until they had a game or a banquet and Riko had an agenda. Jean couldn’t imagine repeating that again with Riko. He could be a privileged asshole sometimes, but at the end of the day, he was Jean’s friend.

Jean tried explaining how this was nothing like Kevin. How he was stuck here, how they wouldn’t let him leave, how he definitely hadn’t agreed to it. How they wanted him to transfer.

“Transfer?” Riko asked, shocked. “No. No, Moreau, you can't transfer. You're a Raven and you know it.”

“They will not let me go back.”

Riko scoffed. “Why the fuck not?”

Jean didn’t know how to answer that.

Riko sighed, exasperated. “Where you gonna go? Penn State?”

“They think USC will be good for me.”

“The Trojans? California? After that shit they pulled with the Foxes game?” Riko laughed. “No, Moreau, you can't go there.”

Quietly, Jean said, “I do not have any other option.”

He held his breath, waiting for Riko to speak. Jean didn’t know what he wanted him to say. There was a chance that Riko would let down his guard and tell Jean what he actually thought, what he was really feeling. More likely though, he would erupt in anger. At least this time, Jean would be spared the brunt of it thanks to the several hundred miles currently separating them.

Metal clanged: Riko kicking or punching or body-slamming a locker. Then, in a soft voice, “Jean.”

Jean waited, not sure if Riko would continue.

“You can't leave me, Jean. Not-” Riko cut himself off, took an audible breath. “Not after Kevin.” Then, quietly, so quiet that Jean could barely hear him, “Not you too.”

Those three words killed Jean. He’d spent so long convincing himself that Kevin was the enemy for leaving them, that he would be better, he would be loyal. Even when Riko hurt him, he would stay. They were friends. And here he was, betraying his friend, betraying Riko.

“I know,” Jean whispered back. He wished he could be there in person, like somehow the whole situation would’ve been slightly less fucked if only he could’ve seen Riko's face. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Riko spoke again.

“I- I have to go. Bye, Moreau.”

And in that moment, Jean knew. He knew that this would be just like Kevin. He knew that he and Riko would say goodbye, and the next time they spoke would be as opponents, months or even years from now. There was no stopping it.

He said the only thing he could.

“Goodbye, Riko.”

The Ravens had lost.

Days later, and Jean still couldn’t believe it. Before, no sports analyst worth their salt had placed the Foxes at more than a 25% chance of winning. Then Kevin Day had walked onto the court, racquet in hand. Left hand, that is.

There was a difference between being good enough to play for the top exy team in the country and being good enough to beat Kevin Day. For the Ravens, that difference had cost them the championship.

After, Jean finalized his transfer to USC. He tried to picture himself walking to class under palm trees, sun shining. He tried to picture himself wearing red and yellow, playing exy in USC’s court. He tried to picture himself living miles and miles away from Riko. It was all very difficult to do.

It would be a full week before he found out Riko was dead.

It was getting more and more difficult for Jean to keep one of his oldest rules.

He sat on Abby’s back deck, idly tracing lines through the morning dew that hadn’t yet evaporated from the patio table. The weather was mild and altogether quite boring, yet despite that, Jean found it intensely distracting. The shape of the clouds, the changes in the wind, the slow track of the sun across the sky. He couldn’t remember the last time he was allowed to simply exist, outside, at his leisure. It wasn’t freedom, but it was closer than he’d been in quite some time. And at the same time, it was dangerous. If he didn’t keep his imagination in check, it would run wild with hopes and dreams and false scenarios of how great his life would be in California. It had been a long time since Jean had let himself dream.

There was a time, back when he was young and still quite blind to how the world worked, when Jean dreamed of many things. He’d latch onto this idea or that, believing that he could be anything he set his mind to. But nothing really stuck. That was, until he went to exy camp.

Exy had quickly become his world. There’d been a long-running joke in the nest that Kevin had fallen in love. Not with any person, but with exy. Jean had laughed along countless times, hoping that no one realized he’d done the same thing the moment he’d picked up a racquet. He’d dreamed of being captain, becoming best friends with all of his teammates, winning every game he played. Here Jean was, on the US Court, taking home the national title, surrounded by family members and friends who were all so proud of him. All because he’d played two weeks’ worth of exy when he was eight.

But he didn’t just play two weeks’ worth of exy when he was eight. When camp was over, the head coach told him that he would be staying the rest of the summer to practice with the two older boys. The special ones who played exy all year round.

They’d bonded instantly.

“We’re going to be the best,” Riko would tell Jean, as he drew a ‘1' on Kevin’s cheekbone, to match the digit on his own face. “One day, there will be nine of us, and we will be the best team in the whole world.”

Kevin would nod enthusiastically. “And nobody will be able to beat us. We’ll win every game.” Then he would turn to Jean, and draw a '1' on his face, too. Back then, they were all number one.

They spent that summer playing exy and dreaming of the future and laughing about the college students and running around exploring the stadium. It was heaven.

But all good things must come to an end, and once August rolled around, Jean was finally sent back home. He had sulked for weeks, wishing he could’ve stayed at the nest, wishing he lived there all year, like Riko and Kevin did. Exy hadn’t yet caught on in France, so he tried to make-do with what he had during the school year.

Two long years later, after only playing exy during the summer, his dreams came true. The Master told him that he could stay, forever. The three boys had stayed up all night long talking about the future, dreaming of being exy legends. But the following morning made for a rude awakening. Without telling them why, the Master changed the rules. Their schedule was compressed into 16-hour days. They weren’t allowed to go outside. They couldn’t all be #1.

One by one, Jean’s dreams were crushed, and his first rule was created: no more dreaming. It was getting harder and harder to uphold that rule.

On the deck, Jean watched as the sun came out from behind a cloud, bathing everything in a warm glow. Even in this light, his skin looked ghostly pale, a consequence of spending his summers in the nest. The time spent walking to class during the school year had never been enough to offset that.

Jean wondered if that would change at USC. He didn’t have any delusions about his future; surely the Trojans practiced just as much as the Ravens had during the summer months. But the sun was stronger there. Perhaps it would be enough.

Then he caught himself. He half-heartedly blamed Renee and Allison for all of this dreaming; they could spend hours gushing about how great it would be to visit Jean in California. Jean didn’t know why they kept pretending. It wasn’t like they’d actually stay in close contact with him once he was out of their medic’s guest bedroom. Yet even though he told himself not to, Jean couldn’t stop hoping that Renee would at least keep texting him when he moved to California.

Kevin let out a scoff, "He's not even listening."

Jean glanced up at Kevin, who was leaning against the back door with a look of annoyance on his face.

“You’re not saying anything particularly interesting,” Jean spat out. He worked hard to keep his face straight, fighting a smile, bracing for the counter-blow he knew was coming.

Kevin rolled his eyes. “You turned eighteen, what, six months ago? Try to act like it.”

Not his best work, but Jean still prickled at the jab. He hated any reminder that he was three years younger than Kevin and Riko; it made him feel like he would always be behind, always be second-best. He opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted.

“Boys, come on, we don’t have all day.”

Thea Muldani jumped down from her perch on the railing.

Thea had been the unofficial fourth member of the perfect court. The competitive environment of the nest didn’t easily lend itself to friendships, and she’d spent her first few months as a Raven largely isolated from her teammates. Then, sometime that fall, she had stumbled across Jean.

They had formed a tentative alliance, meeting during off-hours to practice exy or watch film together. Thea was glad to have a friend, even if that friend was almost a decade younger than her. And Thea was a much-needed mentor for Jean, who spent most of his practice time with strikers, not backliners.

At some point, Jean had introduced her to Kevin (and later Riko), and the rest was history.

She winked at Jean and said, “Cut to the chase, Kevin.”

“Fine,” Kevin conceded. “There’s something else from Ichirou.”

A stone dropped in the pit of Jean’s stomach at the tone of Kevin’s voice.

“If we want to go pro at the end of next year, he’ll make it happen,” Kevin said, as if he were reading a death sentence.

“Even with my redshirt year?”

Kevin took a deep breath. “Even with your redshirt year.”

Jean marveled at the thought. Most athletes were practically forced to play another year after sitting out; the chances of going pro were much lower without it. He thought he’d need to stay at USC for two full years before he’d have the chance to move on: one to redshirt and another to play a full season. This would cut his sentence in half.

But Kevin’s expression spelled trouble.

“Is this not good news?” Jean asked.

“He didn’t offer this to Josten, just us.” Kevin looked away, off into the distance, and said, “I think he’s expecting us to say yes.”

“How is that a problem?” Jean asked, bluntly.

Kevin looked taken aback. Thea stepped in, obviously sensing that this conversation was getting nowhere.

“Kevin, can we have a minute?”

Wordlessly, they exchanged expressions. Then Kevin let out a sigh and stood up. “Yeah, whatever.”

Thea waited until he was back inside before she spoke. “Jean Moreau, what are we going to do with you?”

Jean could hear the amusement in her voice. He smiled back at her. “Ship me off to California?”

She smacked his arm. “Do you have to disagree with everything he says?”

Jean shrugged, picking at a nail.

“He thinks you hate him,” Thea continued.

“Good,” Jean replied. He enjoyed getting Kevin riled up; it had been one of his favorite hobbies even before Kevin betrayed them.

“You can’t stay mad at him forever.”

“Is that a bet?”

“It is most definitely not,” she laughed.

Jean tried to think of a witty retort but came up blank. An awkward silence settled over them, and Jean was reminded of how long it had been since he’d last seen Thea.

“Jean?” Thea asked after a moment, serious now. “You would really go pro after only a year at USC? Cut off your college experience like that? There’s more to life than exy.”

“Exy is exy,” he said. “I’d rather play against teams that can at least attempt to match my skill set.”

“That’s…not the point.” Thea thought for a moment before speaking. “Forget about exy, for a minute. Think about your life.”

“My life?” Jean let out a short laugh. "Exy is my life.”

Thea’s eyebrows drew together in a very sad way. “You can’t really believe that.”

Jean didn’t see any other options. And who was Thea to talk? She had played exy for Edgar Allan, and now she was playing exy for Houston. Jean had seen first-hand the sacrifices she’d made for that opportunity, and he would do the same. “I’m going pro, Thea. I know what I want.”

Thea looked at him with that sad expression again. “I truly hope those Trojans prove you wrong.”

“I doubt that,” Jean scoffed. “Besides, I don’t need to spend any more time playing at the collegiate level.”

“You think that now,” Thea warned, “But one day you’ll look back on your college years and wish you could’ve had more. I know I do.”

“Well, I’m not you.”

 Thea took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No. You’re not.”

Her words hung heavily in the air between them. She looked at Jean expectantly, as if she wanted him to apologize for thinking of his future, apologize for wanting to go pro instead of wasting his time on another college team. When he stayed silent, she nodded with finality.

“Good chat, Frenchie,” she deadpanned, standing up as if to leave. When she grabbed her bag, she paused, seeming to remember something.

“Oh, I wanted to give you these,” she said, rummaging through its contents before pulling out an envelope and handing it to Jean. “I thought you would want something to remember him by.”

“Remember who?” Jean asked distastefully, their conversation leaving a sour note in his voice. “Kevin?”

“Kevin? With the way the two of you treat each other?” Thea laughed, and Jean was glad to hear it; maybe she wasn’t as upset as he’d thought. “No, silly. Riko.”

Jean wasn’t sure why this was so important. “I have his number, Thea.”

Any mirth drained from her expression. “Wait, Jean do you not know? Did Kevin not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Jean asked, afraid of what the answer would be. If he needed to remember Riko then that would mean…

“Riko’s dead. He shot himself, the night of the championship game.”

Jean felt his world tilt on its axis.

Riko was dead.

Riko, exy prodigy, captain of the Ravens, future US Court legend. Dead.

Riko, who Jean had known like a brother, who Jean had seen nearly every day for the last ten years. Dead.

“He killed himself?” Jean asked aimlessly. “Why? Because of me?”

That was the only explanation. Jean hadn’t been at the championships. He had left Riko to fend for himself and this is what had happened. The Ravens had lost, and Riko had killed himself. And it was all Jean's fault.

“No,” she said, “No, no, of course not.”

Thea moved to put her hand on his. Jean pulled away. She had no idea what she was talking about; it had been years since she’d been on the team, much less had a conversation with Riko. Jean had been there the whole time. Jean knew how Riko thought, how his brain worked. He knew because he had to know, because it had helped him survive. Of course it was his fault, everything was always his fault. He’d spent so many years wishing Riko would get what he deserved, but he had never wanted this. It was unimaginable.

Jean had the sudden urge to break everything in sight, including Thea, and for a moment he wondered if this was how Riko felt before he went on one of his rampages.

“Jean?” Thea probed gently, “Are you going to be okay?”

Jean didn’t answer. He didn't know how to put any of his thoughts into words.

“Come on, you're not ten anymore. Silent treatment isn't going to work. It’s good to talk through this stuff with someone.”

“Why does that person have to be you?”

It came out harsher than Jean thought it would.

“I am sorry,” he apologized. “That was rude.”

Thea took a deep breath.

“You’re going through a lot, I get it,” she said, somewhat coldly. “Just promise me that when you get to California, you won’t take all your anger out on your new teammates.”

Jean couldn’t meet her eyes, ashamed of how he’d lost his temper. He turned his attention back to the envelope she'd given him. He didn’t know what was inside.

“They’re pictures,” she said bluntly, “From the nest.”

And with that, Thea left, with a curt goodbye that Jean couldn’t bring himself to return.

Jean stayed outside until the last of the dew had evaporated, stewing over the conversation. He didn’t open the envelope, afraid to see what was inside. Eventually he decided that Thea had to be wrong.

Exy was all that mattered, and he was going to go pro.

Chapter Text

LAX was not an airport for beginners.

Jean had spent the better part of two months waiting around for this day. Two months spent resting and healing, and bored out of his mind. He’d watched as much USC Exy film as he could get his hands on and combed through near endless pages of stats. Once he’d exhausted that, he’d done the same for the upcoming season’s opponents, taking full advantage of his access to Coach Wymack and the Foxes’ film library. He’d kept detailed notes, both on individual players and on overall playing strategies. He knew the Trojans Exy team, and their opponents, inside and out.

In hindsight, he should’ve spent less time studying exy, and more time studying the terminal layout.

LAX was a monstrosity of an airport. Jean had enough trouble just getting from his gate to baggage claim; he couldn’t imagine catching a transfer in this place.

He could only credit about 20% of his success to actually following the airport’s signs. The rest he owed to the man walking hurriedly in front of him, having an animated conversation with his Blackberry, and very clearly on his way to the same location.

“Yes,” he said angrily into the phone, readjusting the laptop bag on his shoulder. “Baggage. Claim. Do you need me to spell that out for you?”

Jean hated to admit it, but Allison’s suggestion to ‘follow a cellphone douche’ was working out quite well for him.

“Look,” Blackberry man told his phone, “I’m going as fast as I can. You know how airports are.”

Jean dodged a stroller, then picked up his pace to pass a slow-moving family. He didn’t ‘know how airports were’, but he was learning fast.

Flying was not new to Jean. Most away games with the Ravens were well outside the radius for bus travel, and he’d flown a fair amount as a child. Jean was quite ambivalent about it all. But he’d never stepped foot inside a terminal. All of his previous flying experience had been through hangars; on chartered team planes or private jets owned by his family or their business partners. The terminal was loud and crowded and certainly not winning any points in his book.

He tightened his hold on his backpack strap as he navigated around yet another amoeba of extended family that didn’t understand that they were walking too slowly and other people were indeed trying to get around them. But this time, with matching shirts!

Perhaps the Palmers should’ve taken a tip from college sports and chartered their own plane for their Life’s a Beach 25th Annual Family Reunion. Jean’s eyes sure would’ve thanked them. Those shirts were worse than the Foxes’ windbreakers.

Nearly two months later and Jean still couldn’t believe that the Foxes had actually beaten Edgar Allan. Each time he went to sleep, he kept expecting he’d wake up before. Before what exactly, he didn’t know. His life had started derailing before that game, and he wasn’t sure it was going to stop anytime soon.

But there was nothing to be done about it now. He was here, in California, to play exy and finish school as a Trojan. Or some variation of that.

This year would be a scratch, there was no avoiding that. Just like Kevin, Jean would have to redshirt for two semesters after his transfer. He wasn’t exactly sure what that would entail; they didn’t have transfers at Edgar Allan. You got in your freshman year or not at all. He supposed he would find out soon enough. And after that, he had a choice: go pro or continue at the college level.

It was uncommon to enter the draft with two years of eligibility remaining, and nearly unheard of to do it right after a redshirt year. Your chances for getting drafted were simply better off a solid season of play, and you usually became better the more you played. But the Moriyamas had enough influence to make it happen. Someone would get paid a lot of money to determine the best way to market the remnants of the perfect court - as potential teammates or as rivals. And then Jean would play exy until his professional career dried up.

He didn’t know what would happen to him at that point. The Moriyamas would kill him, most likely. They didn’t have much use for him, unless he went into coaching. But Jean wasn’t good enough for that.

He considered his alternative: continue playing exy for another year or two at USC. It was really only delaying the inevitable. He’d play with and against college athletes that couldn’t match his skill level, would receive a diploma that meant absolutely nothing to him, and would enter the world of professional exy on the coattails of Kevin Day.

Kevin had made it sound like a choice. Here, Jean, decide your own future for once. But Jean knew what was expected of him.

All in all, there wasn’t much sense in wasting another two years playing for USC. And besides, Jean was tired of being the last member of the perfect court. He’d started college the year after Riko and Kevin; he didn’t want the same to happen with his professional career.

Black and red flashed in the corner of Jean’s vision, hurtling him out of his thoughts. He froze.

Riko had found him.

The Master had found him.

The Moriyamas had found him.

But it was only a kid, wearing an Edgar Allan exy jersey. And, of course, Riko was dead, and the Master was under strict command of the Moriyamas, and the Moriyamas wanted him to be here.

The kid turned, and Jean noticed the big ‘03’ on the front of his jersey. His number. They locked eyes for a moment.

Shit. Jean knew he should’ve paid more attention to his appearance.

He didn’t want to put on his public-figure persona and answer questions about why he was transferring or how he felt about Riko. And he certainly wasn’t in the mood to pose for pictures with fans, children or not.

Before he left South Carolina, he’d stuck a band-aid over his ‘3’ tattoo, the biggest giveaway to his identity. He had no idea if the kid could tell it was there from across the airport hallway. He hoped not.

His hair was buzzed; he’d impulsively cut it short that morning with the dull clippers he’d found in Abby’s bathroom. He was still getting used to the sight of it; the Ravens’ regulation length was short, but not this short. He’d thought a trim would help hide the patches of hair that were growing in unevenly after they’d been ripped out that night Riko had tormented him. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have bothered. The short cut had revealed the still-healing scabs, and those were far more distracting than his choppy hair had been.

He’d scoffed at the situation; two months later, and he was still wearing the scars of Riko’s anger. He wondered just how long it would take them to fade.

And just like that it was over, the kid’s attention shifting from him to Blackberry man before begging his mother to buy him something from the shop they were standing in.

Jean let out a sigh of relief.

The baggage claim area was marginally better than the rest of the terminal. People were still everywhere, but at least here, Jean could put a wall to his back and distance himself from them.

And he could ditch the cellphone douche.

Jean found his carousel and glanced back towards the pickup area while he waited for his bag to arrive. He assumed Jeremy would be easy to find, probably dressed head-to-toe in Trojans’ red and yellow.

He wasn’t there.

There was a family that Allison would say were wearing ‘boring church clothes’ standing closest to the doors. There was a group of older women, probably long-time friends, with a posterboard sign that had some sort of inside joke on it that Jean didn’t understand, crowded around a bench. Closest to the baggage claim area was an impeccably dressed man holding a laminated sign with someone’s name on it. Jean guessed he was a chauffeur. In the back, near the restrooms, was a group dressed in the tackiest clothes Jean had ever seen, holding a flattened pizza box.

But no Jeremy Knox.

The buzzer went off at the same time as Jean’s phone. It was Jeremy: ‘waiting 4 u @ pickup.’ Jean frowned. He looked back to the pickup area. The well-dressed family had collected another well-dressed person and looked to be on their way out. Posterboard women were laughing about something, maybe the joke on their sign. The chauffeur had disappeared. Tacky pizza box group had gathered into a huddle and seemed to be counting their feet. Still no Jeremy.

Jean texted back: ‘outside?’

He resumed watching the carousel, just in time to see his bag land on the belt. Jean gently pushed his way through the crowd and lifted it off with a grunt. Not for the first time, he wished Allison was less of a shopaholic. The majority of these clothes had been bought at her insistence. Jean hadn’t decided if any of them would see the light of day.

Other than the clothes, he didn’t have many worldly possessions. There were his exy notes, some odds and ends Abby had insisted he bring, and a few books, loaned to him from Renee. And, buried at the bottom of it all, were his reminders of Edgar Allan; the clothes he’d worn out of the nest, the envelope of pictures Thea had given him, still unopened, and that damned first aid kit.

For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to throw any of it away.

He threw the bag’s strap over his shoulder and returned to his waiting spot, pulling out his phone to see if Jeremy had texted back.

He hadn’t.

Jean’s eyes gravitated back towards the pickup area. Still no Jeremy. Lacking anything better to do, he studied the tacky pizza box group. There were four of them: two guys and two girls. The guy on the end had a stocky build, his dark hair in a short, neat buzz like he was in the military. He looked like he’d just stepped off the beach; sunglasses on the back of his head, bright pink swim trunks, faded t-shirt. The girl next to him was dressed similarly, in athletic shorts and sandals, donning a shirt for some rugby team. Jean idly wondered if she played; she looked like she could rough someone up.

The other girl was taller and leaner. Her hair, styled into long micro braids, was pulled back under a pastel bandana. The rest of her outfit looked handmade but intentionally styled, probably fashionable in certain circles that didn’t include Allison Reynolds.

The last member of their quartet looked like he’d walked out of a bad beach movie where he’d been cast as the heartthrob lifeguard. If his sun-bleached hair, tan skin, and shell necklace were anything to go by, he probably spent his entire summer on a beach. Jean let himself imagine, just for a moment, what his life would be if he looked like that. He imagined sitting on a beach all day, salt spray in his face, no cares in the world. Then he pulled himself back to reality.

He was Jean Moreau, property of the Moriyamas. His purpose was to play exy. Lounging on a beach? That would never be his life.

What made the group tacky, other than the pizza box, were the accessories. It looked like they’d raided a party supply store, but couldn’t decide on a theme, all wearing a mis-match of holiday accessories and formal wear.

Jean sighed. He didn’t know why Renee had sounded so excited about the prospect of visiting him here. There was too much weird already and he hadn’t even left the airport.

He peeled off the band-aid over his tattoo and reluctantly pulled down his sweatshirt hood. He didn’t want Jeremy to be looking for him and unable to spot him behind his feeble disguise. Now, however, he felt somewhat exposed without it. He anxiously waited for a text back, watching lifeguard guy looking at his phone in confusion.

Then he looked up, straight at Jean.

They locked eyes.

It was Jeremy Knox.

Jean figured he had two choices. He could ignore Jeremy, get on another plane or hail a taxi or do literally anything except go with the Trojans. If he was lucky, the Moriyamas would forget all about him and he could go into hiding and disappear from the world.

Or he could approach the group.

The tacky pizza box group.

His new teammates.

Jeremy was the first to greet him, shaking his hand and leaning close to give his arm a gentle pat. His smile was blinding.

“Nice to finally meet you, Jean.”

“Likewise,” Jean said. “I’ve heard good things about your team.”

“As you should,” the girl with some semblance of style said. She stuck her hand out in Jean’s direction. “Laila Dermott. Welcome to the Trojans.”

Jean grasped her hand gently, afraid he would be too rough and break her arm. He hadn’t needed to worry; her grip was strong.

“Laila’s our newly minted co-captain,” Jeremy said, beaming like a proud father.

Pink swim trunks guy quickly shouted, “Our new fearless leader!” He and rugby girl started humming a slow, mournful tune. Jean didn’t know what it was, but it sounded like something they’d play during a commencement ceremony.

“Shut up, guys!” Laila said bashfully, her cheeks turning pink.

Rugby girl bumped her shoulder playfully, then held out her hand in a fist towards Jean. “I’m Alvarez.”

Jean bumped knuckles with her. She continued speaking, motioning to pink swim trunks guy, “This is Owen. We’re the most important members of the backline. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Laila tried to silence her, but Owen picked up the slack, adding, “Matter of fact, you don’t need to even meet the other members of the team, because we’re clearly the only ones who—"

“Okay, that’s enough,” Laila said, with finality. “Jean, don’t listen to them, they’re being stupid.”

Alvarez rolled her eyes. “Always ruining our fun.”

Laila sighed exhaustedly, as if this was a regular occurrence. She quickly changed the subject. “Don’t you have something to show to our new teammate?”

The two backliners lit up and thrust the flattened pizza box towards Jean.

“Welcome to the backline,” Owen said.

Jean glanced at the box. They clearly wanted him to take it. The side facing him said, “will trade captain for french backliner.” There was a big grease spot in the middle of the word captain.

Trying to hide his disgust, Jean reached out to take it, looking for a spot that seemed to be relatively grease-free.

“Flip it over,” Alvarez said, excitedly.

Jean did as he was told. The other side had more writing, this in a mangled French, “lassier’s donner des coups de pied âne.”

He glanced at his new teammates, confused. They were still brimming with excitement.

“It says let’s kick ass!” Owen exclaimed.

“Translated it ourselves,” Alvarez added, beaming at him.

Jean was still staring at them. They weren’t wrong, necessarily, but they’d done a very poor job of translating.

He wasn’t sure if he should correct them; they seemed so proud of themselves.

Noticing that Jean wasn’t impressed, Alvarez threw an accusatory glare at Laila, “You told us it looked good!”

Laila, already sporting a knowing smile, started giggling uncontrollably. Alvarez pounced on her, “How do you say bitch in French?!”

Jean leapt back in surprise as they erupted into a jovial brawl, stumbling around the pick-up area. There was a lot of yelping and giggling. If this was the nest, Alvarez would’ve been struck down at once for speaking to her captain in such a manner. He wasn’t sure why Laila was allowing this, much less going along with the prospect of fighting a subordinate. He glanced at Jeremy, trying to determine if he would step in to stop this madness.

But Jeremy wasn’t watching the girls. His eyes were on Jean, squinting at him like something didn't add up. Once Jeremy realized he was being watched, he replaced his puzzled expression with a smile and shrugged, “They do this sometimes. You get used to it.”

Jeremy glanced at the girls for a few moments. They seemed to be at an impasse, on opposite sides of a pillar, waiting to see which way the other would go. Eventually, Laila picked a direction and Alvarez barreled after her.

Jean wondered what it was about these Trojans, how they could act so ridiculous in public without worrying about the consequences. Any Raven would be in for a swift punishment, had they done anything close to this. And yet, Jeremy was telling him this happened somewhat regularly. What were their rules, Jean wondered? Did they have any structure at all?

“One thing I don’t get,” Jeremy said slowly, interrupting his thoughts, “is why Jean Moreau, heir apparent to the captainship at Edgar Allan, would throw that all away, burn a year, and go play for a completely different team on the other side of the country?”

Why exactly? Jean thought sarcastically. Jeremy was trying to act nonchalant, but Jean could tell he was eager to hear the answer. He could tell Owen was listening in as well, doing a terrible job at staying discrete.

Jean mentally walked through the story he’d crafted with Renee. Drama within the team, tensions and infighting rising until it hit a head with Riko’s suicide. The Trojans would eat it up. It was plausible and promised further gossip; what else could they want?

He glanced down at the cardboard sign, this stupid thing his new teammates had made for him. It was garbage, no doubt about it, but it was for him, to help him feel more at home in this strange place. He tried to think of the last time Riko had given him a gift, no matter how small.

He came up blank.

It took more effort than he’d thought, but he got through his practiced story, intentional pauses and all. Owen seemed enthralled by it, but Jeremy seemed unimpressed. Jean didn’t need to look at him to know that confused look was back on his face; his lack of conversation made that apparent.

Their silence was interrupted by the girls, back from their strange fight, giggling to each other.

“Sorry,” Laila said, flushed and out of breath, “Thought I could outrun her this time.”

Alvarez rolled her eyes, smiling, “She never learns.”

Yet again, Jean found himself at a loss for words, amazed at how ill-mannered these new teammates of his were. He wondered how their hierarchy worked, if regular team members were allowed to disrespect their captains in this way. The thought crossed his mind, what if they don’t have a hierarchy? Then he scolded himself. That was a stupid thing to think; of course they had a hierarchy. Of course they had some structure to their team.

Once Laila had caught her breath, she turned to Jean and, as if nothing peculiar had just happened, asked if he wanted to go to the beach.

In his eight years living in America, Jean had never been reminded of home. The nest was many things, but he’d never describe it as homey, and the mountains of West Virginia had been quite different from those in the South of France.

But now, as he crested the hill and found the Pacific Ocean in full view, a lump rose in his throat. A wide sandy beach spread out in front of him, blue water stretching from there all the way to the horizon.

Jean was homesick.

Long-forgotten memories came flashing back to him. Family trips to the beach, his older siblings showing him how to make sandcastles, his parents lounging in the sun. Learning how to swim, trying not to get pummeled when the big waves came in, his family helping him up when he inevitably fell. It had been so long that he could barely remember what any of them looked like. His memories were full of shadows; vague suggestions of people stripped of details; their faces lost to time.

“Everything alright?”

Jean took a stuttering breath and glanced at Jeremy. He’d heard him speak but was still too lost in thought to comprehend what he was asking. “What?” he asked, breathless.

Jeremy smiled. “You look a little shell-shocked there. Ever been to the ocean before?”

“Yes,” Jean replied vaguely.

“Pacific or Atlantic?”

“Mediterranean.”

Jeremy’s face morphed into a joyous kind of shock, and Jean wondered how even that expression seemed to ooze charisma. “Oh, right! You’re from France!”

Jean gazed out over the ocean. Even the smell was the same: sand and salt and a hint of sunscreen.

He wasn’t sure why, but he had the urge to tell Jeremy the truth. He gestured to the beach and said, “It reminds me of home.”

Jeremy’s expression took on a more thoughtful tone. “Good reminder or bad reminder?” he asked.

Jean thought for a moment before responding, “I’m not sure.”

Jeremy nodded, knowingly. “For me, it’s cornfields.”

Jean furrowed his brows. Jeremy let out a hearty laugh.

“I’m from Nebraska. Cornfields as far as the eye can see. Well, that and soybeans.” He sighed. “Luckily for me, there aren’t too many of those in L.A.”

Jean didn’t know what to say to that. He’d thought Jeremy was California, down to his core. This revelation cracked the Jeremy Knox persona Jean had imagined in his head.

“Don’t get me wrong, my family’s great.” Jeremy continued. “But there’s something about that town…” He trailed off, lost in thought. For a moment, he looked like someone else, and that puzzle piece clicked into place. Here was a glimpse of Nebraska Jeremy. Then he shook his head, and the 100 watt smile was back, full force. He clapped Jean on the shoulder. “Who wants to be a Husker, anyways?”

Jean watched Jeremy jaunt across the sand, and he was left wondering what else Jeremy Knox was hiding.

By the time he’d met about half the team, Jean had given up trying to keep track of their hierarchy.

Senior members were frequently taunted by their younger teammates. Most of the team members had some level of respect for Jeremy and Laila, but then there was the oddity of Alvarez. Jean had thought perhaps she pulled rank over everyone, but she clearly didn’t.

It was making his head hurt, so he stopped trying.

Instead, he made his way through the different clumps of people, all having their own separate conversations. The one nearest to Jean had devolved into a strange form of bragging, each position group trying to prove they were better than the rest. Or at least, Owen and a guy named Brad were participating. The others were cheering, egging on their respective spokesperson.

Brad, one of the strikers, had pointed out that they were only losing one of their members this year, while the backline was losing three. Owen had countered this with the addition of Jean to the team, claiming he was good enough to play for two. No further arguments were really being made; they were just dancing around these two topics.

“Nah, man,” Brad said, for probably the tenth time, shaking his head, “You guys can’t play for shit without Rodney. Remember, he was injured that one time?”

They both talked in a very slow manner that Jean was beginning to associate with California.

“Yeah, man,” Owen said, again. Their statements consistently started with ‘yeah, man’ or ‘no, man,’ and Jean was starting to wonder if that was California-specific as well. “But not this year, dude,” Owen said, voice getting louder, “because this year, we’ve got-”

Jean didn’t hear the rest of his statement. Owen had decided to slap him on the back, for emphasis or dramatic effect or whatever, and Jean hadn’t been prepared for it.

He flinched, hard, and scrambled back from the group only to bump into someone else. They grabbed his arms, and he went into panic mode.

Jean thought back to his first year as a Raven, a true Raven. The upperclassmen would throw parties like this one, invite all the freshmen. Jean had been so excited to go, to finally experience a true Raven party. He’d been watching from the sidelines for so long that he thought he knew what he was getting into.

And he had, at first. But those first few parties were nothing compared to Masque of the Red Death.

The night before the first game of the season, the upperclassmen would throw the party to end all parties. It was a celebration and an initiation all in one, and it was strictly forbidden to tell anyone, Raven or not, about anything that happened that night.

To this day, Jean couldn’t remember a thing about that night. He’d woken up the next morning, in Kevin and Riko’s room, sans-hangover or any memory of how he’d gotten there. He couldn’t believe his luck, regarding the hangover that was, until halfway through the second quarter of the game, when all of a sudden, everything was too much; the lights, the crowd, the goal buzzer. Riko had laughed when he’d told him how he was feeling, “You’ve been drunk this whole time?!”

It wasn’t until Jean’s second year when he got another glimpse at what kinds of activities went down that night, and considered himself lucky that he didn’t remember going through it himself.

But he wasn’t going to let that happen here.

Jean wrenched his arms free, tripped over his own feet and landed in the sand, breathing heavily.

He looked at the Trojans. They were staring at him like he was crazy.

Shit.

He’d had one chance to make a first impression and he’d fucked it up.

“Hey man, you okay, dude?” Owen leaned down in front of him, inspecting his own hand. “Don’t know my own strength, I guess.” He extended the hand towards Jean.

Jean wasn’t an idiot. He knew that if he accepted the help, the Trojans would see him as weak. He wasn’t weak. This was a test. He had to prove himself, prove that he was strong. He didn’t need help, from this guy or anyone else.

Jean knocked Owen’s hand away and pushed himself to his feet. He drew himself up to his full height and stared down the Trojans, daring them to judge him.

One of them stepped into the center of the circle, holding his hands out, as if for peace, and the tension dissipated.

Jean knew who he was instantly.

Rodney Ford, senior captain of the Trojans, number two ranked backliner in the country, recently drafted first-round to the Colorado Rogues. If this guy had played when Jean was a kid, and if they’d been allowed to have posters in the nest, his face would've been tacked on Jean’s wall. He was a defensive legend.

“Alright, season-talk is over,” Rodney said, smiling slyly at the group, showing off a mouth of perfectly straight teeth. “We’re all good, right Jean?” He didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “Can’t believe you guys are scaring away our new recruit on the first day,” he grunted, dramatically. Then, with so much fervor that it could’ve been a game day speech, he yelled “We’ve got exy to play!”

The Trojans cheered back with just as much enthusiasm, as if they were going to war.

Finally, Jean thought.

Apparently, at the beach, ‘exy’ was just code for messing around, because what the Trojans did next was nowhere close to the real thing.

The ball, a fluorescent pink color, ended up in the ocean no less than four times. Each time it did, the game would pause and the Trojans would spend the next five to ten minutes attempting to retrieve it.

After a particularly stray ball, which took over fifteen minutes to locate, Jean decided he couldn’t watch anymore, and took off for a walk along the beach. Unfortunately for him, Jeremy noticed.

Jean didn’t bother to slow his pace.

“Hey,” Jeremy said when he finally caught up, slightly out of breath.

Jean didn’t respond. A voice in the back of his mind told him not to ignore his captain, but he’d seen nothing resembling the order he’d learned at Edgar Allan, and at this point he was starting to doubt there would be consequences for his disobedience.

“I, uh, wanted to check in. You okay from earlier? You seemed a little freaked out.”

Jean scowled at him, then looked away. He didn’t think he could put into words just what he’d been through back there on the beach. Even if he could, he wasn’t sure he wanted Jeremy to know just how weak he was.

“We can implement a no touching rule if that would help.”

Jean almost tripped over his own feet. Had Jeremy read his mind? On impulse, he took the defensive, angrily retorting, “I’m not a child.”

Jeremy held up his hands, “I wasn’t saying that you were—”

“Then stop treating me like one,” Jean huffed. “I can handle myself.”

“Okay,” Jeremy said, clearly sensing that this tactic was going nowhere. He was silent for a few strides, then said, “Um, how are you liking California so far?”

If Jean had been in a better mood, perhaps he would’ve entertained Jeremy’s attempt at conversation. But he’d spent the entire morning in a plane, and now he was at this beach, making a terrible impression on his new team. He wasn’t sure if there was a better recipe for a bad mood than that, except maybe one involving Riko, his knives, and some minor inconvenience to set him off.

“I left the group so I could be alone,” he said, sourly. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Jeremy sighed, defeated. “What did we do?”

This response was unexpected, and threw Jean for a loop. He had expected Jeremy to stand his ground, argue back. Jeremy continued talking, taking advantage of Jean’s silence.

“I know I’ve only known you for a couple of hours, but you seem to be in a horrible mood and the only reasonable explanation I can think of is that we did something wrong.”

He wasn’t exactly wrong, Jean thought. It had been Owen who’d set him off. But if he was being honest, he couldn’t blame the Trojans. It was partially the day full of travel, partially his own memories coming back to haunt him, and partially that feeling that he’d messed everything up just by being himself. Again.

Riko wasn’t here to taunt him about it, but he wasn’t sure if that little voice in his head would ever go away.

Jeremy stepped in front of him and held up a hand, halting him in his tracks. “Seriously, Jean. What’s up?”

Jean averted his eyes, watching the waves come in, hoping Jeremy would stand down.

He didn’t.

“Look, I get that it’s your first day and that can be rough. You can stop with the tough guy act. I don’t know how things were at Edgar Allan but it’s not going to get you anywhere with these guys.”

Jean glanced at Jeremy, his new captain. He was giving Jean the benefit of the doubt, and every opportunity to come clean with him, tell him what was going on inside his brain. Every opportunity to just trust him and tell him the truth.

He ran the conversation through his mind, imagined telling Jeremy all the fucked up shit he’d been through. Imagined telling him about every bruise, every scar. Imagined telling him just how high those walls he’d put up around himself were.

No matter how he sliced it, all he saw was disaster.

Jeremy, kicking him off the team. Jeremy, telling him they didn’t want him there. Jeremy, taking back that stupid pizza box, the first thing his new teammates had given him.

Jean was many things, but he was a coward first.

“You’re right,” he said, trying to push Jeremy and his prying questions away. “You don’t know how things were at Edgar Allan.”

“Great, so teach me.”

Jean scoffed at Jeremy’s offer, but Jeremy persisted.

“No, seriously. Look, I know you’ve had a rough few months. With the injury and the transfer and…Riko.” Jeremy paused. “It sounds like shit, if I’m being honest. But it’s not going to get any better if you push away everybody on the team.”

Jean brushed past him, wishing he would stop prying. “I don’t need your help.”

“Jean, please.”

Jean stopped, turned. He needed to put the final nail in the coffin. “Fine. You know what you can do to help me?”

“What?” Jeremy asked, hopeful.

“Leave me alone.”

When Jean got back, nearly the entire team was missing. Their stuff was still everywhere, littered across the sand. The sole remaining member was Rodney, lounging on a blanket, eyes closed behind his sunglasses.

“Hey,” he lazily called out to Jean.

Jean returned his greeting. Then, figuring he needed to get this out of the way, told Rodney he was sorry.

“About what happened earlier?” Rodney opened an eye and looked at Jean over the top of his sunglasses. “Don’t be.”

Rodney nodded his head at a nearby blanket, and Jean took the hint. He sat down, wondering what he’d done to deserve this special treatment, why Rodney wasn’t kicking him to the ground for his earlier behavior. Riko would’ve been furious about the entire situation, probably earning Jean another date with one of his favorite knives.

“Stuff like that happens more often than you’d think,” Rodney continued, in that lazy manner, as if he was half asleep, oblivious to Jean’s internal struggles. “You take forty people who’ve never met each other, come from different backgrounds and beliefs, and throw them all onto a court together? It takes a while to form that bond.” He paused and smiled, eyes still closed, “Hell, you should’ve seen Jeremy when he first came here. Just as skittish as you are. And look at him now.”

“I’m not skittish,” Jean argued, then mentally kicked himself for talking back. Again.

Rodney’s smile only got wider, “Call it what you want. But I see you.”

He was silent for a moment, leaving Jean to his thoughts. He wondered what made Rodney seem so practiced at this, so at ease. Was it a learned skill, or something he’d been born with, built into his DNA? He couldn’t help but make the comparison to Riko. Every conflict at the nest tended to be made worse when Riko got involved; his angry demeanor only fanning the flames. But he’d seen Rodney calm his teammates down, pull them back from conflict. And both Rodney and Jeremy had been making significant effort to appease Jean, to make him feel welcome in this new team.

Jean wanted to ask more about Jeremy. The more he learned about him, the more questions he had. He couldn’t help but wonder if Jeremy’s past experiences were anything close to his own. Was this someone else who knew what it was like to be looked down on for years of his life? Did Jeremy also know what it was like to lose everything, then claw your way up, only to be knocked down again?

Rodney took a sharp breath in, then turned his head, looking at Jean.

“As captain, you learn how to read people.” He looked out to the ocean, took another deep breath, and resumed speaking, slowly, even by California standards. “You, Jean Moreau? You’re battling something. It might be external, might be internal, but it’s there. And these guys?” He turned his gaze back to Jean, “They can help you, but only if you let them. You get me?”

Jean bit his lip, annoyed at being read so openly.

“You know,” Rodney said, sitting up and stretching, cat-like, “I’m secretly jealous of them. They get to play with the best backliner in college exy, and I have to go play with a bunch of old heads in the pros.”

“I’m not that good,” Jean said, automatically.

Rodney laughed, getting to his feet.

“Is that what they were telling you back at Edgar Allan?” He held out his hand, and this time, Jean took it, letting Rodney pull him to his feet. “Man, fuck them.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve seen a lot of exy. You’ve got something special, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Rodney waited for a response, but Jean didn’t give him one, staring at his feet, unwilling to accept Rodney’s praises.

Then Rodney clapped his hands, once, as if closing the subject.

“I think it’s time for you to catch up with the rest of the team.”

Jean frowned, “Where are they? Did they leave?”

Rodney chuckled. “Nah, they’re seeing how far they can chuck that ball.” He nodded his head towards a large, grassy space a little further down the beach. When Jean squinted, he could just make out the clump of Trojans. Rodney shrugged. “I’m the reigning champ, so they made me go first.”

Jean’s curiosity got the better of him. He needed to know how he stacked up to Rodney.

“How far did you get?”

Rodney squinted at him, “I’ll tell you, but only if you agree to try it out yourself.”

Jean contemplated, but only for a moment. There was the possibility that his skills were wildly below those of the Trojans, that he would embarrass himself. But on the other hand…

“Done,” he said, eager to prove himself.

“One-thirty. Yards.”

Jean blinked. He’d never tried throwing the ball more than the length of the court; he hadn’t needed to. He’d seen his ball rebound halfway across the court, so it was possible he could get it that far and still hit his target.

“With accuracy?” he asked Rodney, impressed.

“No of course not,” Rodney laughed. “With accuracy? I could maybe get half that.”

Jean blinked, surprised. “You’re kidding.”

Rodney raised a brow. “You’re not impressed.”

“Compared to most of the Ravens?” Jean said, with disdain, thinking of their many drill sessions; his teammates’ inability to hit their mark from half-court. “Sure.”

“But you think you can do better?”

“I know I can do better,” Jean said, sure of his skills.

“Alright, raven boy,” Rodney smiled, “Show us what you’re made of.”

Chapter Text

Jean stepped onto the Trojan court and his body sang.

The eight weeks he’d spent away from the court might as well have been eight months. His body had been broken, his spirit crushed, but this had been the worst of all. Exy, the one thing that mattered, had been taken away from him. But no longer. He was on a court.

It did not matter that this was not the nest.

It did not matter that these were not the Ravens.

It did not matter that his friends were dead or hated him or lived hundreds of miles away.

Jean Moreau was on an exy court.

And damn did it feel good.

It had taken him a whole day to convince them to bring him here.

The morning after the party at the beach, he’d woken up late. He’d scrambled out of bed, worrying over the repercussions.

Owen and Laila had been sitting around their small, somewhat wobbly kitchen table, talking softly over empty mugs.

Their conversation petered out when he arrived.

“Coffee?” Owen asked, standing for a refill.

Jean’s worry dissipated as he remembered the previous day. If this team had rules, they were thrown out the window for the entire month of May.

He shook his head. “Ravens do not drink coffee.”

Owen chuckled. “You say that like you were some kind of hive mind.” His voice turned mocking, robotic, “Ravens do not drink coffee. Nor do we listen to music, eat pizza, or partake in anything that could be interpreted as ‘fun’.”

Laila snorted. “What’s that supposed to be? A robot?”

She was sitting with one knee pulled up, a sketchpad balanced on her leg, pencils scattered on the table in front of her.

Owen poured his coffee, then answered, definitively, “Brainwashed exy hive mind.” He turned to Jean. “Not that the Ravens are a brainwashed exy hive mind. But if they were, that’s what they would sound like.”

Eventually their conversation shifted to their plans for the day. Jean had hoped that they would make a trip to the court, but they’d already made up their minds; Jean needed to get himself groceries. And a sheet set. And bath towels. And about twenty other things he’d failed to bring with him that were apparently deemed more essential than exy.

It had been nice to sleep on pillows that second night, but he would’ve slept just as well on a bare mattress, fresh memories of a new court in his brain.

He was here now; that was all that mattered.

He breathed in deep, taking it all in; the painted lines, the polished wood, the thick plexiglass. On this court he would play for thousands of people, all packed into the stands. The seats, empty now, were a sea of red on all sides, broken up on the home and away sides by a pattern in yellow, spelling out USC.

Jean stretched his arms out, absorbing the feel of this court. The tall eastern windows let in the early morning sun. How strange it was to see the sky in his home court. How right it felt.

His fingers itched to hold a racquet. His feet begged to run on this floor. His arms ached to throw a ball clear across the court and watch it hit the wall on the other side, dead on target.

He ached, he ached, he ached.

He wanted to lay down on the court and never get up.

Then he remembered his last moment on the Raven court, cheek pressed into the polished wood, blood in his hair, unable to move his body without it burning in pain.

Maybe not that last one, then.

Then, suddenly, someone’s hand on his arm.

Jean spun around.

It was Jeremy.

“Sorry, man,” he said, in a whisper, as if he knew how sacred this moment was. “I said your name but…” he trailed off, then made a gesture like, forget about it. “We’re technically not supposed to be in here. There’s a camp starting in an hour.”

Jean struggled to school his emotions. He wanted to stay here all day, damn the stupid camp.

“I can show you the rest of it quick before we go?” Jeremy suggested.

Jean wanted to scream in frustration. He couldn’t care less about the rest of the complex; the court was all that mattered.

He took a deep breath in and counted to three in his head. Then, he lied, “I would like that.”

Jean obediently followed as Jeremy showed him the rest of the complex. He made mental notes as they went; nearly everything was shared between multiple sports.

This won’t be like Edgar Allan, he thought, the exy team can’t hide away.

They entered the weight room. It was larger than the one at Evermore, and a whole lot brighter, literally. Two stories tall, the south-facing wall was crowned with wide frosted windows, allowing the late morning light to filter down through the rest of the room. The bright reds and yellows of the Trojans were a stark change from the dark black and red of the nest, hidden deep below the stadium.

Jean’s memories of the nest brought to mind the question he’d been gnawing on all morning. The arrival of new blood had always brought with it an air of excitement, the upperclassmen eager to show off.

So why was Jeremy the only one here?

“You’re doing it again,” Jeremy said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts

“Doing what again?” Jean asked.

Usually very aware of himself, he had no idea what Jeremy meant. It was unsettling.

“You keep making this face, like you want to say something but you think I won’t like it.”

Jean tried deflecting, “I was just admiring the number of racks–”

Jeremy pivoted so he was smack in front of Jean.

“Don’t lie to me, Jean Moreau.”

His words were angry but his tone was jovial. And there was a smile hinting at the corner of his mouth.

“I was not–”

Jeremy’s finger prodded his chest. His smile grew wider, his eyebrows raised.

“What did I just say?”

Jean sighed, resigned. That smile was a better persuader than Riko’s knives had ever been.

“I was wondering why you were the only one showing me this. It was always such a big deal at,” he paused, watching his words, “Edgar Allan.”

Jeremy stepped back and looked away, shy all of a sudden.

That was odd.

“Why did the others not come with?” Jean asked, cautiously.

“You know what I just said about telling me what you were thinking?” Jeremy said awkwardly, a sheepish expression on his face. “Maybe we can forget that?”

Jeremy worried a hand into his golden hair. He continued speaking, his voice higher than normal.

“It doesn’t really matter why they’re not here. What matters is that I’m here, and I’m showing you around, and they’ll be here the next time we come.”

“You are not very good at lying,” Jean said, bluntly.

Jeremy looked at him, hopeful at first. But something in Jean’s expression must’ve told him it was futile. His shoulders slumped.

“Fine. None of us really knew what to expect, with you coming here.” He stepped over to the nearest squat rack and straightened the yellow plates, so that the red Trojan logos faced up. “It sucks, you know, listening to someone wax poetic about a team that always manages to beat you. Especially when that person willingly left that other team.”

Not willingly, Jean thought but didn’t say.

Jeremy dropped his hands and shrugged, “We drew straws.”

“You drew straws…”

“We drew straws to see who would show you around,” Jeremy said quickly, as if Jean wouldn’t be able to hear if he talked fast enough. “And I lost.”

“Oh,” Jean said, in a small voice.

He’d forgotten how the truth could sting more than a lie.

“Please don’t take it personal. We’ve never had a transfer from Edgar Allan before. We didn’t know what to expect, and honestly, I thought this was going to go way worse than it actually is.”

“I did not know what to expect, either.” Jean said, softly. He looked up, into Jeremy’s eyes. I’m telling you the truth, and that’s more than I’d give anyone else. “Ravens do not transfer.”

“Yeah.” Jeremy said dismissively, the moment suddenly over. “And they don’t drink coffee, either.”

Routine came back naturally.

Friendliness, not so much.

It was like learning to play left-handed all over again.

Jean stopped talking about the Ravens. Or, at least, stopped talking about his past with them like it was some sort of standard. His teammates still teased him to death about his strange habits, but at least the mood stopped dying the second he opened his mouth.

He started feigning interest in the things they were doing. That part was easy; he’d had good practice with Riko.

One morning, he came downstairs to find a piece of paper on the kitchen table, where he usually sat.

Laila was drawing on her sketchpad.

Owen was absent.

The paper won his curiosity.

"What is this?" Jean asked, fingering the paper. It was sturdy, like the stuff you'd find...in a sketchbook.

Laila shrugged. She was better at lying than Jeremy.

Jean flipped the paper over.

It was a drawing. An exy court, viewed from the nosebleeds, tiny players in various stages of play.

Jean hadn’t known it was possible to create a drawing that was so full of motion.

But that wasn’t what caught his eye.

In the background, looming over the court, was a giant figure of Jean, the gleam of victory in his eyes, a video game joystick in his hand.

"What is this?" he asked.

"You've already asked that question," Laila responded coolly, switching pencils and shading in an area on her sketch.

Jean tried to remember their conversation from the other day. What had Owen joked about?

"Exy mind control, or something?" Jean asked.

Laila glanced up at him, unbothered.

"Brainwashed exy hive-mind?" She looked back down to her notepad. "I couldn't get it out of my brain."

"Why am I –”

"The one in control? Isn't it obvious?"

It wasn’t, not to Jean anyways. It should’ve been Riko, it was always Riko.

He studied the drawing. One tiny exy team was wearing black and red. Jean looked closer, at their faces.

Riko. And Kevin. And Sixteen; MacMillan. He'd graduated last year, was drafted to the Atlanta Jays.

"These are all..."

"Actual players? Yeah. I looked up the lineup from last year’s finals."

Jean looked closer at the players in white. Laila in the goal, Alvarez and Rodney out on the backline, Jeremy lining up for a shot, facing off against a tiny Jean.

“I should thank you,” Laila said, “I had a bad case of artist’s block. That thing cleared it right up.”

She dropped her sketchpad on the table and slid it over to Jean. It was covered in drawings of clothes, in the colors of the LA Condors.

“It’s for this project I’m working on over the summer.” Laila explained before Jean could ask. “Trying to come up with actually fashionable women’s sports apparel. Then the ladies of the team can wear it when we go to their game in the fall.”

“You do this for fun?” Jean asked, picking up the sketchpad. It was impressive, but also the kind of thing that would’ve been shot down immediately at the nest. “They let you?”

“Let me?!” Laila scoffed. “Why, cause I’m a girl? Cause I’m black? This isn’t 1950, French boy.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Laila snatched her sketchpad back, flipping it shut.

“Sure, it’s not,” she said, gathering up her things and making to leave.

“Please, Laila. I did not mean anything by it.” Jean said quickly. She was angry. He had to think fast. How would he fix this if it were Riko?

“Your drawings are very good. Coach will be pleased.”

Laila stopped, turning back to him. She leaned in close, her deep brown eyes filled with hurt and anger.

“Fuck you, Jean Moreau.”

Then she strode out of the kitchen, leaving Jean alone with his drawing.

Jean spent the next month counting down the days until June. He set a rigorous routine for himself, one that would prepare him for what was sure to be a brutal start to summer conditioning.

He’d hit the gym for weights or lace up his shoes and go wherever his legs took him, mapping the campus and surrounding areas in his brain, savoring the warmth of the sun. It felt natural; counting reps and running sprints and tracking his nutrition.

And there was the added advantage that it kept him out of the house, away from the confusing social dynamics of his roommates.

But it wasn’t enough.

Jean had tried, really tried, to cut his nighttime habit. He told himself that he didn’t need the extra practices, that they’d just been a holdover from Kevin and the nest. But night after night, he struggled to fall asleep.

He tried counting sheep, drinking warm milk, and even watched the bizarre sleep videos Owen recommended. None of it worked, and after a week of sleepless nights, he’d decided to hit the court, just the one time.

The first night, Jeremy had been watching something on TV in the living room. Jean had waited until he went to sleep, and then snuck out the front door. But when he tried his card at the athletic complex, it hadn’t let him in. He’d found out the next morning that his access only went until 11pm, which meant going earlier, before everyone was asleep.

After thinking on it all morning, Jean finally brewed up a plan. He would detour to the locker room when he went back to the gym for his afternoon run and drop off whatever he would need for a week’s worth of practice. Then, when he left at night, he would tell his roommates he was just going for a walk, and not to wait up for him.

It was perfect.

And, of course, it hadn’t worked. The drop-off had gone fine, his roommates too busy with their own weekday tasks to pay much attention to him. But when he’d walked to the door at 9pm, Jeremy had asked where he was going. Jean had spun some lie about not being able to sleep and going for a walk, but Jeremy had insisted that he tag along, lest Jean get mugged in the dark.

It was back to the drawing board. After a week, Jean had nothing, until one night, when the answer fell into his lap.

It was late, and Jean was in the living room, talking to Jeremy while a reality TV show played in the background. Jean found it fascinating, how Jeremy could hold a conversation with him while half-listening to the show. Anytime something dramatic happened, Jeremy would pause their conversation to react to the events of the show. Once things settled down again, they would pick up where they left off, the show left to resume in the background.

After a particularly dramatic scene, resulting in one woman storming out of the room while the other contestants or housemates or whatever they were called on this show complained about her in cut-away interviews, Alvarez bounded down the stairs, wearing a shirt with buttons. And dress pants.

“Where to tonight?” Jeremy asked, without pause.

Alvarez glanced in the entryway’s mirror and carded her hands through her hair, trying unsuccessfully to tame the fly-aways.

“We’re checking out that sushi place downtown. That one Rodney said was really good.”

Jeremy’s eyes went wide.

“Getting fancy?” He asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, shut up,” Alvarez said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that expensive.”

“Expensive enough!” Laila sang, skipping into the room. She gave a spin, her colorful dress flaring out around her.

Her eyes landed on Jean and her smile faltered for a moment.

Things had been tense between them since that day in the kitchen. Jean knew how he’d fix things with Riko, but he’d learned the hard way that those tactics wouldn’t work on Laila.

Just as quickly, her gaze moved on, the smile was back, and Alvarez was whisking her out the door.

Jean pondered his problem. Perhaps he just needed to do the opposite of what worked on Riko. With Riko, he was always mitigating, trying to calm the situation, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. He doubted starting a shouting match with Laila would somehow fix the problem. Maybe what he really needed was to figure out what she wanted. Clearly she didn’t care about praise from their coach.

He glanced at Jeremy. Maybe he could help. Surely he knew what made Laila tick.

Jeremy angled his head towards the door. “You got a problem with that?”

Jean blinked. He didn’t know what Jeremy was talking about. He once again turned to his Riko playbook.

Shaking his head, the picture of innocence, he said, “No problems.”

Jeremy squinted at him, calculating. Then he leaned back and returned his attention to the TV, effectively ending the conversation.

On TV, one of the girls was in the interview room, “Like, when I hook up with a different guy every night, everybody starts calling me a slut. But, when she does it–”

It all clicked into place.

If Jean pretended that he was seeing someone, his roommates would let him leave at any time of day, no questions asked.

It was the answer he’d been waiting for.

The first night, he didn’t touch a racquet.

He’d swiped himself into the complex and had instantly felt self-conscious, like he wasn’t supposed to be there.

It was a strange feeling. Jean had never felt this way in the nest. The court was theirs, end of story.

But this was a shared space, not only for the exy team.

He walked the halls, listening to the dull hum of the HVAC system, waiting for someone to kick him out of the building, waiting for his roommates to show up after realizing he wasn’t at that burger place down the street with a girl he’d met at the gym.

Nothing happened.

His walk turned brisker until he was running, sprinting down the corridor, taking the stairs three at a time.

He changed as fast as he could manage, hopped onto a treadmill, and ran until he couldn’t feel his legs and his heart felt like it would burst.

Every time he thought about stopping, he’d turn the speed up another notch.

An hour passed, then two. By the time he stopped the belt, he was dead tired.

He hadn’t run like that in months.

Jean took a step and his leg buckled, collapsing from exertion.

He lay there on the floor, heart pounding.

He felt so alive.

He reached down, gently massaging his legs, willing the feeling back into them. Slowly, they complied.

Once he was confident that he could stand without toppling over, he made his way back into the locker room, showered, and changed into his street clothes.

His legs shook all the way back to the Trojans house, and he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Chapter Text

The freshmen all looked so young.

They gathered in the lobby of the sports complex, meeting the coaches, picking up packets of information, dorm keys, meal cards.

Jean had already gone through the line, had already shook hands and offered greetings. He’d dropped his stack of papers unceremoniously onto the bench beside him, his meal card tucked safely away in his wallet.

He knew what happened to rookies who lost their things.

Jeremy was in the crowd somewhere, chatting up freshmen, shaking hands, ensuring anxious parents that their children were in good hands. How many times had Jean witnessed Riko doing this same song and dance? Selling Edgar Allan exy, as he'd been bred to do.

The mass of people shifted, and Jean caught a glimpse of tan skin and golden curls. And that stupid shell necklace. Jeremy wasn’t just selling Trojans exy; he was selling California. And these parents were eating it up.

Their kids were, too. They were trying not to act it, but Jean knew firsthand what that blend of fear and excitement looked like on young faces.

The irony wasn’t lost on him; he knew how silly it was, to think of them as young, when he was the same age as them. But there was something about them.

Something that would surely be beaten out of them within their first week.

That one with the ego? He had probably been the captain and big record-breaker at his high school. Jean knew this routine. Three days into camp and he would realize he had to work just as much as everyone else.

The one chatting up everyone in the room? Soon she would find out that friendship doesn’t get you very high on the ladder.

How many times had he seen this play out? To be a Raven was to be beaten down until you were nothing and then claw your way back up or die trying. That was how you built strength. That was how you became the best.

But, Jean reminded himself, these weren’t Ravens.

They were Trojans. And Jean was in the exact same boat as the freshmen were; diving into the unknown.

He was just hiding it better.

He idly leafed through one of the packets he’d been handed. It was full of stats he’d already committed to memory. He tried matching up the names with the freshmen in front of him, but without their numbers on, he could only guess at their identities.

He glanced at his own line on the roster. Number 29. He’d been given a choice, but this was the best number he could get, with 1 through 28 already accounted for or permanently retired.

It was disgraceful for a member of the Perfect Court to fall so low.

Jean was fighting the urge to break something when a quiet voice said, “Is this seat taken?”

He glanced up. It was one of the freshmen. This one had very wide eyes, fear written all over his face.

“Oh, wow! Jean Moreau!”

His hands stuttered about, nervous. Then he muttered a soft ‘sorry’ and hurried away. It might’ve been endearing, coming from someone else, but all Jean could think was that this kid was going to be his teammate. And he wouldn’t have lasted two days in the nest.

The morning passed slowly. It was full of team meetings and group tours and severely lacking in exy.

Jean learned the freshmen’s names and, more importantly, their numbers. He’d sized them up, mentally matching their stats to their names, numbers, and faces.

The one who’d come up to him earlier was number Thirty-two, Eli Ecklund. He’d played for a small town in South Dakota. Jean had seen his film. He had potential, like a lot of the freshmen here, but his skills needed polishing. He was small, for a backliner, but that made him fast. He was quick to get to the ball and quick to hand it back to his strikers. He reminded Jean of Neil, in some ways. Except, unlike Neil, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

Jean couldn’t say the same for number Fifty-five, Dallas Rodgers. He was the one with the big ego, and he would not shut up. He’d played for some team in a wealthy northern suburb of Chicago. Team captain, record-breaking striker, academic award winner; check, check, check. Just like Jean had guessed.

He’d been trying to one-up Jean all morning, and unfortunately that idiotic streak seemed to continue over to lunch.

“You really like salad, huh?”

Jean stopped eating, his fork hovering over his plate, wondering what it would take to get some peace and quiet in this dining hall. At least at the nest, he’d been able to sneak away to his own table at meal times. But the Trojans all sat together, at one long table.

He glanced at Fifty-five’s plate: pizza, chicken sandwich, rice, hot dog.

Freshmen.

Jean resumed eating without speaking a word. He’d learned his lesson years ago; just because the dining halls offered pizza 24/7 did not mean you should be eating it for every meal. The freshmen would catch on soon enough, they always did.

“Seriously, how do you expect to play exy all afternoon with only a salad for lunch?”

“I do not,” Jean said, taking a final bite of salad and pushing back his chair. “That was just my first plate.”

Fifty-five looked confused. Jean stood up and turned around.

He was four steps away when Fifty-five blurted out, “You can get more?!”

Jean smiled, glad it was hidden from them.

Freshmen.

Unfortunately, it was not hidden from Jeremy.

“What are you smiling at, Moreau?” he chirped.

Jean froze, the smile falling from his face. Jeremy had caught him showing emotion far more than he should've, and each time, Jean had feigned ignorance and dismissed him. But Jeremy was wearing him down with that stupid smile of his.

Hesitantly, Jean gave a pointed look to his plate and replied, “Freshmen.”

Jeremy peered over Jean’s shoulder, then grinned wide and raised his eyebrows. He took a seat and immediately started heckling the freshman.

“Rodgers, I don’t see any green on that plate.”

Jean’s smile returned as he made his way to the food line. For the first time, he let himself believe that things would actually be different here; that he wouldn’t have to fight every waking minute of every day; that he could relax.

After filling his plate, he turned towards his table, and almost ran into someone.

But it wasn’t just anyone.

It was Riko.

Everyone was clapping.

Jean blinked, confused.

His plate was on the ground, face-down, his food scattered everywhere.

Laila’s hand was on his arm. “Jean? Come on, let’s sit you down.”

Dazed, he allowed himself to be led back to their table, confused at what had just happened.

Riko had been here? But how? He was supposed to be dead.

Laila sat him down at the far end, away from the freshman. She threw a worried glance over her shoulder.

Jean’s gaze followed. He craned his neck, trying to spot Riko. Jeremy was talking to the guy who he’d bumped into. It wasn’t Riko. Other than the haircut, this guy looked nothing like Riko.

What had he been thinking?

Jean watched as Jeremy clapped a friendly hand on the guy’s shoulder, then bent to pick up the fallen plate. When he glanced over to the Trojan table, Jean quickly averted his eyes, shame heating his face.

He’d let his imagination get the best of him and had made a fool of himself in front of the entire dining hall. He didn’t dare look over at the freshmen. They were probably all laughing about it. The famous Jean Moreau, reduced to a shaky mess on the first day of summer conditioning. What a joke.

Laila met Jeremy a few feet from the table. They spoke in hushed tones, but Jean could still pick up some of their words.

“-doesn’t know what happened. He just froze-”

They both gave worried glances at Jean, trying and failing to be conspicuous about it.

Jean clenched his hands into fists. This type of thing would’ve never happened at the nest. What was happening to him?

A plate was set down in front of him with a dull plastic clang. Grilled chicken breast and white rice. Exactly what he’d dropped on the floor.

Jeremy sat down across from him, clearly struggling to decide if he should speak or not.

“If you want to talk about it,” Jeremy said, then trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with the situation and not sure how to end that sentence.

Jean forcefully cut his chicken in lieu of a response.

Jeremy let out a self-conscious chuckle. Jean braced himself for another stupid story about Jeremy’s freshman year; he’d been telling them to the rookies all day.

But when Jeremy spoke, it wasn’t in that confident voice that said ‘listen to this silly thing I did four years ago!” He was quiet, and didn’t sound very sure of himself.

“You know, when I first came here, it was the furthest I’d ever been from home. I’d never even been on a plane before I came out for my first visit.” Jeremy paused. He glanced down the table at the freshmen, as if to confirm that they weren’t listening. “I was so nervous. I kept messing up in practice, and I thought I wouldn’t make any friends. I was so anxious that I couldn’t eat or sleep for, like, two days.”

Jean spared him a glance. He’d heard so many dumb sugar-coated stories over the past few hours that he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Jeremy Knox, captain of the Trojans, had gone without sleep or food for two whole days during conditioning without telling anyone. Jean imagined going into the weight room this afternoon without lunch, how light-headed he always got without food. Add sleep-deprivation to that? It was a miracle Jeremy hadn’t collapsed on the court.

“I had this notion that I could get by without any help, any support.” Jeremy used his fork to stir his vegetables around. “But that third day I’d woken up with horrible stomach cramps. And I started seeing things that weren’t really there. I was really scared something was seriously wrong with me. So, I booked it to the practice facility and told the first person I could find. That was Alvarez. She helped, and we were friends ever since.”

Jean, wondering what the point of all this was, asked, “So you think I’m not sleeping or eating?”

Jeremy laughed, for real this time. He gestured to Jean’s plate, “No, of course not. You eat like a horse.” He shook his head, sobering up. “I just want you to know that what happened today won’t define your college career. And if you need help, all you have to do is ask. I know what it’s like to be lonely in a new place.”

Jean wanted to deny it, push back, tell Jeremy he’d gotten it all wrong, that he was adapting fine. But je wasn’t. Strange as it was, he missed the uniformity and rigidity of the Ravens. But most of all, he missed Riko. He could be a real bastard sometimes, but damned if Riko wasn’t one of Jean’s closest friends.

"Thank you, for telling me this," Jean said.

It wasn't an admission, but it was as close as Jean could get.

Coach Rhemann’s office, like most of USC, was filled with sun. Jean squinted, looking out the floor to ceiling windows. Three stories down, practice fields sprawled. The thunks of baseballs hitting bats and shrill tweets of whistles were just loud enough to be heard through the glass.

He wished he could feel connected to the exy court like this.

The Trojans were finally scheduled for practice after lunch. They weren't doing anything fancy; just warmups and drills. Learning the basics so they were muscle memory by the time fall camp rolled around.

But Jean had a prior engagement.

He’d scheduled this meeting with Rhemann weeks ago. If he’d known then it would be conflicting with his precious court time, he may have tried wriggling his way out of it.

As it was, Jean had dejectedly taken the stairs up to the coach’s office as the freshmen tailed Jeremy and Laila into the locker rooms.

His teammates were two floors down, far from here. He couldn’t hear them, and they couldn’t hear him.

No one to hear you scream.

He pushed down that thought, hard.

Coach Rhemann swept into the room.

Jean knew Coach Rhemann’s age, on paper, but it was another thing to see him in person. At thirty-seven, he was far younger than any coach Jean had ever had. Jean had expected him to be dressed head-to-toe in Trojans livery. He wasn’t. He wore a white polo with charcoal gray slacks. The only sign of school spirit was the USC logo embroidered on the chest of his shirt.

He dropped a stack of folders on his desk. A boxy computer monitor, complete with keyboard and mouse, took up one corner of the desk. The other half was sparse in comparison, containing only a cup of pens and a light dusting of picture frames. Behind the desk hung more photos, these of past athletes, a vertical scrapbook of everything USC exy had to offer.

“Jean Moreau.” Coach Rhemann said cheerily as he closed the door, taking a seat in the arm chair opposite Jean. “How great it is to finally meet you.”

Jean fought to steady his breathing as he bowed his head formally. The Master always gave out his worst punishments behind closed doors.

“Sir,” he said to the carpet, “It is an honor to meet you. I would like to apologize for my behavior at lunch. I was weak. It will not happen again.”

“None of that, ‘sir’ stuff”, Rhemann said, shaking his hand impatiently. “I’m not as formal as Master Moriyama - ‘Coach’ is fine.”

Jean’s breath caught in his throat. The only people who called Tetsuji Moriyama ‘Master’ were his Ravens. And this man was no Raven; he’d played for Baylor.

“Now what’s all this about lunch?”

“Surely Jeremy told you?”

“I haven’t spoken to him since this morning.”

“Sir, I— Sorry, Coach. I—" Jean trailed off. He didn’t know why he was finding it so difficult to articulate what he’d done. “I thought someone in the dining hall was Riko and showed weakness of composure. I have dishonored you and your team and will accept whatever punishment you feel fit to apply.”

Rhemann was quiet for a few moments.

“I’m going to tell you what I heard, and I want you to tell me if I’m correct, okay? You thought you saw your friend, who recently passed, in the dining hall and you, what, lost your temper?”

“I dropped my tray,” Jean said, replaying the event in his mind. The Master would’ve caned him within an inch of his life for that stunt. How many times had it been drilled into his head that Ravens needed to stay composed in the face of the public?

“That’s all?” Rhemann smiled. “And you want me to give you some sort of consequence for this?”

“It was unprofessional and reflected poorly on me and my team.”

Coach Rhemann sighed and looked out the window, thinking.

“Jean, grief can manifest in many ways. Sometimes, in ways we have no control of.”

The knot in Jean’s stomach loosened just a bit. Was he hearing this correctly?

“You are not mad at me?”

“No, of course not. You’ve been through a lot. Losing a close friend like that? Our brains can handle a lot, but even so, that is a big change. It will take some time for you to process. And in that time, there are bound to be road bumps.”

“How long will it take?”

Rhemann laughed heartily. “Jean, you are young. Be patient. Time is one resource you have an abundance of.”

Jean wanted to argue that. Since he was ten, he’d had only so long as the Moriyamas would give him. Now, his deadline was more real than ever; if he chose to go pro but didn’t make the cut for a professional team, he would be killed at the end of the year. Even if he cleared that hurdle, his life was tied to his playing career.

Time was a luxury he could not afford to waste.

Coach Rhemann cleared his throat and tapped his clipboard, oblivious to Jean’s struggles. “Normally this conversation would’ve already happened, during one of your official visits. Seeing as you didn’t have any of those, this will have to do.”

Jean knew what he was referring to, although he’d never gone through the process himself. Nearly all high school athletes made at least one official visit to the college that they hoped to attend. Most made multiple, trying to gauge which program would be the best fit for them before they committed. A similar process was typically done for transfer students as well. It was incredibly rare to be in Jean’s situation; he hadn’t had so much as a phone call with Rhemann before signing the transfer paperwork.

“I like to start with a simple question,” Rhemann said, leaning forward eagerly. “Why Exy?”

The question might’ve been simple but the answer was anything but. Jean knew his immediate answer; he’d signed a contract and to breach it meant death. But there was more to it than that, or at least there had been, when he was younger. Jean thought back to his childhood, when he’d first started playing, before it had become all tangled up with Moriyamas, before failing at Exy meant hard consequences. Some of that remained, even now. Jean thought of the excitement that coursed through his veins when he made a particularly challenging save. The satisfaction of teaching a teammate a new skill and seeing the moment that it clicked. He had a natural talent for exy; wrapped up in the Moriyamas as it may be.

“Exy is the language through which everything makes sense. I cannot imagine what I would be without it.”

Rhemann looked surprised by his answer.

“You know, Jean, most guys just tell me they liked it better than football or something,” he joked. “I’ve talked to professional athletes who haven’t had that level of respect for the sport. It takes an intelligent player to make a statement like that.”

Jean fought the instinct to dismiss his praise. He’d spent so long living under Riko’s shadow, pretending that he was less of a person, worse of an exy player, all to make Riko look better.

Tentatively, he said, “Thank you, Coach.”

Rhemann looked at him for a few seconds, his face unreadable.

“I don’t lie, Jean. You’re very good. Any coach or teammate who says otherwise doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Jean looked down, focused on the carpet. He could hear Rhemann scribbling something on his notepad.

Rhemann sighed. “Alright, enough with the deep stuff. I want to know more about you. Your hopes and dreams, your past failures, your background, your family. Anything you want to share.”

“I play exy.”

Rhemann barked out a laugh. “Right, we all do that. Well, me not so much, but–” He cut himself off and stared at Jean expectantly. “What else?”

“That’s all there is.”

“Jean, Exy does not take up every waking hour of your day. What do you do outside of practice?”

“I study stats. Watch film.”

When Rhemann finally spoke, it was more to himself, “They really did a number on you.”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Jean lied.

Rhemann stood and crossed the room to his desk. He opened a drawer, sifting through it to find something.

Jean cursed himself, his body tensing in anticipation of a punishment. His answers obviously had not been satisfactory, and now Rhemann was going to make him pay for it.

But what Rhemann pulled out was not an implement of torture.

It was a piece of paper. A photo.

Rhemann returned to his chair. “Did you know that you’re the first Raven to transfer out of the program since I started coaching? Other than Kevin, that is.”

Jean let out a huff. “Kevin did not transfer. He quit. I am the first. Ever.”

“Hah.”

“It is true. Ravens do not transfer.”

“Is that what Master Moriyama told you?” Rhemann tapped the photo against his hand. “Have you actually looked through those old rosters yourself?”

Jean had not. Surely, he’d had no need to. What would the Master get out of lying to them?

Rhemann chuckled. “See, that's the sort of thing that only works on college students. Anything that happened more than 4 or 5 years ago? Might as well not have happened at all.”

He leaned forward, handing the photo to Jean.

A younger Rhemann, wearing Raven colors.

"Transferred out my sophomore year.” Rhemann explained. “Saw something I probably shouldn't have and... Well, you know how they are.”

"This isn't in your records,” Jean stated bluntly. He’d spared no detail in researching his new team; that included the staff and coaches.

"Course it's not. They forbade me to ever mention it. And this was before the Internet so...” He spread his hands like a magician making something disappear.

"You were a Raven.” Jean said, as if speaking it out loud could help him process it. Rhemann was fifteen or twenty years older now, but there was no mistaking the man in the photo. He was wearing the all-black uniform the Ravens favored for home games, standing in front of the stadium. It was the same location Jean had taken his own rookie shot.

Jean wondered how much Rhemann knew, if he could be trusted. Raven secrets were for Raven ears. But fifteen years was a lot of time. Things changed.

He looked back at the photo, at Rhemann’s jersey.

"Number 47?" He asked. Raven numbers only went up to forty.

"What’s wrong with 47?!” Rhemann said in defense, holding his hand out to take back the photo. Jean gave it back, his question answered.

"I'm sure a whole lot else has changed since then,” Coach reminisced. “Did Athletics finally cave and let the team use those practice facilities in the stadium?"

Jean nodded, but didn't elaborate. As far as the public knew, practicing was the only thing the Ravens did in that stadium. The press would have a field day if they found out the team was living in it. Jean would not be the one responsible for bringing that hell down to earth.

"Yeah, Moriyama was pushing hard for that during my time." Rhemann stated, staring into space. Finally, he set the photo down and turned back to Jean.

“Jean, I bring this up because I want you to know that you can trust me. Anything you tell me in here? It stays between us unless you give me explicit permission otherwise. I may not know everything you’ve been through, but I have to believe we’ve had some shared experiences. If you need someone to talk to, my door is always open.”

“Thank you, coach.”

“You’re very welcome, Jean. Now, let’s get through the rest of this as quick as we can. I believe there’s a court waiting for you downstairs.”

Jean ran his hands over the equipment waiting in his locker. It was all reds and yellows where his previous gear had been black, black, black.

When he closed his eyes, it all felt the same.

A sudden sense of urgency coursed through his veins. Jean changed as fast as his fumbling hands would let him and scurried out to the court.

The freshmen were working on drills; Jeremy leading the offense and Laila the defense. Jean watched, eagerly flicking his eyes from one individual to the next, picking apart their techniques, gauging how accurate his film analysis had been.

Take Fifty-five. He’d picked up this drill right away but was now chatting with the girl next to him rather than continuing to practice it.

Laila was talking with Thirty-two, helping him through the motions required to execute the drill. Jean wasn’t surprised that this was hard for him; there was always a bigger gap for the recruits who came from smaller programs.

When they paused for water, Jean took the opportunity to open the heavy court doors and step inside.

Jeremy, as usual, was the first to notice him.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to join us.”

“I could not let you have all of the fun without me,” Jean replied with a smirk.

“We’re taking a quick break for water, then starting on some partnered drills. You want to help me set things up?”

Jean followed Jeremy to the supply closet, where they pulled out a number of practice dummies, the kind that the football team used for tackling practice. They arranged them in a big zig-zag pattern down the length of the court, creating triangular pockets for the drill.

This drill was a two-in-one. First, a striker would start at the wide end of the triangle with a backliner in the middle. The striker would run towards the backliner, trying to get past them without losing the ball or getting tackled. The longer it took the striker to execute the drill, the harder it became for them; it was a lot harder to get past someone with only a yard or two on either side. Then the striker would switch positions, starting at the narrow end of the V so that the backliner now had the tougher job.

“The practice dummies work better for this than cones,” Jeremy told Jean as they set them up. “Gives a real sense that the court is closing in on you.”

It was an interesting concept, something that the Ravens never would’ve implemented into their training program. The Master had believed that technique mattered above all else. Situational drills were useless in his eyes.

One of Jean’s first years at the nest, there’d been a freshman on the college team who’d had trouble with in-game play. Thea had complained about him constantly, how he was in control during practice, but the minute he stepped into the game, he froze up; missing targets, dropping passes.

The Master had chewed him out in front of the whole team. Jean had looked on from a hiding spot in one of the club boxes, Riko and Kevin crouched down next to him.

Later that night, when he met with Kevin for night practice, that freshman was still on the court, working through his drills, drenched in sweat, dead on his feet.

It was no surprise that drilling for technique didn’t improve his performance anxiety, but that was all that the Ravens were conditioned to do.

As he dragged the practice dummies into place, Jean wondered if a drill like this would’ve helped that freshman. There was only so much you could do to simulate a stadium full of fans, but maybe this would’ve given him a sense of the panic that came with a real game.

Once the court was ready, Jeremy and Laila had everyone pair up in twos.

“Rodgers, let’s put you with…” Jeremy trailed off, looking around the room to see who hadn’t yet been paired.

“I want Moreau.” Fifty-five said, looking straight at Jean.

Jean glanced over at Jeremy. He looked nervous, like he didn’t think this was a good idea.

“How about you take someone else to start with. What about Eli?”

“Him?” Fifty-five laughed coldly. “No. I want Moreau.”

Jeremy looked at Jean, raising his eyebrows in plea for help. Jean didn’t know what he expected him to say. If the kid wanted to take him on, Jean would let him. It would do him good to get knocked down a peg.

“Fine, you’re with Moreau,” Jeremy conceded. “Eli, you can go against me.”

They started with the striker drill, at Fifty-five’s request.

Fifty-five lined up on the starting line, fifteen yards on either side of him. To beat Jean, he’d have to run clear past him to the other sideline. Jean was set up at the halfway point, where the space narrowed to eight yards on either side.

“Ready?” Fifty-five yelled at Jean.

“Yes,” Jean shouted back.

Fifty-five spun his racquet, bounced on his feet, and took off, closing the gap.

Jean rushed to meet him. Fifty-five didn’t make it ten yards before Jean was there, stealing the ball away from him.

“Is this the best you can do?” Jean taunted.

Fifty-five swiped the hair out of his eyes and re-adjusted his bandana.

“Again,” he demanded.

Jean happily obliged.

They continued drilling; on and on and on, until Jean was breathing heavy and high on exertion. Everything else fell away. There was only this.

Jean felt so alive.

Sometime later, he noticed Fifty-five start to tire. He spared a glance at other pairs. They had all switched positions.

“We should switch,” Jean said. “You take the easier role.”

“No.” Fifty-five demanded. “I haven’t got past you yet.”

“And you won’t. Take the easier role.”

“No. We go again.”

Jean rubbed a hand over his face. This was getting ridiculous. He strode towards Fifty-five.

“Switch with me. Now.” Jean said, reaching out to grab Fifty-five’s racquet. Maybe he could drag him to the other side of the court.

“No!” Fifty-five said indignantly, pulling his racquet out of Jean’s reach, standing his ground.

Stubborn bastard.

Jean needed a new idea; a way to get him to the other side of the court.

Then, it hit him.

“Fine,” he conceded, retreating to the middle of the court.

The next round, Jean didn’t put up a fight. He let Fifty-five fly right past him.

“Yeah!” Fifty-five yelled, pumping his fist into the air. Then he looked back, realizing what side of the court he was on. “Hey, wait a minute. You tricked me. You didn’t even try, you let me right through!”

“Did I?” Jean smirked.

“That’s not fair!”

“Is it?” Jean asked nonchalantly. He got into position. “Why don’t you show me how unfair it is?”

“Fine. But don’t go easy on me.”

Jean nodded his assent. It was time to pull out some of his Raven tricks.

Fifty-five gave his racquet a spin and charged towards Jean. Jean blocked him, hard.

Fifty-five fell to the ground, racquet skidding across the court. He sat there for a second, then got to his feet and jogged to where his racquet lay.

“Again?” Jean asked.

“Again,” Fifty-five demanded.

The next drill, Jean threw in a nasty taunt.

Then, another hard block.

Jean glanced around at the others as Fifty-five got back into position. They were all invested in their own drills, none of them paying attention to Jean and Fifty-five.

This time, Jean waited until Fifty-five was close, then looped his racquet around Fifty-five’s and twisted. Fifty-five shouted in pain and dropped his racquet, rubbing at his wrists.

Jean smirked, picking up the racquet. He held it out where Fifty-five could grab it. “Would you like to stop?”

Fifty-five took the racquet back. “No,” he said, his voice cracking. “Again.”

They lined up, and this time, Jean didn’t hold back. He charged towards Fifty-five, lowering his head at the last second and ramming it into Fifty-five’s.

The force was enough to launch the freshman off his feet, landing on his back a few feet away.

Jean watched, waiting for Fifty-five to get up.

Instead, he saw Fifty-five reach up and pull off his helmet, throwing it across the court. He made no move to get up.

Jean looked across the court, between the practice dummies, searching for Jeremy. He had just finished a rep with Thirty-two, easily making it to the other side of the backliner. Jean locked eyes with him and motioned to Fifty-five.

Jeremy ran over, concerned.

“What happened? Is he hurt?”

“I do not know.”

“Did you ask him?” Jeremy lowered his voice, so that only Jean could hear, “He’s two years younger than you for fuck’s sake.”

Jean watched as Jeremy ran over to Fifty-five and crouched down. “Dallas what’s wrong?” He asked, placing a hand on Fifty-five’s chest.

Fifty-five shoved his hand away and got to his feet. “Fuck this,” he shouted, and marched off to the locker room.

Jean couldn’t say for sure, but it looked like he was crying.

Jeremy looked flustered. “Jean and Eli, pair up,” he said, loud enough so that Thirty-two could hear him across the court. Then, to Jean, he whispered, “Go easy on him, yeah?” And he ran after Fifty-five.

Jean watched as Thirty-two shuffled through the lines of practice dummies, wondering where he’d gone wrong. Fifty-five was the one who hadn’t known his limits, yet Jean was the one who’d been scolded. At the nest, the sooner the freshmen realized they weren’t in high school, the better. The Ravens did everything they could to bring them up to par as quickly as possible. But that seemed to be the wrong move here at USC.

He was still in his head when Thirty-two reached him. They stood in silence for a few moments. Jean wondered briefly if the scene Fifty-five made would make Thirty-two afraid of him.

Thirty-two cleared his throat and quipped, “Do you think Jeremy realized we’re both backliners?”

Jean looked down at him. He was smirking, only the slightest hint of fear in his eyes.

“Typical striker,” Jean replied.

Thirty-two snorted out a laugh while Jean tried to keep a smile from spreading across his face.

When Laila called practice at 6:00, the freshmen booked it to the locker rooms, eager for dinner.

Jeremy and Fifty-five had returned some time ago, and the team had shifted to individual work time for the remainder of practice, working on whichever drills they felt needed it the most.

Jean watched them go as he helped Jeremy and Laila put away the equipment. At the nest, he’d learned to hang back at the end of practice; the locker room was a vulnerable place to share with the sharks. The habit was too ingrained in him to stop now.

Once they were finished, Laila split off to the women’s locker room as Jean and Jeremy headed to the men’s. The locker rooms in the practice facility served all sports, so they were located an inconvenient distance from the practice exy court.

They turned the last corner and Jean stopped dead in his tracks.

Moriyamas, in the lobby. Ichirou and two bodyguards, in crisp black suits.

No, Jean told himself, It’s all in your head.

Jeremy sent Jean a worried glance as he brushed past him, hurrying towards the lobby.

“Hello! Are you guys here for the –” he cast a furtive glance back at Jean, “—the donor event?”

“Yes, we are.”

Jean’s attention snapped back to the man he’d thought was Ichirou.

They locked eyes, and the man smiled.

It was Ichirou.

Jean’s heart jumped into his throat. What did Ichirou want with him? Had he messed up already?

“Yeah, so that’s not in this building.” Jeremy explained, as Ichirou continued to stare at Jean. “It’s in the other one.” He pointed out the doors. “Go across the lawn here and it’s that one with the big glass windows.”

Ichirou’s gaze turned to Jeremy.

“Thank you, Jeremy Knox.”

He took one last look at Jean before turning and walking out the doors.

Jean stood in the hallway, frozen, watching as Jeremy walked back towards him but unable to move a muscle.

“You know that guy?” Jeremy asked.

Jean swallowed nervously. “Riko’s brother,” he rasped out.

“I didn’t know Riko had a brother.”

“He does,” Jean said, before shaking his head and correcting himself, “Did.”

“I didn’t know he was a donor for USC exy,” Jeremy commented.

“Neither did I.”

Chapter Text

Ichirou found Jean after dinner.

He’d been wandering the practice facility, trying to find a good place to sit by himself while he waited for practice to roll around. The Trojans’ table had split in two. Three, if you counted Jean. He’d spent dinner alone with his thoughts.

Finally, high up on the fifth floor, he’d gotten a glimpse of the perfect spot; a nook at the end of the hallway, bordered by windows. He’d almost missed it; the sun had started its descent and nearly blinded him as it shone it into the long hallway.

“Hello, Jean.”

Jean spun around, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor.

Ichirou stood at the other end of the hallway, twenty yards away. One of his bodyguards stood watch at the top of the stairs.

“Sir,” Jean said, loudly, unsure how his voice would carry. He wasn’t used to Ichirou, didn’t know his mannerisms like he’d memorized Riko’s. He started to get to his knees, erring on the side of politeness.

“No need to kneel,” Ichirou scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. His shoes clacked loudly on the floor as he came towards Jean. “Haven’t I told you I’m not my father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And enough with the sirs. I’m most certainly not my uncle.”

Jean tensed, as he always did when Ichirou was around. Riko and Ichirou bore many similarities; Jean had never had trouble believing they were brothers. Same straight black hair, dark brown eyes, fair complexion. They both carried themselves with a certain air, like they thought they were better than everyone else. But it came out in different ways. Riko used a more direct approach, beating down those around him with angry words, hard fists, sharp knives. Ichirou was more subtle. He had a charisma that made Jean nervous, like he was two steps ahead in some unknown game of chess.

“Well? Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

Ichirou likes to hear himself talk, Jean thought. Just like his brother.

“Why are you here?” He asked out loud.

Ichirou smirked. Jean wondered if he’d practiced that to get it just the right mix of charm and condescension.

“With the ever-unfortunate passing of my younger brother, I’ve turned to philanthropy.”

Ichirou circled Jean, like a wolf sizing up its prey. Jean tried his best to stand tall; his habit of hunching his shoulders was long-ingrained and hard to break.

Ichirou paused, reaching out a hand to pinch Jean’s cheek. “Who better to support than my brother’s dear friends?”

Jean tried not to flinch at the contact. Ichirou’s hands were ice cold. Everything he said sounded like a threat.

“You’re no fun,” Ichirou declared, suddenly bored. A mannerism that was so Riko, it hurt. “I’ve started a scholarship in Riko’s name. This year, it goes to you. It allows my people and myself to be seen around campus without raising too many questions.”

“Around campus?”

“Of course. I’ll have people at all of your games, some of your practices. My scouts need to have the most up-to-date information if they’re going to place you on a professional team.”

Jean remembered his conversation with Kevin, his choice. He’d told Kevin there was no way he’d turn down the option to go pro. But he’d never said a thing to Ichirou, who was talking like the decision had already been made.

“I thought I had a choice.”

“A choice?” Ichirou laughed darkly. “Is that what Kevin told you?”

Ichirou took a step closer. When he spoke, his breath was warm on Jean’s face.

“There is no choice. Not for you, Jean Moreau. If you do not go pro, you die. I will kill you myself and leave your body where they will find it.”

A shiver ran through Jean’s spine.

“Perhaps the one with the blonde curls should be the one to discover it? He seems ever so taken with you.”

“Please,” Jean found himself saying.

Ichirou smirked. “Funny. That’s the same thing my brother said, before I put a gun to his head.”

Jean’s vision blurred. He’d spent the past few months worrying over his decisions, wondering what he could’ve done better, done different to prevent Riko from pulling the trigger. He was sure there was something. There had to be something.

But if Ichirou was telling the truth…

If Ichirou was telling the truth, then it didn’t matter. He’d been worrying over nothing.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Ichirou said, placing a finger under Jean’s chin. Jean fought the urge to flinch, trying to keep his face blank. It was futile. Ichirou read him like a book. “Oh, how you must’ve agonized over it. Wondering what you could’ve done to prevent it.” He removed his finger and turned away, laughing. “I’d decided to end his life before you even started the first round of the championships.”

Jean blinked, hard. He wanted to hit something and he wanted to cry and he didn’t know which urge would consume him first. But he couldn’t do either in front of Ichirou.

“Oh, and Jean?” Ichirou asked once he’d reached the end of the hallway. “Don’t forget I still own you.”

Ichirou descended the stairs as Jean’s vision went red, his pulse pounding in his ears.

When he came to his senses, Ichirou was gone, and he was late for practice.

Evening practice went off-script before it began.

“Hey, Jean Moreau,” Thirty-two called from down the hallway, as he was headed towards the locker room, “They want us in the theater.”

The theater was the big, lecture-hall sized room they’d started their day in. It had tiered seating facing a large whiteboard and projector screen, used for full-team meetings and near-useless off-court activities.

Jean failed to see the purpose for congregating there. They were scheduled for more court time after dinner, and he wasn’t planning on wasting a second of it. Ichirou’s visit had filled him with a restless energy. He needed to hit some balls with a stick.

“No. I am going to the court.”

Thirty-two ran a hand through his hair, awkwardly. “I don’t think you get a choice.”

The anger Jean was barely holding at bay bubbled back up, and Jean nearly lost it.

Everyone was telling him what to do. Kevin, Thea, Ichirou. Now this freshman. What did he know? Why did he get to tell Jean how he should be spending his time? It was ridiculous. Riko never would’ve stood for it. Jean shouldn’t have stood for it. He was Jean Moreau. He was a Raven. He didn’t listen to freshmen.

“Jean. Eli.”

Coach Anderson greeted them as she walked by. The defensive coordinator for the Trojans, she was a no-nonsense woman, the human embodiment of those scrubby bushes that liked to cling to the sides of mountains. She had been one of the pioneers of exy at the collegiate level, back when players and fans alike weren’t quite sure how the co-ed sport would work out. A number of them wanted teams and leagues to be segregated by gender. Some thought women should stick to specific positions: dealers, strikers, certainly not backliners or goalies. Many wanted women to be out of the sport entirely. She’d stood her ground and played four record-breaking years as goalie for Oregon.

Coach had almost turned the corner when she stopped and waved her arm impatiently. “Theater. Let’s go.”

Thirty-two glanced at Jean cautiously, an eyebrow raised.

Jean sighed. Riko would not have stood for this.

But Jean was not Riko.

He took a step forward, and followed the freshman down the hall.

Twenty minutes later, Jean was following the assistant coaches through campus, exy gear in hand.

Their trip to the theater had rapidly morphed into a trip to the court.

“Let’s keep this between us,” Coach Anderson had said. “Coach Rhemann doesn’t need to know a thing.”

Jean very much doubted that this was an actual spur of the moment decision.

But he wasn’t going to ruin it for the freshmen.

He could hear them chattering behind him, excited to complete their first practice within their new home stadium.

Jean kept his guard up. In the nest, last-minute changes usually led to one thing: hazing.

Though, in the nest, the coaches weren’t usually in on it. Things were done late at night, after hours, when no one was around to ask questions. This tactic was…interesting.

“So, Jean,” Coach Murphy asked as they marched past the campus green. “How was your first day as a Trojan?”

Brett Murphy was the strength and conditioning coach. He was in his 40s, short and stocky, his head devoid of hair except in his extremely bushy brown eyebrows. Jean eyed the whistle hanging around his neck, expecting it would be the common link of countless hours in the gym.

“Good,” Jean grunted out. In truth, it had been anything but good, but he was not going to leak that to a coach of all people.

“And how are you liking California so far?”

“It is good.”

Coach Murphy cleared his throat with a grunt. “Are you nervous to meet the rest of the team tomorrow?”

Right. That.

Jean had forgotten that the veteran Trojans would be returning tomorrow, to join the rookies at their practices. Given how well things were going with the rookies, Jean wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.

He responded on impulse, “Ravens do not get nervous.”

“Is that what you guys tell yourselves?”

Jean ground his teeth in lieu of a response.

“You’re living with…Brown and Collins?”

Jean had to assume he meant Jacob Brown and Zach Collins. Both were strikers for the Trojans, going into their sophomore year with the team.

“Knox,” Jean responded. “Dermott and Alvarez. O’Donnell.”

“Right,” Coach Murphy said, as if he hadn’t purposefully gotten it wrong to force more than a one-word answer from Jean. “Good group right there. How are they treating you?”

“Fine.”

“You’re a man of few words, aren’t you, Moreau?”

Jean didn’t answer. He was rewarded with silence for the rest of the walk.

The court itself looked very similar to the previous time Jean had visited.

But there was one key difference.

Four rows of black folding chairs were set up in the middle of the court. Just over half were already filled with men and women of all ages.

Jean found Ichirou in an instant.

Confused, he took a seat as far away from him as possible.

Once the rookies were all seated, Rhemann addressed them.

“My sincere apologies to anyone who was desperately looking forward to another round of drills.” His eyes landed on Jean before skimming away to someone else. “But we have slightly different plans for this evening.”

As he finished speaking, the overhead lights dimmed, replaced by a number of small spotlights. Their red and yellow beams swept rapidly over the floor of the court. Fog started pouring out of the home team tunnel.

Then, a voice blared out of the loudspeakers.

“INTRODUCING YOUR USC TROJANS!”

On cue, the Trojans started pouring out of the tunnels, to the sound of their fight song. They were a blur on the court, running past the rows of chairs to the far end of the court and back again, then lining up in a row on first-fourth.

With their helmets on, Jean could tell his new teammates apart only by their numbers. He went down the line, mentally reciting their stats, recalling their faces from their public mugshots.

As the fog dissipated and the lights came back up, Rhemann spoke up again.

“Rookies, let’s give it up for your vets!”

Jean clapped politely along with the freshmen.

“Vets!” Rhemann turned, facing his team. “These are your rookies.”

They went wild, hooting and hollering, clapping and stomping, jumping up and down.

Jean was sure they would go on all night.

Rhemann waved an arm and they reluctantly silenced themselves.

“This is a great moment. It’s always so special, getting the team together for the first time like this. Rookies, these vets have been waiting for months to meet you. And vets, these rookies have been hard at work today, learning what it takes to be a Trojan.

“Tomorrow, the hard work begins. We’ve only got a few months and then the season will be here. Make every second count. Rookies, you haven’t heard my whole spiel yet, but you will. These vets can tell you by the end of your time here at USC you will be better men and women in all aspects of your lives. Athletically. Academically. Socially. Spiritually. What you learn on this court will go with you for the rest of your life. You will learn lessons that you will be able to apply to your careers, your relationships, your families. Playing this sport at this school is one of the best decisions you can make, for your present self, and your future self. Athletes who come through here, through this program, are better for it.”

Rhemann paused, taking a breath. He motioned to the people sitting in the chairs.

“Rookies, as you’ve noticed we have some special guests today. These are a few of our many donors. They know what this program means to our university, to our community, and to you, our athletes. They have offered their generous support so that you can be here today. Let’s give them a big Trojan round of applause.”

Jean clapped politely, focusing all his attention on anything that was not Ichirou.

“I’m sure you’re all eager to meet each other. Vets, you know how this works. Show your rookies where you go. Rookies, it’s time to meet your vets.”

With that, chaos was unleashed. Each position group was shouting over each other.

“Strikers!” Jeremy yelled, waving his racquet above his head. “Strikers over here!”

Jean glanced around until he found Alvarez and Owen, waving around cardboard signs like the one they had given him when he’d arrived at the airport.

Once their group had assembled, Alvarez folded her sign in half and shoved it under her arm, then clapped her hands once to get their attention.

“Hey everybody, welcome to the backline! We’re really excited to meet you all. We’ll do a little get to you know thing and then we’ll get back together as a full team for a little scrimmage action.”

She glanced around, waiting for questions or maybe even objections.

There were none.

“Alright Owen,” she continued, “lead the way.”

The usual spot for the backliners was apparently halfway up the stands, right in the middle of the ‘S’ of the big gold USC. They gathered around in a circle, the vets cramming into the stadium seats with their gear, some sitting sideways or backwards in order to see their teammates.

Jean sat at the top of the group, facing the court.

He was only half paying attention to the festivities.

Every time he looked down at the crowd of donors below, Ichirou was staring directly at him.

His words from earlier were playing on loop in Jean’s brain.

If you do not go pro, you die.

A girl across the circle was introducing herself. Charlie, pre-med.

I will kill you myself and leave your body where they will find it.

Jean went over her bio to distract himself. Number Eighteen. Good aim, lacking in power, too timid to get in there and fight for the ball.

Perhaps the one with the blonde curls should be the one to discover it?

Jean was in the concourse before he could think twice.

He ran, not quite sure where he was going.

He ended up in the locker room.

He shoved himself into a corner and wrapped his hands around his knees. The horrible truths he’d learned came crashing down around him.

Kevin had lied.

Riko hadn’t killed himself.

Jean had no control over his future.

The past three months were a total lie.

And now he was stuck here. His teammates hated him. He couldn’t play well with others. This entire year would be a disaster. He would crash and burn and Ichirou would find him and kill Jeremy in front of him and then finish Jean off and there was nothing he could do about it.

If this was the nest, Kevin would’ve found him. No matter where he hid, no matter how quiet he was, Kevin had always found him.

Kevin had always made it better.

Jean didn’t want one of his new teammates to find him. They would just make things worse.

He was glad he’d learned to cry without making a sound.

“Jean.”

Jean flinched at the sound of Laila’s voice, cold and commanding.

He’d lost track of time. He should’ve gone back ages ago; now she was coming to punish him.

If this was the nest, Riko would’ve expected obedience, order, composure.

Jean wiped the tears from his face with his shirt sleeve and stood at attention, eyes to the floor, face turned away.

“You can’t just dip out whenever you want to.”

She sounded annoyed. Jean dared not look her in the eye. If he looked at her, she would know he’d been crying. She would know he was weak.

“Are you even listening to me?”

When she put her hand on his arm, Jean flinched back on instinct, his head hitting the brick wall.

Laila pulled her hand back.

“Oh,” she said, awkwardly. “Jean, I didn’t know.”

Jean couldn’t look at her. He stared at the floor, analyzing the carpet.

“Um, are you okay?”

Jean thought that was an utterly pointless question; anyone with eyes could see he wasn’t okay.

“Why do you care?” Jean asked, wanting Laila to go away. “You hate me.”

“Yeah, well I’m also your captain,” she replied reluctantly. “What a predicament.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Laila sighed. “You know, I don’t really hate you. You’re just so…”

“Raven?” Jean supplied.

“I was going to say pretentious. But they’re kind of the same thing. It’s like, I can’t believe how much they were able to brainwash you in two years.”

Jean held his breath. His first instinct was to refute her, tell her it was all lies, that they hadn’t brainwashed him.

But that wouldn’t really be the truth.

Because, in a way, he had been brainwashed, his entire existence molded to the Master’s whims.

But it had taken much less than two years to break Jean Moreau.

He tried remembering just how long it took for him to stop resisting, to realize the punishments were so much worse if he fought them. Had it been six months? Three? Certainly not a year; his resolve had crumbled well before the little league kids showed up for their summer camps.

Even now, out of the nest, he couldn’t shake the Master’s hold. It was still there, controlling everything he did. How he practiced, how he ate, how he slept.

Jean didn’t want to lose that control, didn’t want to see who he’d become without it.

He thought of what Rodney had said, that day at the beach.

They can help you, but only if you let them.

Jean couldn’t tell her, wouldn’t tell her. If she knew the truth, she would laugh in his face. If she knew the full extent of the Master’s control over his life, how he couldn’t do anything without thinking about the ramifications afterwards, she would realize how weak he truly was.

How he depended on the Master’s approval, even now, and how the absence of it was slowly eating away at him. How he’d give anything, even for a punishment, just to have some structure back in his lie.

But it couldn’t have all been for nothing. All the hurt Jean had suffered, it had to be for a reason. He blurted out a half-truth he always told himself, trying to explain away all that had been done to him.

“Does it matter? We won.”

Laila bristled at that. Her response was predictable, for a Trojan. “Winning isn’t everything.”

“It is when you’re a Raven.”

“Well, I guess it’s time you start accepting the fact that you’re not a Raven anymore.” She turned and walked towards the door. “We’re back on the court. You have five minutes to gear up and meet us there or I’m benching you the rest of the week.”

The door slammed behind her.

Jean smiled. He didn’t have to look in a mirror to know it was a wicked thing.

Someone was on the court.

Jean could hear the soft thunk of an exy ball hitting the wall as he walked into the practice facility.

It was late; Jean would normally be back home by this time. After the donor event they’d played a scrimmage, their first as a full team. By the time Jeremy and Laila were done chatting and ready to head home, it was well past Jean’s usual practice time.

He’d nabbed Jeremy’s access card, waited until they were all asleep, then booked it to the stadium for his practice.

Jean wasn't one to get easily spooked, but it was eerie; the hallway lights turned down, no sounds except the dull roar of the HVAC system.

And that rhythmic thumping.

The practice exy court was at the far end of the hallway. Jean was about five yards away when the thumping stopped. He sped up his pace. If the person came out, he could always let himself into another room, but the closest one at this point was the indoor soccer field, just across the hallway from the exy court. The next-closest ones were more than fifteen yards behind him.

Cautiously, Jean looked through the little window in the door, ready to disappear if whoever it was looked his way.

It was one of the freshmen, Thirty-two. That was…interesting. Jean wondered what was keeping him up.

Thirty-two had played well enough, both during drills and at the scrimmage. Jean hadn’t thought there was anything obviously wrong with his playing style on the first day.

At least, nothing worse than the rest of the freshmen.

He was at the far end of the court, an empty bucket next to him, balls strewn everywhere. His shoulders were slumped, either in exhaustion or defeat, as he fumbled with his helmet straps.

Once Thirty-two got his helmet off, he threw it across the room with a yell. He smacked himself on the side of the head in frustration before grabbing the closest ball and throwing it at the wall. Then, as if that throw had sapped his remaining energy, he dropped to the floor, head low.

Jean thought he might be crying.

Clearly someone needed to help the kid, but Jean didn't know what to do. He'd always had a hard time interacting with the freshmen, even when he was one.

What would happen if he opened the door?

The kid would probably just get scared. Jean knew who he was, what he looked like. This was better left to Jeremy. Or Laila. That was their job as captains.

But still, Jean didn't move. He stood there, waiting, frozen in place until the kid got up and started picking up his things. Once Jean was certain that he wouldn't be crying in the practice court all night, he changed out in the locker room and hid himself in the soccer field until the kid left the court.

If he missed a few more shots than normal, he chalked it up to first day jitters.

Chapter Text

Jean spent the next day closely watching Thirty-two. He wanted to get inside his head, figure out why he’d been on the court last night.

Was it possible that this freshman was perfect court material? Did he obsess over exy just like Kevin? Just like Jean?

Or was it a fluke; the result of expectations and anxiety and pressure built up over the first day?

“Arrrrgggghhhh!!!” Owen grunted as he completed his last rep.

Jean turned his gaze back to his partner. He closed his hands around the bar, guiding it to the rack.

Owen jumped up and started removing plates, resetting the weights for Jean.

They were in the weight room to start their day, working on arms and shoulders. Coach Murphy had given them a brief speech on responsibility and safety, gave them a tour of the equipment, written a workout on the chalkboard, then set them loose. Having relatively similar lifting maxes, Jean and Owen had paired up.

Jean was excited to work with Owen; he was the roommate he’d seen the least of so far. Some mornings, he was in the kitchen with Laila when Jean came in, but more often than not he was absent. Jean had probed Laila for answers but, since they still weren't exactly on speaking terms, that had proved futile. He'd pieced together some details but all he had to show for it was a vague idea that Owen was in some sort of class over the summer.

Jean still had no idea why; it was bad enough to waste enough time in classes during the academic year. Why do more of that over the summer?

As Owen put the last plate on the bar, Jean spared one last glance at Thirty-two, working with one of the freshman defensive dealers, before sitting himself down on the bench and getting into position.

He gripped the bar and lifted it off the rack, putting everything he had into each rep.

Jean relished the familiar feeling of lifting weights. He’d incorporated weightlifting into his gym routine while he was waiting for summer conditioning to start, but it was different at the campus gym. There, he was an anomaly; lifting more than what most of the students weighed. Here, surrounded by his teammates, he wasn’t the strongest person in the room by far. And nothing beat the camaraderie; everyone crowding around the bench when someone attempted a new max, cheering when they finished the lift.

“So…” Owen said, once Jean was done with his set and they began their rest period. He was silent for a moment. Jean started to wonder why he’d bothered to speak at all if he didn’t have anything meaningful to say when Owen asked, “What are you majoring in?”

Jean blinked, surprised by his choice of topic. Academics had always come second to exy at Edgar Allan. And Ravens didn’t ask about majors; they all had the same one.

“At Edgar Allan, I majored in sports science.”

“Sports science?” Owen scratched his head. “I haven’t heard of that.”

“You do not have that here?” Jean asked, suddenly nervous. Sports science had been a poor excuse for a major, nothing but a veil for the exy team to hide behind. Half the required classes consisted of nothing but a final essay or exam, freeing up the athletes’ time for extra conditioning and practices.

Owen screwed up his face, thinking. “Nope.” He held up a hand, started counting on his fingers. “Got…sports management, physical therapy, kinesiology, nutrition or whatever. Think Alvarez is doing one of those. But sports science? Nada.”

“Oh,” Jean said, quietly. This was an unexpected hurdle. “What does everyone major in, then?”

“All sorts of things. I don’t even know all of them myself.” Owen thought for a moment, then patted Jean on the arm reassuringly. “You’ll find your calling.”

He sounded so sure, like it was as simple as deciding what to wear in the morning. But, Jean supposed, maybe that was how things were for the Trojans. Going through life making choices on a whim, not worrying about the repercussions or what was expected of you.

The possibilities were dizzying.

“What did you pick?” Jean asked, if only to escape from his thoughts.

“Political science.” Owen answered promptly. “But I graduated from undergrad in December and started law school this spring.”

Jean had the sudden feeling that he was in way over his head. Owen was a decent exy player. Not draft material, but solid for a college athlete. Knowing that he was juggling real classes on top of the sport was daunting. Maybe Riko had been right all along, and Jean was a terrible exy player. How would his supposed ‘talent’ on the court fare when he couldn’t spend as much time practicing?

“I’m taking summer classes, working them around conditioning,” Owen explained, oblivious to Jean’s thoughts. “That’s why I was MIA so much in June. Gotta get as much done while I still have this exy scholarship, you know?”

Jean blinked, realizing how much he’d underestimated his teammate. From the start, he’d thought Owen was a dumb jock; he sure acted like it around the rest of the Trojans. But law school was real school. For smart people. People who got high-paying jobs in fancy offices downtown. People who wore suits and went to meetings and networked.

How did someone even begin to know that that was what they wanted with their life?

“Let’s take a step back,” Owen said, perceiving that Jean was spiraling. “What do you see yourself doing in ten years?”

“Playing exy,” Jean responded automatically.

Owen scratched his elbow. “What about…after that?”

Jean shook his head, feeling helpless. “I do not know.”

“What about…” Owen fished around for a question. “When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

My parents , Jean thought at once.

His mother had been the head of the company, fielding calls all day, even when they were out as a family. She was constantly traveling around the world, meeting customers, suppliers, and every middle-man in between.

And, Jean supposed, negotiating with the Moriyamas.

His father had been the CFO, running the accounts and making sure the numbers lined up.

Or possibly making the numbers line up.

Jean had always imagined himself following in their footsteps.

He explained this, in less detail and without mention of his parents’ darker responsibilities, to Owen.

“Business is reasonable,” Owen replied, nodding, “So is finance. And I bet you could finish either in the next two years. It would be hard, especially finance. Lots of math in that one. But it’s doable.”

“Two years?” Jean asked, adrift in his thoughts. He’d only be at USC until the spring, then he’d be off to a professional team.

Or dead.

“Isn’t that…how much eligibility you have left?”

Oh. That.

“Maybe this is not the best idea,” Jean backtracked. He wanted to stay far away from the topic of his eventual departure; the Trojans wouldn’t like it. They all thought he would be finishing out his college career at USC. “Maybe I should stay with sports science.”

Owen frowned. “Well, you can’t stay in sports science, seeing as it’s not a major here. You could change to something similar. Sports management or the like. But,” he nudged Jean with his shoulder as he moved to sit down on the bench, “why not do what you want to do? Something you actually like?”

“I never said I did not like sports science.”

“No,” Owen conceded, “You didn’t. But your eyes lit up when we started talking about numbers.” He grabbed the bar and tightened his grip. “Think about it, Jean. It’s important; it’s your future.”

As Owen knocked out another set, Jean silently contemplated business school, wondering how many more curveballs the Trojans could throw his way.

After lunch, they were in the court.

Practice time with position coaches was limited during the summer; they were only allowed a certain amount of actual play time with the team. Much of their conditioning time would be captains’ practices, film study, and the like; all coordinated by the players themselves. Weight lifting sessions would be run by Coach Murphy. The remaining sessions that actually involved coaches would largely be strategy-based; walkthroughs and film reviews, but no actual playing time.

This practice was one of the few exceptions, and Jean was eager to impress.

He clashed sticks with Twelve, a sophomore striker, fighting over control of the ball. Jean easily could’ve gotten away with the ball clean. He had the upper hand, the raw strength to overpower her. But he couldn’t resist.

He brought his racquet up, fast, as if he was going to pop the ball out of her net. But instead of hitting her stick, he aimed for the wrist bone that was just barely exposed by her gloves.

She cried out on impact, her hand spasming in response. The ball dropped into Jean’s net.

He chucked it to the other end of the court, where he knew Jeremy was waiting.

To Jean, this was second nature. Get the ball, throw to your captain. Ravens were always watching the ball, always anticipating a throw could come their way.

Jeremy didn’t get his racquet up in time, and the ball sailed straight past him, hitting the wall and bouncing away.

Coach Rhemann blew his whistle, and the medics ran onto the court, where Twelve was doubled over and clutching her wrist.

“Moreau,” Coach yelled angrily as he ran over. “What the hell was that?”

“I was aiming for her stick,” Jean lied. It came easily; he was well practiced.

Rhemann’s face twisted up into a scowl. “Aim better next time.”

As Rhemann left to check in on Twelve, Jeremy ran up to take his place.

“Dude!” he shouted, out of breath, before spreading his arm out in the general area Jean had thrown to, aghast.

Jean blinked. “I threw the ball to you. You were not paying attention.”

“You gotta give a signal, man!” Jeremy exclaimed. “You didn’t even make eye contact with me.”

Jean didn’t honor that flawed thinking with a response.

When he realized Jean wasn’t going to say anything, Jeremy ran a hand through his hair and said defeatedly, “If you would’ve given me, like, two more seconds, I would’ve been ready.”

“Two seconds can be the difference between a win and a loss.”

Jeremy dropped his head back and huffed out a sigh. He was visibly irritated.

That made two of them.

“Next time, give me a signal. I can’t read your mind.”

Jean kept quiet. If he opened his mouth, nothing good would come out of it.

“Great. Good talk,” Jeremy said sarcastically before jogging back to the other side of the court. 

Jean gave the net of his racquet a tug, almost wishing he were back in the nest. At least there he knew what the rules were, what was expected of him.

The Trojans would get used to him, he concluded. If they didn’t, it was going to be a long year. 

The chime of glasses knocking together drifted down the hall, breaking Jean’s concentration. He blinked, rubbing his eyes.

He glanced at the clock.

9:30.

They’d been let go early on Friday to celebrate the end of the week. Jean wasn’t sure what there was to celebrate; the vets were rusty after two months off and the rookies had far too much to learn. He had filled countless pages in his notebook with comments and criticisms already.

He bemoaned the thought of spending another four weeks like this.

Even if his teammates had been perfect, less court time didn’t seem like much of a reward to Jean. He’d compensated for the lack of evening practice by pulling out his collection of stats to study up and test his knowledge, comparing rankings and completion percentages with real on-the-court performances from his new teammates.

He hadn’t expected three hours to fly by so quickly.

His roommates' voices drifted down the hall, “Three, two, one–”

More clinking.

Jean’s curiosity got the better of him.

He found his roommates all crammed into the kitchen, dressed up like they were going to a party, doing shots.

“One more! One more!” Laila heckled.

Owen obliged, pouring them another round.

The source of the noise confirmed, Jean turned to head back to his room.

“Last one,” Jeremy chided, “then we’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Jean blurted out, surprised. They hadn’t told him they had plans. He’d assumed the outfits were just another quirk; dress up and get hammered at home.

“Oh. Jean. We, uh…” Jeremy trailed off.

Jean could guess at the unspoken ending to that sentence, was familiar enough with the feeling from his years in the nest. It didn’t matter much what the words were, they all meant the same thing: they didn’t want Jean to go with them.

“We’re going to the club,” Laila said coldly. She downed her shot and grabbed her purse. “See you later, Jean.”

Their shoulders knocked as she brushed past him to the front door.

The rest of the group finished their drinks and followed, giving Jean a wide berth and a few apologetic glances.

Jeremy was the last one out. He paused in the doorway.

“We should be home around midnight. Don’t wait up.”

Jean stared at the door for a full minute after it closed.

He was alone.

He never got left alone.

It was another five minutes before he could convince himself to leave the hallway, that they weren't going to barge in the second he turned his back, that this wasn't some elaborate prank.

His room was dark. The sun had set while he was focused on his stats; his eyes must've adjusted automatically.

Even now, four months later, the thought was alien to him. The nest didn't have gray areas; lights were on, or you were shrouded in darkness.

He flicked on the light next to his bed, casting the room in a warm glow. This, too, was unusual; the dormitory at Edgar Allan was equipped with harsh fluorescents.

He dug around in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, until his fingers brushed smooth, hard plastic.

Pulling the phone out, he pressed the button to turn the screen on.

It didn't do anything.

He dug around in the drawer again, until he found the charging cord. He plugged it into the wall and jammed the other end into the port.

The backlight turned on, a logo appearing on the screen.

After cycling through various loading pages, the device finished booting up, displaying the home page.

A display in the corner informed him that he had 99+ unread messages. Jean ignored this, in favor of typing in a phone number, still in his muscle memory.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

"Jean?" Renee's soft voice came over the line. He could hear people talking in the background.

She was busy. He shouldn’t have called.

He heard a door close and the background chatter disappeared.

"Hi," Jean said softly. His chest tightened with guilt; he hadn't even bothered to text her since he left for California.

"It's really good to hear from you," she said. It sounded genuine.

"I am sorry it has been so long," he apologized. Then added, "My phone died."

"For a whole month?" Renee laughed. "Neil Josten, is that you?"

Jean simmered at the comparison; any reminder of Neil was a bad one. But she wasn't wrong; they were both equally phone-averse.

"What made you call?" she asked, skipping the pleasantries. Jean liked that about her; it was refreshing. Everyone else always wanted to know if he was okay before they could start talking.

He took a deep breath, and told the truth, “My roommates left me alone.”

Renee filled in the blanks. He knew she would; she was teammates with Kevin.

“How is that for you?” she asked.

“It is…strange,” he told her, thinking out loud. “I feel like any minute they will come back and tell me it was all a prank.”

She was silent for a moment, then asked, “Do you feel an urge to go after them?”

Jean frowned, thumbing a page of defensive stats in his binder. He was about to say no, when he hesitated.

He’d spent the entire afternoon holed up in his room, leafing through this binder. He could’ve gone downstairs, into the common area, at any point during that time to see his roommates.

But he hadn’t.

And yet, even though he was doing the exact same thing he’d been doing before his roommates left, even though going to a club was the last thing he wanted to do with his Friday night, he now had the terrible feeling that he’d been left out.

“No,” he finally answered, truthfully. “But I wish they had asked me to come with.”

“Give it time,” Allison replied.

Jean could hear the creak of a door opening in the background. The chatter was back in full force.

Then it disappeared, just as quickly.

“They’ve only known you for a few weeks; they’ll come around to you.”

Jean gave a dissatisfied hum in response. He’d known some of the Ravens for years and they’d hated his guts up until they’d graduated.

Renee said something that Jean could barely hear. A muffled voice responded.

Someone else was in the room with her.

 “Jean?” she asked, checking if he was still on the line.

“Yes.”

“Allison has a suggestion.”

Of course it was Allison. She and Renee had been nearly inseparable when he was in South Carolina.

“Please tell me it has nothing to do with malls. Or shopping.”

He could hear Renee’s giggle as Allison’s voice came on the line.

“Ha, ha. Very funny, Frenchie,” she deadpanned. Jean rolled his eyes at the idiotic nickname; it was low-hanging fruit. Allison could do better.

“Luckily for you, it does not involve shopping,” she continued. “But that doesn’t mean you’re gonna like it.”

Jean groaned, internally.

Nothing could be worse than shopping with Allison Reynolds.

“Find out what you fucked up,” she stated matter-of-factly, “and apologize for it.”

He was wrong. That could be worse.

“Sorry about her,” Renee apologized, once she was back on the line.

“It is alright,” Jean replied. “She was not wrong. I have made a mess of things here.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jean thought for a moment. He could tell Renee about the one-man tour of the stadium and athletic facilities, the awkward conversations over morning coffee, the lies he told his roommates in order to get some extra court time.

It sounded…

Exhausting.

“Actually,” he said, needing to get out of his own head for a bit, “I want to hear about you. What has happened since I left for California?”

“Oh,” Renee replied, sounding shocked. “Gosh, I’m not sure where even to begin!”

And for the next hour, Jean listened as Renee told him about the new Foxes, their new room arrangements, and every detail of how Allison had asked her to be her girlfriend.

By the time they said goodbye and hung up, he’d nearly forgotten about his own problems.

“Alright, Moreau,” Alvarez said as she sat down, straddling the bench. “What the hell did you do to piss off my girlfriend?”

It was Monday morning, and they were back on the court for a practice scrimmage. Jean’s mood had increased tenfold when he’d heard of their plans for the morning…and then soured immediately when he learned he’d be benched for the first half of it as they focused on getting the freshmen more play time.

If he couldn’t be playing exy, Jean was glad he was at least able to watch it. He’d pulled out his stats binder and hadn’t held back with his red pen; some of the pages were nearly unreadable under his copious comments.

Alvarez was one of the players who’d been cycling in with the freshmen during the first half of the game. Unlike Jean, she was deemed gentle enough for the young players. Jean, used to the harsh mentality of the Ravens, scoffed at the idea; opponents wouldn’t be gentle once the fall rolled around. 

Jean tucked away his binder, swapping it out for his helmet. He wasn’t surprised that Alvarez was finally breaching this topic. The weekend had been tense. Laila was avoiding Jean as much as possible. When she did have the misfortune of habiting the same room as him, she tended to give him the silent treatment. Much as he wanted to, Jean couldn’t work up the courage to be the first one to break that silence and apologize.

He’d been glad to get back to scheduled practices, hoping that Laila’s anger would deflate with physical activity. If not, having more people around would at least give them a buffer.

Jean took a swig of water and pulled on his gloves, tightening the straps. “Why are you asking me? Why not her?”

“Dude.” Alvarez leaned in close. “It took me this long to find out that you –” she poked Jean in the chest “– were the reason she was upset in the first place.”

Jean chewed his lip, rolling his eyes. “She…drew me a picture.”

“She drew you a picture?” Alvarez asked suspiciously. “How the fuck does that turn into this?”

Jean suppressed another eyeroll. He’d thought the same thing. 

“My reaction was not what she wanted,” he said cautiously.

“What in the hell does that mean?”

Jean shrugged. He didn’t want to rehash the conversation he’d had with Laila. It was only a matter of time before someone would read too far into it and ask him why the Ravens had no hobbies.

He didn’t like to think of it himself. Didn’t like the thought that they’d been controlled so thoroughly, when this team across the country seemingly allowed their players to do whatever they wanted outside of practices. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Nuh-uh.” Alvarez shook her head. “Nope. Not happening. You tell me word for word what you said, and we’re gonna figure out how you apologize.”

Jean glared at her.

Alvarez glared back.

“I’m waiting…” she prompted.

With a sigh, Jean resigned himself to his fate, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

“I was surprised she was allowed to draw. We…did not have hobbies at Edgar Allan.” He glanced at Alvarez, gauging her reaction. It seemed normal, so he continued, “When she took that the wrong way, I tried to apologize. I told her that Coach would be proud, but that just made her even more angry.”

Alvarez was looking at him like he was crazy.

“You told her Coach would be proud ?I What the fuck , Moreau?”

Jean shied away from her. “I thought she would like that.” Then, in a small voice, he added, “It was what Riko would have wanted.”

“Okay. New plan. Don’t ever do anything that Riko would’ve wanted.”

Alvarez sat back, chewing on her lip and picking at the edge of a nail. After a few moments, she nodded, as if in agreement with herself.

“M’kay. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” She held up a finger. “You’re going to go tell Laila that you’re very sorry about this whole thing, and that you didn’t mean what you said about her drawing.” A second finger joined the first. “You’re going to find something in that drawing that you truly enjoy and –” a third finger appeared, with emphasis, “– you’re going to sincerely compliment her on it. Comprende ?”

Jean nodded.

“Great.” Alvarez rubbed her hands together. “Practice on me.”

Jean held back his rage at the suggestion.

“I am not doing that.”

“Yes, Moreau, you are. Otherwise…you’re doing my laundry for a month.”

Jean rolled his eyes. She was insufferable. “Fine,” he conceded.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Laila, I am sorry that I hurt your feelings. Your drawing was very good.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Alvarez complained, “You can do better than that.”

Jean scowled at her.

She smiled sarcastically back at him.

He huffed out a sigh.

He thought about Laila’s drawing, how it had pulled him right back to the championship game. The nerves, the excitement, the adrenaline, it all came rushing back to him. It was amazing, how she’d been able to make the scene come to life with only pencils and paper.

Jean closed his eyes and spoke, hating how vulnerable he felt.

“Your drawing was…so full of life. It made me feel like I was back there, at the championships. It made me want to drop everything and run to the court.”

He opened an eye, glancing at Alvarez. She had a wide grin on her face.

“Beautiful, Moreau.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. What’s your major and why isn’t it poetry?”

Jean did his best to ignore her.

She leaned in, whispering into his ear, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Jean pushed her away.

“Save it for your girlfriend.”

“Hey!” The girlfriend in question shouted over at them, coming back from filling up her water bottle. “What’s going on over there?”

“Nothing, dearest!” Alvarez called back. “Jean just has something he needs to tell you.”

As Laila jogged over, Jean gave Alvarez a cold look, trying to communicate just how much he hated being put in this situation.

She smiled innocently back at him, batting her eyelashes.

“What?” Laila asked Jean, indifferently.

“Laila, I am sorry that I upset you. I really did like your drawing. It was very good.”

He hesitated.

Alvarez filled the silence, “And?”

Jean blindly reached a hand over and shoved her away, his hand unintentionally connecting with her face.

“Hey!” She blurted out, voice muffled by Jean’s hand. She batted his arm away and gave it a few extra whacks for good measure before muttering something about being man-handled.

Jean turned his attention back to Laila and continued, “It was so life-like, it made me feel like I was back on the court, playing that game. I thought it was…incredible.”

Laila had a small smile on her face, despite herself. She raised an eyebrow, as if asking if Jean was finished.

He wasn’t, not yet. Alvarez hadn't imploded when he'd told her more about the Ravens; he figured he could give Laila that much of an explanation, at least.

Jean took a deep breath and continued. “Ravens are discouraged from having hobbies. They want us focused on exy or school, nothing else. I expected the Trojans to have similar restrictions. That’s why I was surprised you were allowed to draw; nothing else.”

Laila glanced at Alvarez, then back at Jean.

“Fine. This is your second chance. You won’t get a third.”

She turned on her heel and ran back to the court.

Alvarez whistled. “Good job, Moreau.”

Jean turned to face her, taking in her casual posture and smug expression.

“You enjoyed that?” He asked.

“Very much,” she replied cattily.

“Your backhand block needs work,” he retorted, resorting to exy critiques in absence of a clever taunt. “Fifty-five almost made it past you.”

“Wow, look at you, exy computer hombre , referring to him by his number,” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “And excuse me, but ‘almost’ doesn’t count. I still made the block.”

Jean hesitated, then pulled a new card from his pocket.

“If you say so, Sarah.”

The smug grin disappeared.

“Hey!” Alvarez protested. “Who the hell told you that?!”

Jean gave her a wink, grabbed his racquet, and left her sputtering on the bench.

Things gradually improved over the next few days. The situation with Laila more or less smoothed over, Jean started to warm up to more of his teammates off the court.

On the court was an entirely different story.

They’d started the morning early. Laila and Jeremy, being co-captains, had a meeting with the coaching staff before practice, to go over progress made so far and some logistics for the start of the season.

For some reason, this meant their entire house left an hour earlier than normal.

Owen had snagged a study desk and pulled out his law school notes to study. Alvarez, too bothered to care, had taken a nap in the lobby. Jean had geared up early and put in some extra work on the court before anyone else had arrived.

He’d worked himself up to a sweat, even throwing in some Raven drills for an added challenge. He’d already mastered the Trojans’ drills; it took him two evening sessions.

Once the scheduled practice rolled around, the Trojans cycled through a mix of drills and partner work that left Jean exhilarated…and with plenty of notes on his teammates’ weaknesses.

Regardless of his never-ending list of notes, it had been a relatively productive practice. The Trojans were starting to pay better attention; less of Jean’s throws were connecting with the walls. And they were getting more aggressive, starting to fight back against some of his nastier blocks.

Just as practice was ending and Jean was pulling off his helmet and gloves, Jeremy ran over.

“Jean. We need to talk.”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “We already are.”

“Yeah. Not here.” Jeremy glanced around nervously. Then he grabbed Jean by the jersey and dragged him to the corner of the court furthest from the door where their teammates were streaming out.

“So. Practice.” Jeremy paused, worrying a hand through his curls. “You need to stop with all this…Raven stuff.”

“Raven stuff?” Jean repeated.

“C’mon, you know what I mean.” Jeremy huffed. He pulled off his bandana and undid the knot. “Throwing the ball down to someone without signaling. Blocking as hard as you possibly can.” He unfurled the bandana, shook it out, then stuffed it into his helmet. “It’s reckless. You already hurt Claire.”

Twelve , Jean’s brain supplied.

“That was an accident,” he whispered.

“Was it though?” Jeremy looked at him, his eyes accusing.

When Jean said nothing, Jeremy dropped his gaze.

“I watched you warm up, today.”

Jean felt his face heat. He’d thought he was alone, safe to practice his Raven drills. If he’d known Jeremy had been watching he would’ve stuck to the basics.

“You can hit the goal from clear across the court,” Jeremy said, in disbelief. “I mean, who the fuck can do that?”

Jean looked at his feet, unwilling to accept Jeremy’s praise, hoping that his memories of that morning would simply disappear if Jean didn’t acknowledge them.

“Look, all I’m saying is…” Jeremy trailed off, scratching his head.

He deliberated for a moment, then said solemnly, “I don’t think you make mistakes. I don’t think there are any accidents when you’re on the court. Everything is intentional. Everything is calculated.”

Jeremy tapped the butt of his racquet on the ground in an agitated rhythm and made a sour face, like he really didn’t want to say what he was going to say next.

“I think you hit Claire on purpose last week.” The tapping stopped. Jeremy’s face screwed up into a grimace. “And that? That’s…despicable.”

He stared Jean straight in the eyes as he said, “That can never fucking happen again, Jean.”

Jean blinked.

Jeremy had read him like a book, cover to cover.

And he was disappointed.

It wasn’t a new feeling to Jean; he’d been living with Riko’s near-constant disappointment of him since he’d come to the nest eight years ago. But something about this felt different. As if this time there would be consequences far greater than a new set of stitches.

In a soft voice, barely a whisper, Jean said the only thing he could.

“Okay.”

“Great,” Jeremy said, sounding far from it. “See you after lunch.”

“Team meeting. Now.”

Rhemann’s angry voice echoed in the near-empty locker room. Jean jumped at the sudden intrusion. He was halfway through changing out, in his t-shirt, shorts, and compression socks.

They were split up this morning; the defensive players starting with drills on the court while the offensive players hit the weight room. Jean’s habit of being the first one on the court had come back in full force, with one major difference. After Jeremy’s confession that he’d watched him warm up earlier in the week, he stuck to his Trojan drills.

He sighed, loath to be interrupted.  The team had been playing together for just over a week, yet they were far off from where the Ravens would be this time in the season.

Jean was eager to get out there. Every day brought more chances for improvement.

Resigned, he slipped his street shoes back on and hurried out the door.

The hallway was empty, save for Rhemann, shouting the same thing into the women’s locker room. Jean booked it to the theater before his coach could catch up; it was never good to be the last one to arrive.

He entered just behind Jeremy and slipped into the spot next to him on the back wall.

The room was abuzz with activity, his teammates excitedly chattering amongst themselves.

Jean knew this feeling. There was gossip.

And whatever it was, it was good.

“Hey, Jean,” Jeremy said wearily. Unlike their teammates seated before them, he looked like he hadn’t slept all night. “You look pretty normal, given the circumstances.”

Jean furrowed his brow. He’d always steered clear of team gossip. Not that it ever found him much; there was too much of a divide between the perfect court and the rest of the Raven lineup.

“Circumstances?” he asked cautiously, not sure if he wanted to get sucked into this.

“Yeah, you know. The article.” Jeremy gave a sardonic chuckle. “Please tell me the reason why you’re in a good mood is because the whole thing was made up.”

“What article?” Jean asked, his heart picking up pace. The weight of gravity and the length of each second had just doubled. It was the same feeling he got in dreams sometimes, when the ball was thrown his way but his arms were stuck frozen in place, unable to do anything but watch it sail past his head.

Jeremy’s eyes grew wide. “Shit. Jean. Have you not read it?”

Jean was spared a response by the entrance of their coach.

“Alright, everyone. Quiet, please.”

“Uh, coach?” Jeremy asked, trying to catch Rhemann’s attention.

“You’ll all get a chance to ask questions, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, but Coach…”

Jeremy’s plea went unanswered as Rhemann made his way down the steps to the front of the room. Once there, he turned and looked at his team.

A second passed in complete silence. Then two, then three. Jean watched Rhemann’s face. He looked defeated, resigned.

Jean forced himself to breathe in.

And then out.

And then in again.

Rhemann sighed, and began, “By now, I would assume all of you have had the displeasure to read that…quite disturbing article. I want to start us off by saying –”

“Coach!” Jeremy blurted out. “Jean hasn’t read it.”

Jean felt the weight of forty-seven pairs of eyes, all on him. Rhemann’s had the biggest pull.

“You haven’t read it?”

“No,” Jean answered, his voice coming out no louder than a whisper.

He was surprised he could speak at all.

Rhemann rubbed a hand down his face. “Can…someone print this thing out so Moreau can read it?”

Coach Anderson shuffled over, digging through her clipboard.

Rhemann glanced around at his team. “Has anyone else not read it?”

Not a single hand went up.

Jean’s face heated. He felt as if he’d missed the film study that everyone else remembered to complete.

“Here, Jean,” Coach Anderson said as she set the papers in front of him.

It was an article from Edgar Allan’s student newspaper, The Writing Desk. They’d titled it, Quoth the Ravens: Investigate Evermore .

The overwhelming urge to roll his eyes at the Poe reference tugged Jean back to his normal senses, nearly making him forget about the impending crisis. He stifled a scoff. The student newspaper liked to cram as many references to their school’s namesake into their paper as they could.

They were rarely good.

“The Edgar Allan Exy Team is currently under NCAA investigation after the tragic suicide of captain Riko Moriyama,” the first sentence read.

This was nothing new; the investigation had been announced shortly after the news of Riko’s death had come out. Jean didn’t expect much from it; the NCAA was not beyond the reach of the Moriyamas, even if The Master was no longer coaching his team.

He read on.

“We reached out to members of the team for comment, and they gave us an earful. Potential hazing, verbal and physical abuse, and a hostile environment were among the themes we heard from these student athletes.”

Jean’s heart leapt into his throat, the weighty feeling back in full force.

This was bad.

Very bad.

The Ravens had always kept quiet from the media.

Raven secrets, Raven ears had been drilled into them from the day they arrived on campus. And they’d listened, for good reason.

Raven alumni who talked about their time at Edgar Allan found themselves booted from their professional teams, demoted to the minor leagues. If they had a job in the private sector, they didn’t for much longer. Smear campaigns were run in any exy-related news outlets, defaming their reputation.

His eyes skimmed the article, not fully comprehending what he was reading.

“We practiced ten hours a day over the summer.”

“It wasn’t uncommon for athletes to pass out from overexertion.”

“What Riko said to do, you did. No exceptions.”

“I played quarter-finals with a minor concussion. It was that or risk my spot on the line-up.”

His old teammates had detailed everything; the nest, its punishments, their hierarchy. It was all there.

This couldn’t be happening, not here, not now.

What would the Trojans think?

Jean took a shaky breath in.

He hadn’t told his new teammates any of this stuff. Sure, they knew the Ravens were a competitive team, a bit peculiar in their devotion to exy, but that was it.

They didn’t know about the summer schedule.

They didn’t know about the grueling practices, the hierarchy, how quickly a starter could be demoted to second-string for even a minor mistake.

They didn’t know about the nest, how they weren’t allowed to leave, or even go outside, except for scheduled classes.

Jean imagined what Jeremy’s reaction would be to learning that he’d lived underground, in the stadium, year-round.

Then he realized that he didn’t need to imagine; he was seeing it, live.

Everyone in this room had just been delivered all of Jean’s secrets on a silver platter.

And they were upset.

Jeremy looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Coach Rhemann’s face was red with anger.

Coach Anderson had her arms crossed and was staring out the window, a scowl on her face.

Jean needed to play this very carefully.

He looked at Rhemann, swallowing his fear. Slowly, he asked, “You believe all of this?”

Rhemann looked puzzled. “Believe it?” He let out a dry chuckle. “Jean, what are you saying?”

Jean didn’t hesitate.

“It is all lies.”

Rhemann’s eyebrow rose, “All of it?”

Jean waved a dismissive hand at the paper. “There are hints of truth. We lived together. In a house, on campus. We were punished for infractions. With extra workouts. Same as your team, I assume. Our numbers corresponded to our ranking. It went no further than that.”

Coach Anderson let out a breath. “Well, that’s a relief.”

A chuckle ran through the room.

Jean didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes. They would know he was bluffing. His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest, his pulse racing as if he’d just sprinted a mile.

It felt…powerful.

“Why would they lie?”

This question, threatening to unravel everything Jean had just concocted, was asked by Thirty-two. Young, innocent, naïve, Thirty-two.

Jean thought for a moment, then turned to face him.

“Put yourself in their shoes. There is an investigation on your team. Reporters are asking questions. They tell you that you must cooperate, otherwise you do not play exy. They tell you that you must reveal something , otherwise you do not play exy. But you have nothing to say. What do you do?”

“Make something up.”

This came from Fifty-five. His quick response almost made Jean reconsider his initial resentment towards the kid.

Almost.

Regardless, Jean nodded his head in agreement. He looked around to his teammates. All eyes were on him. “They will continue pushing these lies. They may even fabricate evidence to support them.”

He glanced at Laila and Alvarez, sitting together a few rows down.

“Pictures can be staged. Stories can be altered.”

His gaze landed on the dealers, sitting in the front row.

“Everything they say is biased. They have been told to cooperate. They have a reason to lie.”

Finally, his eyes made it back to Rhemann.

“I would not believe anything that comes out of this investigation. Who knows how far they are willing to go.”

Rhemann blinked. His eyes slowly swept the line of coaches standing at the back of the room.

Then they shot back to Jean.

“You’re sure of this?” Rhemann asked.

“Positive,” Jean lied.

Rhemann stared at him a moment longer, then slapped a hand on the podium.

“Well, that settles that,” he announced. “Everybody get to practice.”

Chapter Text

On Saturday, rather than spend another day hard at work, the Trojans went to the beach.

For “team bonding.”

Jean simmered at the idea. The Ravens were proof that excursions like this were a complete waste of time. They were the reigning champs for more years than Jean cared to count. If they didn’t need team-building events, no one did.

When the captains announced the trip, he’d almost opened his mouth to explain this, but hesitated at the last second. Things were just starting to turn around with Laila, and he’d gone two practices in a row this week without a talking-to from Jeremy. Speaking his mind wasn’t worth losing ground with them. So, instead, he’d changed tactics and protested via the silent treatment.

Unluckily for him, it wasn’t very effective. Case in point: he was sitting in the cargo area of Alvarez’s Jeep, backpack on his lap, crammed in between Thirty-two and Fifty-five.

When Alvarez had announced that they’d be swinging by the dorms to pick up some freshmen,  Jean had made the mistake of assuming they were adding a normal amount of people to the car, maybe one or two.

They’d added four, and somehow Jean had been volunteered for the back. He gripped his bag tight as Alvarez took another turn too fast, running through its contents and hoping nothing in there was too crushable.

He’d taken to carrying the backpack with him everywhere: lunch, practice, and now to the beach. In the nest, he hadn’t needed to carry one with him; anything he needed was a short walk away, either in his locker or his dorm room. But the Trojans traveled around a lot more than the Ravens had, not confined to a dormitory under the stadium. They were constantly moving between rooms in the athletic facility, to the practice court, to the arena clear across campus. Even the dining hall was a solid ten-minute walk from the practice facility.

It was annoying at first, to think ahead every morning and determine what he would need for the day’s events. But he’d started to put together a mental list. Extra snacks for after weight lifting sessions, stats binder and a handful of pens when he’d be benched for a significant amount of practice, spare change of clothes if they were doing film study in the afternoon.

One thing always remained: the first aid kit. Here at USC, he hadn’t seen any evidence that he would actually need to use it. But it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

“Oh, wow! I think I can see it!” Thirty-two exclaimed as they made another turn. He’d been vibrating with excitement since they’d left the dorm’s parking lot.

Fifty-five rolled his eyes. “It’s just a bunch of water.”

Jean had to agree with him. He’d grown with the Mediterranean in his backyard. The Pacific Ocean was different, but similar enough to envelop him in a strange feeling of homesickness. He’d rather skip this trip altogether.

Thirty-two gasped in shock. “Just a bunch of water? It has waves! And tides!”

“And a bunch of sand that will get in your swim trunks and irritate your skin,” Fifty-five added in a bored monotone.

“Have you not been to the beach before?” Jean asked, curious. His summers before exy had been filled with the ocean: building sand castles and digging for buried treasure at the beach in town, hunting for rocks in the craggy coastline behind his house, swimming around in the shallows and splashing through waves. It had been such a pivotal part of his childhood that he couldn’t quite fathom one without it.

“I haven’t,” Thirty-two replied. “Well, unless you count lakes. Or ponds.”

Fifty-five made a sound of disgust. “No, those don’t count. That’s like calling a piece of bread a hamburger bun. Not the same.”

With that point of finality, they lapsed into silence. Jean watched the scenery pass them by; bungalows and palm trees, scrubby bushes and succulent gardens. After a few blocks, he sensed Thirty-two’s eyes on him.

“What?” Jean asked.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” he responded, trying and failing to act nonchalant.

Jean leveled a cool gaze on him. “What is it?”

Thirty-two looked away, then back again, his gaze settling on Jean’s backpack, nestled in his lap.

“It’s just…your fingers are all crooked.”

Jean felt Fifty-five snap to attention on his other side.

“Shit, Moreau,” he said in amazement, “You play exy with those?”

“Shut up,” Jean muttered playfully, digging his elbows into both of them. He flexed his fingers, holding his hands up for their inspection. This lie was so ingrained into him that he nearly believed it himself. “These are battle scars, evidence of my expertise at exy.”

“Yeah, okay,” Thirty-two laughed disbelievingly.

“Looks more like evidence of your love for the boards,” Fifty-five heckled.

Jean elbowed him again. “I like to win. Sometimes that requires dirty work.”

Fifty-five raised his eyebrows. “Just saying, I’ve never had to break a finger to win a game.”

“Then you are not playing hard enough,” he replied, giving Fifty-five a shove. He was surprised how easy this felt; joking around with his teammates. It made him feel younger, more naïve, and reminded him that he was the same age as the freshmen on either side of him. The chasm of experience dividing them seemed unimportant at the moment. They were talking about exy, but they also weren’t at all.

Before Fifty-five could get in another jab, Thirty-two rose from his seat, shouting, “I see it! I see it!”

If he craned his neck, Jean could see it, just barely, in between two of the houses they passed. Moments later, the houses were gone, and the ocean was spread out in front of them. Jean grabbed Thirty-two’s shirt to keep him from tumbling out of the vehicle as Alvarez made one last turn into the parking lot.

A handful of their teammates were already there, a haphazard collection of towels, sunscreen, and other beach gear marking their territory. They unloaded from the Jeep, everybody pitching in to carry the rest of the “essential” equipment over to the claimed spot. As Jean struggled with a cooler seemingly filled with bricks, he wondered how much of this actually was essential; surely they could have an enjoyable day without even half of this stuff.

They had just reached the area and were starting to get settled when one of the freshmen strikers ran up to Fifty-five.

“Hey Dallas,” she cooed at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

Jean suppressed an eye-roll. Freshmen were annoyingly predictable.

“Nope,” Fifty-five remarked sharply, peeling off his shirt. “I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, he laid down on a beach towel, muttering, “Wake me up if I start to look red.”

The striker gave a sour look to Jean and Thirty-two, as if this was somehow their fault, before turning back the way she’d come.

Jean turned his attention back to Thirty-two, who was looking pointedly at the ocean.

“Go ahead,” Jean said, waving his arm in the general direction of the water.

Thirty-two’s expression grew confused. “You’re not coming with me?”

Jean hadn’t been swimming since he was a kid. Since then, his only experience with water had been showers in the locker room. And select punishments where Riko saw fit to try out waterboarding. He thought back to the memories of swimming in the ocean as a kid, how the big waves would tumble you over until you were choking on saltwater, how you could barely get a breath in before the next one would crest. He wasn’t eager to participate in an activity that so closely resembled being tortured.

As he was about to reply in the negative, Jeremy sauntered over.

“You two going swimming?” He asked, clapping a hand onto Jean’s shoulder.

Jean spared another glance at Thirty-two’s eager face, then at Fifty-five’s exposed back. He toyed the hem of his shirt, imagining just how well that would go over. He knew what he looked like, and none of it was good. Unfortunately for him, Jeremy noticed his hesitation.

“Don’t tell me Jean Moreau is shy!” he chided with a nudge.

Jean didn't honor the notion with a reply. He wasn't shy. It wasn't like he went into the bathroom to change after practice.

Granted, his opportunities to change in front of others were rather limited. He was usually one of the last ones done with practice, always staying behind to get a few extra reps in or help clean up. It was common for him to share the locker room with only a few stragglers.

He’d take his pads and shirt off after grueling drill sessions with Kevin, savoring the AC on his skin as they picked up ball after ball, until the only evidence of their hard work was the soreness in their aching muscles. But, he supposed, that was different. That was Kevin. He knew Jean, and he knew the nest. He knew what Riko was capable of. Jean’s new teammates had known him a month, at most. And they were in public, surrounded by strangers. People would stare.

“I'll go first,” Jeremy said, winking at him. In one swift motion, he peeled off his shirt.

Jean averted his eyes, but he was too slow. Too slow to not notice Jeremy’s chest. How unmarred it was. How evenly tan it was. How much nicer it looked than his own; pale, scarred, ugly.

Jeremy waggled his eyebrows. “C’mon, Moreau.”

Okay, maybe he was a little shy. But who could blame him, when Jeremy Knox was standing right there? He couldn't compete with that .

“Come on!” Thirty-two chirped at them, halfway to the water.

Jean watched him go, warring between two horrid possibilities: stay with Jeremy and his chiseled torso, or relive his worst nightmares in salt water. Neither option seemed very appealing.

“Yo, Eli!” Jeremy yelled, motioning at his own exposed chest, “Your shirt’s still on!”

Thirty-two paused, “Oh. Um…I didn’t want to get too much sun.”

Jean could smell the lie a mile away. A lie…at his advantage. To make him feel more at-home, more welcome. He blinked, dumbfounded. Never, not in a million years, would he have expected Riko or even Kevin to do something so small for him. And here was this freshman, who’d known Jean barely a week, not even really acquaintances let alone friends, sacrificing his own wants for Jean. It was unexpected and kind and Jean found himself wanting to return the favor. He glanced at Jeremy, then Thirty-two, then the ocean behind them.

Damn it, he thought.

Jean was going swimming.

The ocean was fine, at first.

They waded out to waist height, waves lapping at their legs. A handful of their more rambunctious teammates were already there, splashing and dunking each other. He spotted Owen and Brad.

Shit . It was that same group he’d made such a terrible first impression on, back during that first trip to the beach. He shook the memory from his mind and tried to steer Thirty-two away from the group.

It didn’t work.

“Hey, dudes!” Brad shouted at them.

A wave crested just in front of them. It was a big one. On instinct, Jean dove into the water. He came out the other side unscathed, surprised it still came naturally after so many years. Thirty-two was not so lucky. Jean watched his head and shoulders get swallowed up by the rushing water, hoping the freshman had at least had the chance to take a breath before being dragged under.

But when he surfaced a few moments later, he was smiling.

“That was totally awesome!” He exclaimed. “Why aren’t we here, like, every day?”

Brad threw a casual arm around his shoulders. “First time in the ocean, little bro?”

Thirty-two’s eyes went wide. “How can you tell?!”

Brad smirked down at him. “I know things,” he said sagely.

His arm was still around Thirty-two’s shoulders as he made eye contact with Owen, hovering nearby. Too late, Jean smelled the trap.

In the blink of an eye, Thirty-two was shoved under the water. Jean’s breath caught in his throat. He was stuck, frozen in place. Everything he’d been telling himself for the past six weeks was a lie. The Trojans were no better than the Ravens. Here they were, forcing the freshmen into humiliating acts against their will.

Jean’s instincts screamed run, save yourself. But a wave of guilt washed over him at the thought. He couldn’t abandon Thirty-two. He at least had been through this before, knew what to expect. He knew how brutal the upperclassmen could be in their hazing. He thought back to his freshman year, all the jokes played on him in the name of tradition. An initiation , the Ravens had called it. It hadn’t felt like that to Jean; it had just been mean.

“Stop!” He cried out. “Take me instead.”

Owen tilted his head.

“What was that, Moreau?” He said with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Dunk you too?”

And just as quickly as it had happened to Thirty-two, Jean was now being dunked under the water. Unprepared for the ambush, he hadn’t gotten a good breath in. He choked on saltwater. And then it was Riko’s hands, holding him down. They were in the rehab room in the nest, Jean’s head forced into an ice bath. The frigid water got into his brain, made his thoughts slow and jumbled.

I am going to die here , he thought, not for the first time.

Just as fast, it was over, and he was back in California, gasping for air. He wiped the water out of his eyes and whipped his head around, searching for Thirty-two. He was standing next to Brad, laughing. Why was he laughing?

Was Thirty-two in on this too? Sent to soften him up? Lure him into the trap? As Jean tried to make sense of his swirling thoughts, Owen surfaced, shaking water from his head like a dog.

“Sons of bitches!” He cried out. “You’re totally gonna pay for that!”

A wave smacked Jean in the side, almost sweeping him off his feet, as he finally understood. It was a game. It was all just a stupid game.

He didn’t want to be in the water anymore. Didn’t want to be at the beach. He wanted to be home, in his bed, curled up under the covers.

No.

He wanted to be back in the nest. Everything was too strange here, too alien. The nest had rules. It had structure. It was brutal, and cruel, and competitive, but it made sense. Nothing about USC made sense.

“Hey, Jean Moreau?” Thirty-two asked softly.

Jean knew what he was going to say. And he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand that he always had to be the bigger person. Couldn’t stand that it was always him taking care of everyone else. Couldn’t stand that he wasn’t allowed to show weakness in front of anyone.

He swallowed his pain, and looked at his teammate, eyebrow cocked in question, fully prepared to tell him that yes, he was enjoying himself and yes, he did want to stay in the water longer and yes, getting dunked into the ocean was his favorite kind of fun.

But Thirty-two surprised him.

“Can we go back?” He asked quietly.

Jean looked into his eyes. And he saw fear. Something had frightened his teammate, badly. Jean nodded, unable to trust his own voice.

As they trudged out of the water, Thirty-two let out a sharp hiss.

“I think a crab bit me,” he laughed nervously. He took another step, and hissed again, grabbing his foot.

“Oh,” he said distantly. “Not a crab.”

Jean glanced down, to where Thirty-two was holding his foot. An ugly shard of glass poked out of his heel. Thirty-two moved to pull it out.

“No!” Jean blurted out. “Leave it there.”

He glanced around. They were still a ways from their beach stuff.

“Get on my back,” he instructed, crouching down so Thirty-two could grab onto his shoulders. He lifted the freshman up, piggy-back style, and booked it up the sand dune to where the Trojans' things had been scattered around. When they got there, Jean set Thirty-two down on an abandoned beach towel. Fifty-five was still asleep.

"Dallas," He hissed at his sleeping teammate, using his first name to get his attention. "We need water."

Fifty-five waved an arm in front of him, as if saying, Here, have an ocean.

" Fresh water," Jean clarified.

He opened one eye. It widened as he took in the state of Thirty-two's foot.

"Aye aye, captain," he said, getting to his feet and jogging to the drink cooler.

Jean ran to his bag and rummaged through it, pulling out the first aid kit. When he returned, his teammates were squabbling over Thirty-two.

"Someone go get the lifeguard!"

"Oh god. Oh god. Oh god."

"Keep Jeremy away! There's blood!"

"Everyone calm down!" Fifty-five shouted over them all, handing Jean a bottle of water. "Moreau's got this."

Twelve, who'd been inspecting the cut, got to her feet."What exactly is your plan here? You can't just put a bandaid on this. It needs stitches."

Jean nodded, shoving her to the side. "I know."

He poured the water over Thirty-two’s foot, rinsing away sand and salt.

"You can't just do stitches,” Twelve protested. “You need to be certified."

Jean ignored her and knelt down at Thirty-two’s feet, looking him in the eye.

"This will sting," he warned.

Thirty-two gave a nod of understanding. Quick as he could, Jean pulled out the glass and poured a stream of isopropyl alcohol onto the cut. Despite the warning, Thirty-two winced.

Jean handed the piece of glass to Twelve. "Get rid of this.”

Then he opened the first aid kit, and got to work.

“How long do you think he’ll be benched for?” Jeremy asked.

Jean opened his eyes. He’d been lounging on a beach towel, eyes closed. He couldn’t quite sleep like this, but it was likely as close as he’d get.

Jeremy sat down on the abandoned towel next to him. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Two, three weeks?” Jean guessed. He watched Jeremy nod in response, then closed his eyes again. After the chaos of earlier, it was nice to just sit and do nothing, sun warming his face and limbs.

Thirty-two had needed five stitches.

No, Eli had needed five stitches. Jean had made the decision that it was time to start calling his teammates by their first names. Earlier, he’d pulled out the permanent marker to record Eli’s tally on the inside lid, as was habit. And hesitated.

Riko, Kevin, Jean, Neil. The Perfect Court. They’d been bound together by their names on the lid of that stupid first aid kit just as much as their tattoos. But the tattoos were disappearing; Jean’s was the only one left. So what did it matter? Why call some teammates by their first names and others by their numbers? In the nest, it had been all about hierarchy, but even that wasn’t true. Plenty of the Ravens called lower-ranked players by their names; they were friends. Jean was ready to start having friends. And that meant first names. That meant disbanding the Perfect Court.

With a sense of finality, he’d uncapped the marker and added Eli’s name to the lid. He gave it a few seconds to dry, then ran his fingers over the new marks. There was no going back now.

Jean glanced over to where Eli was sitting and talking with Dallas. His bandaged foot was propped up on a half-deflated beach ball, a handful of ice wrapped in the thinnest towel they could find wedged under his heel. Jean thought about how, just yesterday, Dallas had complained all through lunch about being paired up with Eli for drills. And here they were, becoming friends. Something about today had bound them together.

“Maybe you were right,” he admitted to Jeremy.

“Hmm?” Jeremy asked. 

“About team bonding,” Jean said, jerking his head in the direction of the two freshmen.

Jeremy smirked. “I’m always right, Moreau.”

Jean rolled his eyes. Tentatively, he gave Jeremy a shove. “Not always.”

Jeremy clicked his tongue. “Agree to disagree.”

They lapsed into silence again. Jean watched a few clouds drift lazily across the sky. It was starting to go from deep blue to a lighter color, more pink. He’d seen a handful of sunsets on the west coast, but none like this

Then, suddenly, Jeremy spoke again.

“Have you ever thought about being captain, Jean?”

Jean blinked, surprised by the question. It had never been an option at Edgar Allan. Riko was captain, end of story.

“I think you would be good at it. You showed real leadership today, when Eli got injured.”

Jean wanted to deny it, to tell Jeremy he was wrong. Jean wasn’t a leader. He was a follower, a coward, no good at exy. But he remembered Rhemann’s words. Rodney’s words.

Riko, the Master, and even Kevin had been lying to him. For years.

Jean was good at exy. He was brave. He was a leader.

“You helped out before that, too, when he was getting pummeled by waves. He told me how you didn’t hesitate to lead him out of the water. That was kind of you.”

At Jeremy’s words, it clicked into place. Why Eli was perfectly fine after being dunked under the water by his teammates but had experienced something that made him want to leave moments later. He’d felt the sheer power of the ocean, and he’d been afraid of it. Jean had been too caught up in his sour memories to notice.

He didn’t need to glance at Jeremy to know that he was telling the truth, that he was being genuine. But he looked anyway.

Jean looked at his lips, quirked up into a smile. His deep blue eyes, crinkled at the corners. A small voice in Jean’s head told him to stop, that he was staring too long. But he couldn’t; Jeremy was mesmerizing. Jean made note of his hair, bleached by the sun. His tan skin, that stupid shell necklace, the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose. He wanted to remember this moment for the rest of his life.

Finally, Jean’s eyes skittered back to Jeremy’s, breath held in his throat, worried he’d overstepped. But Jeremy wasn’t looking at him, not directly. HIs eyes were fixed on a spot just underneath the corner of Jean’s left eye. Jean’s fingers drifted up, touching the tattoo that had transfixed him. Slowly, so slowly that Jean could see the individual twitches of his eye movements, Jeremy’s gaze slid away from the tattoo, back to Jean. They locked eyes, and something passed between the two of them.

Then, someone yelled, “Food’s here!”

The moment was gone.

But it had existed. And it was special.

Jean dreamed of a clock. 2:51, its red numbers glowed.

Something was happening, just behind him. Something bad. It loomed over him, an oppressive darkness, sending his heart racing, teeth chattering, muscles clenching.

No. He couldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t think about that.

Look at the clock, Jean.

He stared into the space around the numbers, where he could see the ghosts of the remaining segments: 88:88.

Then, in the blink of an eye: 2:52. He liked when the five and two were together; they were comforting in their symmetry. He could pretend the negative space between them was a tree. Or a capital T. Or an upside-down vase. There was even a circle to be found, if you looked at it right. Yes, five and two were good. Lots of possibilities.

Someone laughed. Behind him. In the bad space. It was a bad laugh, an evil laugh. Something truly horrible was happening back there. And someone was enjoying it.

Jean didn’t look, wouldn’t look, couldn’t look.

The clock, Jean.

The numbers changed again.

Jean woke up. On impulse, he glanced at the clock. 4:14, read the yellowy-green numbers, and he sighed with relief. The fact that it was different than in the dream was a comfort, minor as it may be.

That ominous sensation he’d felt in the dream still tingled at the back of his neck, as if someone was watching him. He sat up and looked around, squinting in the near darkness. No one was there. He lay back down and tried to go back to sleep. But sleep didn’t come. Instead, his mind raced, each thought half-baked, incomplete. All about that dream.

After some time, he glanced at the clock. Nearly twenty minutes had passed. With a sigh, he resigned himself to awakeness.

He went to his desk, turning on the light and opening his stats binder to a page at random. It was one of the strikers for a team they would play in the fall. His eyes moved across the page, absorbing none of the information. His brain was still focused on the dream, on that feeling of unease. His fingers drifted to the back of his neck.

What did it mean? He wondered.

It was the nest, that much was clear. He’d spent eight years with that exact clock on his bedside table. He used to stare at it as a child, fascinated by the numbers, watching them change until he fell asleep. But that had been years ago. Why was this coming back to him now? And why in a dream?

He glanced at the binder, the mugshot of the striker smiling up at him. Straight, perfect teeth. Happy, smiling eyes. Skin unmarred by scars or tattoos.

A wave of hatred washed over him. He slammed the binder shut, grabbed his backpack, and rushed out of his room. He needed activity; something to keep his mind away from his thoughts.

At the front door, he yanked his keys off their hook. And paused. His keycard wouldn’t work until 6:00, a whole hour from now.

He eyed Jeremy’s lanyard where it hung on the wall. In a split second, he made his decision.

He dug his keycard out of his wallet and swapped it with Jeremy’s. They didn’t have practice until 9 today. Even if Jeremy was up earlier than usual, there was little chance he’d head to the stadium before Jean’s access started. He wouldn’t even notice.

Jean was sure of it.

Chapter Text

Jeremy was not a morning person. Never had been.

It wasn’t his fault he preferred to stay up late. Things were just easier at night. No obligations to weigh you down, endless hours between you and the next day’s responsibilities. Mornings meant deadlines. Jeremy wasn’t good with deadlines.

He shuffled his way downstairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes, following the scent of coffee. Laila coffee. Much better than Jeremy coffee. He was about as good with coffee makers as he was with deadlines.

“Jean up there?” Laila asked while pouring him a cup. “Haven’t seen him yet.”

Forget coffee, Jeremy was awake. Because Jean’s door was wide open, and there was definitely not a French backliner in that room.

He couldn’t say he’d ever thought about how fast he could run to campus before. Not fast enough, apparently.

He raced through the halls of the athletic complex, cursing the idiocy of his roommate.

His asshole roommate.

His French asshole roommate.

Who the hell went out before dawn and didn’t even leave a note for their friends? Jeremy was going to throttle the bastard once he stopped being worried out of his mind.

He skidded to a stop in front of the practice court. Please be in here, he thought, before throwing open the double doors.

“Jean. Thank god.”

Jean looked up, as if broken from a trance. Exy balls were scattered everywhere. He’d been here for a while.

“Woke up,” Jeremy blurted out. “You weren’t there.”

Eloquent, Knox.

Jean just stared at him. Jeremy squirmed under his gaze. He most definitely did not notice the flush of exertion on Jean’s cheeks, thank you very much. Clearing his throat to break the silence, he glanced at his watch.

"Hey, you know we've got practice in forty?"

Jean blinked. "What?" he asked, disoriented.

That was odd. Jean was acting odd. He was always a little bit odd, but this was odder than normal. Was he…? No, he couldn’t be…

“Are you drunk?” Jeremy’s mouth blurted out before his brain could tell him it was a bad idea.

Jean picked up a ball and shot it at the goal, sixty yards away. It landed dead center.

Hot damn, Jeremy thought, before scolding himself. He was supposed to be upset with Jean. For making him run all the way here. For not leaving a note. For being an asshole in his ridiculously French-y way. The last thing he was supposed to be doing was fawning over him like a twelve-year-old at their first professional exy game.

Jean raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Does it look like I’m drunk?

Jeremy cleared his throat, hoping his mouth would cooperate with his brain.

"Okay, well…” he trailed off, then waved a hand at the scattering of exy balls. “You want some help cleaning all this up?"

At first, Jean looked like he was going to decline. He was annoyingly stubborn in that way, always staying after practice to help the assistants clean up, telling his teammates to go get changed, that he would take care of it.

Jeremy wasn’t sure what other super-human skills he was packing, but unless speed-cleaning was on that list, this wouldn't get done before practice started. It was at least a two-person job; Jean had done quite a bit of damage.

Finally, Jean nodded in acceptance, motioning to the empty buckets tossed haphazardly to the side.

Jeremy grabbed a bucket and started chucking balls into it, trying to ignore the fact that Jean was the only other person in the court with him. It wasn’t too hard; the court was big. But Jean was the one person his imagination liked to run away with, and it was early, and he was this close to saying something stupid that he’d regret for the rest of his life.

He filled one bucket, then started on another. And, no, he did not look over to where Jean was wiping his sweaty face with his sweaty t-shirt, thank you very much. Even though he wanted to. Like, really wanted to.

"Jeremy."

He turned around. Jean was walking towards him. Without his shirt on.

Good lord, Jean Moreau would surely be the death of him.

Because Jean was 250 pounds of pure muscle. Jeremy had known that his biceps were big. Huge, if he was being honest. He hadn’t thought anything could make them look better. But he was wrong. He much preferred seeing them paired with his shoulders. His chest. His abs.

Jeremy tore his eyes away. He chucked another ball into the bucket just as Jean said something he was too distracted to catch.

"Huh?" Jeremy replied, then cursed himself for not thinking of something better to say.

Jean stopped about five yards away, holding out an empty bucket. Jeremy wanted him to come closer. Jeremy wanted him to stay away.

He glanced down at his bucket, realizing it was nearly full. He took a few steps closer to Jean and accepted the empty, making sure their hands did not, in no way, touch. His half-awake brain wouldn’t be able to handle that.

"You are acting weird,” Jean said as he let go of the handle.

"Me?” Jeremy laughed. He’d aimed for playful but what came out was more held-at-gunpoint. Nice one, Knox. “No, I'm not."

"Okay," Jean replied suspiciously, furrowing his brows.

He somehow got more attractive when he was confused. Those cold, calculating eyes turned soft and round, vulnerable.

Can you hear yourself, Jeremy? Jean Moreau, vulnerable? It was an oxy-moron. Jumbo shrimp or whatever.

Jeremy turned back to the task at hand, hoping it would sufficiently distract him from the thoughts running through his head. But try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jean's body. How good he looked. How much better he’d look with a healthy tan. He was pale as fuck, slowly working his way to a bad farmer’s tan. Jeremy really needed to get him back to the beach.

Maybe just the two of them, this time. And while they were there, who knew what would happen? Maybe Jean would come out of his shell a little. Maybe Jeremy would work up the nerve to make a move. He’d always wanted to make out with someone on the beach, under the stars. It sounded so much more romantic than making out in a cornfield. And if things went further, well, who was he to say no?

"Do you need help with your balls?"

Jeremy’s breath lodged in his throat. He choked out a few coughs before finally catching his breath.

"What?!" he finally gasped out.

Jean lobbed an exy ball into the bucket.

"Oh.” Jeremy’s face was on fire. God, he was such an idiot. “Right. No, I've got it."

Jean raised an eyebrow. "You do not want help?"

Jeremy glanced around. Jean had cleaned up his side of the court already. Maybe he was a super-human speed cleaner.

"Fine. You can start over there?" Jeremy pointed to the far wall, hoping to get rid of Jean and his stupid muscular torso as soon as possible.

Jean nodded in agreement and did as told.

Jeremy had to pull himself together. This was not going to end well, and he knew it. Laila and Alvarez were, like, the exception when it came to dating teammates. For everyone else, it was never a good idea.

He started counting to pull himself out of his thoughts. 99 exy balls on the court, 99 exy balls. Pick one up, put it in the bucket, 98 exy balls on the court.

He had counted down to 42 by the time he caught up with Jean. They both reached for the same ball, fingers brushing.

God, it was like a Hallmark movie.

“Sorry,” Jeremy stuttered out. “All yours.”

Jean picked up the ball, grabbed Jeremy’s wrist, and planted the ball in his hand. They locked eyes.

Fuck me, Jeremy thought.

He was at least coherent enough to let out a pitiful ‘thanks’ as he dropped the ball into the bucket.

Then, his gaze landed on Jean’s chest. It was crisscrossed with scars. Most were thin, precise, straight. Like someone had taken a razor blade to his skin. Others were ugly, misshapen blobs, puckered and shiny. Jeremy didn't realize his hand had moved until it was being crushed in Jean' grip, an inch away from his skin.

Where had he gotten those?

Jeremy tore his eyes away from Jean's chest, back to his face. He was a million miles away.

“Jean-”

“J’ai besoin-,” Jean said, French accent pronounced, before cutting himself off, closing his eyes. “I need you to forget this.”

Jeremy didn't think he could forget this if he tried.

He was overcome with a wave of sadness. Sadness that something so violent, so brutal, could happen to someone he cared for. It quickly morphed into anger. Anger at whatever, or whoever, did this. Jeremy didn't even want to think about that. That someone could be so cruel to intentionally inflict this much pain on someone else was unimaginable.

Jean's hand was still wrapped around his wrist like a vise. Hesitantly, Jeremy pushed against his grip. His hand moved closer to Jean’s exposed chest. Closer to the scars. He laid his hand on Jean’s pec, fingers splaying out, feeling the uneven texture of his skin. The muscle twinged under his fingers; tensing then relaxing.

Jeremy glanced at Jean. His eyes were still closed, brows furrowed as if in pain. Then he sucked a breath in and stepped back, breaking the contact.

Jeremy was surprised at the pang of longing he felt at the loss of contact, as if one of his ribs had just been ripped out of his chest. He glanced back at Jean. They locked eyes. Jeremy had never noticed before, but Jean’s eyes weren't gray at all. They were more of a green, really. Funny how you could only notice from this close up. Time seemed to slow down, just like it had that day at the beach. Jeremy was keenly aware of the sound of his heart beating.

And just like that, it was over. Jeremy couldn’t say who’d broken the stare first. He took a shaky breath in, shellshocked. When he came back to his senses, Jean was halfway to the equipment closet, two buckets in each hand. The shirt was still off. Jeremy counted that as a win. He grabbed the remaining two buckets, and followed in Jean's wake.

Chapter Text

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk thunk thunk.

Jean watched the ball skitter into the corner of the court.

It had missed the cone by six inches.

Eli sighed in frustration.

Jean glanced at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

“No, you don't have to tell me,” Eli said dejectedly, scooping up another ball with his racquet. “I know that sucked.”

It was their third week working together. Nearly a month had passed since that day at the beach, when Eli had gotten injured. When Jean had given him stitches. When he’d written his name inside the first aid kit, breaking the last link between the perfect court. Or, perhaps, expanding it. Opening it up to these Trojans, allowing them to get a little closer to him.

Jean was still waiting for it all to blow up in his face. He’d been nowhere near this close to any of the Ravens; letting down his walls had always been too much of a risk. The Trojans were less competitive, sure, but he didn’t doubt there were teammates who yearned for the opportunity to take Jean Moreau down. It was only a matter of time.

He’d been pushing his boundaries the most with Jeremy. That day at the beach, something had clicked. Jeremy just felt right. Jean knew, logically, that Jeremy was attractive; had known that from the day he met him. But now? They had formed some sort of connection, one that went well beyond looks. It was like they were magnetized, drawn together by some unknown force. Was it fate? Destiny? Jean wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: it was dangerous. He was Jean Moreau. He had a purpose: play exy. Relationships didn’t fit into that. Jeremy didn’t fit into that. In nine months all this would be long gone, left in the dust.

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself. He spent idle moments at practice hunting for excuses to talk to Jeremy, to wander past him on the bench. He couldn’t count how many times he’d sat down to study stats in  his bedroom and only gotten halfway through a page before becoming distracted with the four inches of drywall separating the two of them. He couldn’t focus; it was agony. Was this what people meant when they said they had butterflies? It wasn’t at all like the nerves he got before an exy game, heavy in the pit of his stomach, leaving him sweaty and nauseous. No, this was much better. It was a heat in his chest, right behind his heart, warming him from the inside-out. Jean had never been much of a romantic, never imagined a silly notion like love fitting into his life as a Raven. But maybe, just maybe, he was falling for someone.

And then there was that drill session Jeremy had burst in on. Jean hadn’t been thinking, too caught up in the rush of endorphins to remember whose company he was in. He’d taken off his pads and his shirt, as was habit; he’d been doing it for years with Kevin. But Jeremy wasn’t Kevin. Jeremy had seen his scars and been…what? Angry? Sad? Jean had had trouble deciphering all of the emotions that had flooded across his face. But it left him with no doubt: Jeremy cared about him. Deeply. And that may be the most dangerous part of it all.

Jean shook his head, banishing Jeremy from his mind, schooling his expression back into its usual grimace, and focusing on the freshman in front of him. After that day at the beach, Eli had taken to following him around everywhere: sitting next to him at meals, pairing up with him for backliner drills, and grilling him constantly on anything and everything exy. After only two days Jean was sick and tired of being shadowed. In exchange for some breathing room during the day, he'd suggested they pair up for these nightly sessions. They’d begun with film study and stats analysis, on account of Eli’s injury. After watching a match or two, Jean would let him go, then change out and practice his drills, alone.

It felt illicit, practicing Raven drills in the Trojan court. Each time he set up the line of cones for the first drill, a little voice in his head reminded him that he was doing this behind his team’s back. They wanted him to devote himself completely to their values and playing style. And here he was, still hanging onto his old ways, still practicing like a Raven.

Then again, he reminded himself, Jeremy had seen him doing these drills and hadn’t thought anything of it. Perhaps his new team was none the wiser. For all they knew, he’d could’ve picked up these drills from various teams over the years, modifying them to suit his needs.

Coach Rhemann was another story. A former Raven himself, there was a chance that he would know what the drills really were. Of course, Jean reminded himself, there was also the possibility that these drills were nothing like the ones the team had used back in Rhemann’s day, that he wouldn’t recognize them at all. It was a risk he wasn’t ready to take, yet. So, he’d kept them a secret, hiding them even from Eli. But his plan went awry.

After two weeks on the bench, Eli had been given full clearance from the medics, and they moved their sessions from the film room to the practice court. Jean worked Eli through his Trojan drills, sticking to the basics and knocking out the rust. There was more than enough for them to work on; Jean had expected these drills would be the focus of their sessions for a few weeks, at least. But three nights ago, unbeknownst to Jean, Eli had stayed around after his shower and peeked in on Jean's workout, watching as he knocked down cone after cone. The freshman hadn't stopped talking about the Raven drills since. Which got them here.

Jean watched as the next ball hit the wall, rebounded, and bounced off the cone. It didn't come close to toppling.

“What am I doing wrong?!” Eli groaned.

“You will get there,” Jean offered. Unlike the Trojans’ drills, these were meant to be difficult. Once a player had mastered the basics, it meant they were worthy of game time, worthy of their number. “It takes time.”

“Thank you, captain obvious,” Eli said sarcastically. “Tell me something I don't know.”

Jean watched him throw the ball again. His usual feedback followed the Ravens' style: blunt, direct, to the point. The Ravens prided themselves on excellence. You were either there, or you weren't. Jean had spent years telling his teammates they weren't good enough. Rarely he told them how to actually improve. That was up for the individual to figure out. He knew Eli was just blowing off steam, but he pondered his words anyway. Something he doesn’t know.

“You can throw with accuracy, or with force,” Jean said, trying to get more specific. “But you are having trouble doing both.”

Eli frowned. “I can see that. How do I fix it?”

Jean watched him make another shot, feeling as much the student as the teacher as he tried putting into words what his body had been doing for years. He paid close attention to Eli’s posture and alignment, how it affected the arc his racquet made through the air.

“Your shoulders are loose. Tighten them up. It will improve your aim.”

Eli did as told. Jean might have been imagining it, but this throw seemed to miss the cone by less distance than the last one.

They continued drilling until their two hours were up. By the end of it, Jean was mentally exhausted, ready to shut his brain off and throw a few balls around. Eli had made exponential improvements tonight, managing to consistently topple a cone by the end of the night. It was by no means a Raven record, but it was still better than many of the freshmen he’d seen.

Maybe there was something to be said for specific feedback, he thought as he ran warm-up laps around the court. It was draining for him, having to pay closer attention and put his thoughts into words, but maybe that was worth it. It had certainly improved Eli’s performance.

As he worked through the first drill, his mind kept wandering, analyzing his own performance in preparation for the next session with Eli. How did he position his body to get the desired angle of the ball? How much force did he use for each cone and why? He deliberately overshot or curved a few throws to see what effect they had on the path of the ball.

He’d never played like this before. In the nest, all he’d cared about was results. Who cared how you knocked down a cone? All that mattered was that it came down. The only boundaries Jean had pushed there had been the physical limitations of his body; learning how to do the drills with his non-dominant hand or with his weight balanced on one foot to better pass off as a player in perfect health when an inevitable injury came along.

Picking apart his techniques like this gave him a whole new view of the sport he'd played for so long. What would his future hold if he could leverage this? He’d always known that a career playing exy was in his future, but that had always been the end of it. Jean found himself thinking back to his conversation with Jeremy, how he’d told Jean he’d make a good captain. That long-forgotten dream, never a possibility at the nest, now seemed attainable. The position not only would give him an opportunity to influence his peers, but also a lot more interaction with the coaching staff. He could use these new talents to truly impact his team.

The thought of getting into coaching just barely crossed his mind before reality hit. His future was controlled by the Moriyamas. In just over nine months he’d sign with a professional team, and the Trojans would be left in the rearview. He turned over the idea in his head, surprised to find it less appealing than he had a few short months ago. He’d gone into the summer thinking of this as a one-year sentence; an inconvenient roadblock in the way of his future. But now?

The deadline loomed over him, reminding him that his days at USC were numbered. He deflated a bit, the dream of becoming captain fading away. Once he went pro, he’d be starting over again with a new team. He’d have to prove himself all over again. The thought was draining.

But perhaps he could keep a link to this team. Jeremy was graduating this year. The chances were slim, but maybe they could both get drafted to the same team. Then he’d at least have one teammate he wouldn’t have to start from scratch with. 

No, Jean told himself forcefully. Thoughts like that only gave him false hope. He’d be leaving at the end of the year, shattering any link to this team, his roommates included. Jean was a traitor, here as much as he’d been at Edgar Allan. That would be his legacy. Not his skills as any exy player but his pattern of abandoning teams when they needed him most.

Even if his relationship with Jeremy could escape unscathed, now was definitely not the time to be getting closer to anyone at USC, let alone his captain. That wouldn’t end well at all. Jean would have to keep his distance, as much as it would kill him to do so. He was sure it would come as a shock to Jeremy; suddenly staying away after they’d been drifting closer and closer these past few weeks. It was his own fault, he knew; allowing Jeremy to see his scars had only snowballed this whole thing.

Even without his departure looming over him, there was the Edgar Allan investigation to worry about. The accusations were going to pick up, Jean was sure of it. He could get by with his lies so far, but what would happen when something was revealed that he couldn’t explain away? Or, worse, what would happen if his teammates found out the truth?

No, he told himself. There was no point in worrying. It wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t. He’d been lying since the moment he’d stepped off the plane. If the Trojans hadn’t managed to see his bluff yet, they never would. As the weeks went on, he was only getting better at hiding the truth. He was safe, he had to be.

As he finished up his drills, he resolved to make the most of the situation. He’d glean as much information as he could out of this college team before he moved onto the next level. He’d keep Jeremy at a respectable distance. And when he did go pro, he’d be ready, even if he burned every bridge with the Trojans in the process.

Jean shoved down the despair he felt at the thought of leaving this team behind. He was a Raven. Winning was all that mattered.

Jean was back in the nest, back in his dorm room, back in that awful dream that wouldn’t leave him alone. It had been resurfacing more and more throughout the past few weeks, each time with more details than the last.

He was on his bed, clock on the nightstand next to him, hands tied to the wooden slats of the headboard, rope rough where it chafed against his wrists.

“All mine?” Someone asked behind him.

This part was familiar to Jean; he’d dreamt it before.

“All yours,” Riko replied. “Just like we agreed.”

Jean turned his head, looking out of the corner of his eye. This was new.

Riko was standing with one of the Ravens. His shirt-sleeve bore the number 17. That combined with the frosted tips narrowed it down to one person: Ty Cooper. He’d been the Raven’s starting goalie for two years, graduating at the end of Riko’s freshman year. 

Why is he here? Jean wondered.

Ty turned his head, locking eyes with Jean. Everything about him screamed danger.

“And in turn?” Riko prompted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ty replied, waving his hands at Riko to shoo him away, his intense stare still focused on Jean. “You’ll get my vote.”

“And?”

“And the rest of the goal line.”

“Good,” Riko replied succinctly. They didn’t shake hands, but Jean knew a deal when he saw one.

The dream shifted, morphing into something different, something new. The ropes were gone, replaced with handcuffs. A blindfold covered his eyes. Someone’s hands were on his chest, holding him down.

“Such a tough guy on the court, freak,” she said. Jean hated that he couldn’t match a name to the voice. One of her hands moved, wrapping around his throat, restricting his airflow.

“If only they could see what a pussy their little prodigy is in bed. Can’t even take it like a man.”

“Please, stop!” He croaked out.

“Please, stop!” She mocked in a high-pitched voice. Then, in her normal register. “What a joke. You're just a stupid little bitch.”

Jean was pushed further into the bed, his assailant leaning down close to whisper in his ear, “You don’t get to play with us if you can’t fuck with us.”

Her grip tightened on Jean’s throat, and suddenly, Jean couldn’t breathe. He tugged on the handcuffs, but they didn’t budge, just dug into his wrists. He tried kicking his legs, but they were trapped under the girl.

Spots swam in Jean’s vision.

He was going to die here, like this.

Then, the hand was gone. The pressure on his throat was gone. Hands were on his shoulders, shaking vigorously.

“Please,” Jean whispered under his breath, his voice hoarse. “Please, stop.”

“Jean!”

The shout came from far away. It sounded like–

Jean woke up. Jeremy’s face was inches from his own. The dream and reality blurred. Jean didn’t know what was real. He jerked back on instinct, hands tugging at his restraints. Restraints that weren’t there. His hands flew forwards, shoving Jeremy off the bed.

A cold feeling of betrayal washed over him. Up until this point, Jeremy had been a comfort, had been his friend, had been easy to talk to. But, in the dream, Jeremy had hurt him.

Jean glanced to where his captain was sprawled on the floor, gasping like a fish until he finally got a good breath in.

“Jean,” Jeremy wheezed, “Snap out of it!”

Jean shook his head, trying to make sense of everything. It was difficult; his brain was still half-asleep. Had Jeremy been hurting him? Or was it someone else? Was Jeremy trying to help him? He tried to remember but the dream kept slipping away. The first assailant had clearly been Ty, that much Jean knew. But the second one could’ve been anyone.

Then, he remembered. It had been a girl. Not Jeremy, then. But it still left a flurry of questions in his head, the same ones that had been stuck there for weeks. Why was this happening to him? Or, maybe, why had this happened to him? He still didn’t know if the dreams were real or just a construct of his imagination.

A memory flashed behind his eyes. Red Death, Riko and Kevin’s freshman year. With one more year until he was officially on the team, Jean hadn’t been invited to the party. He’d spent the night watching old exy games on the TV, drowning his sorrows with a strong bottle Kevin had slipped him.

He’d been towards the end of the third match when Riko had walked in, Ty Cooper on his heels.

“Your room, now.” Riko had demanded.

In the present, Jean blinked stupidly, reality washing over him. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been real, a memory. A memory that he’d forgotten because he’d been too drunk to remember any of it. Did that mean the second dream was real too? How many other times had this happened? How many times had he been taken advantage of, used, without remembering?

Jean clenched his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms until it hurt, wishing he had more answers. He knew one thing for sure: Riko had used him to become captain, had traded his body for votes. His captain, one of his closest friends, nearly a brother, had thrown him to the wolves. The truth was almost too much to bear. That night hadn't been a drunken mistake, not to Riko. He'd planned the whole thing in advance and never bothered to tell Jean the truth. Shame washed over him. He'd been too stupid to see it, see how his friend was using him, for who knew how long. He was a stupid, useless, nobody.

A fat, hot tear rolled down Jean’s face and dropped onto the back of his hand. He sniffed, brushing it away.

“Jean? You okay?” Jeremy asked, cautiously. His voice sounded a million miles away. Jean blinked, trying to keep the rest of the tears at bay, as the reality of the situation washed over him. As he remembered whose company he was in.

He could not let Jeremy Knox see him cry.

With an anger he didn’t feel, Jean stared daggers at his captain and whispered fiercely, “Get out.”

Confusion and hurt washed over Jeremy’s face. “You sure, Jean? You don’t seem–”

“Get the fuck out of my room!” Jean shouted, cringing at the way his voice cracked on the last word.

Jeremy shot to his feet, scampering out the door and closing it behind him. As soon as he was gone, Jean was sucked back into his thoughts.

Riko had used him, and Jean had been too stupid to stop it. What was he doing here? He was no good, barely deserving of the Ravens. At least they had seen him for what he was, unlike these Trojans who acted like he was their equal. He didn't deserve their team, their sunshine. Hell, he didn’t even deserve this house, this bedroom, these roommates. Jean should be back where he belonged, in the basement of the nest, hidden away, alone.

He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to keep the sobs at bay, to shove them back into his throat. The thought of going back there, back into the nest, was nearly unbearable. The memories collapsed on top of him, crushing him with their weight, trapping him down, deep underground, back into the darkness.

His breathing was hysterical now, but he couldn't stop it, couldn't get it back to normal. He was stupid, useless, no good, nobody, a waste of space. Just like Riko had been telling him all these years.

As he lost the battle against the tears, against the sobs, against the hysteria, regret joined the shame. Moments ago, he’d thought the worst thing in the world would’ve been for Jeremy Knox to see him cry. But he’d been wrong. Being alone, going through this alone, was worse.

The phone rang four times before the call connected.

“Jean.” Kevin said immediately. “You saw?”

Jean gave an affirmative grunt, wishing he could unsee. He’d just got out of back-to-back meetings, first with the Trojans coaching staff, then with the whole team, to discuss the new accusations smeared across the internet. The Ravens had gone further with these ones; discrimination, hazing, verbal and physical assault. Once again, Jean had told them it was all lies, there was no proof, the Ravens would do anything if it meant staying in the game.

He’d called Kevin the instant he got home, clicking the lock on his bedroom door and ignoring the voice in his head telling him that there would be repercussions for assuming he had any privacy.

“How are the Trojans taking it?” Kevin asked.

“They aren’t.” Jean answered, in French. He couldn’t risk his roommates overhearing this conversation. “I told them it was all lies.”

Kevin was silent for a long moment. Jean could practically feel his disappointment through the phone line. 

“Why, Jean?” He groaned. “Why would you do that?”

Jean sat down on his bed, frustrated. It wasn’t like he had any other options. Unlike Kevin, his new team was full of relatively well-adjusted young adults. The Foxes might take his and Neil’s truths at face value, but the Trojans were a whole other story. For the hundredth time since the first article came out, he pictured Jeremy’s face upon learning just how brutal the Ravens could be. It morphed into Alvarez’s, Laila’s, Owen’s, the freshmen, the rest of the team. They all looked disgusted and horrified. No, telling the truth was unthinkable. Jean couldn’t expose them to that.

A familiar headache had started to form at the base of his skull. Between practices with Eli, the nightmares, and now this investigation, his sleep quality was tanking, fast. He dug his fingers into the pressure point, willing the dull ache to go away.

“What was I supposed to do?” He asked Kevin. “Tell the truth?”

“Yes,” Kevin replied without hesitation. “They are going to find out eventually.”

Jean’s heart clenched at the thought. Group punishments and hazing being leaked he could deal with. But, if this kept going, at some point the truth of his own abuse would come out. Including the parts his brain had tried to forget. The parts that were surfacing only now, in his dreams.

That wasn’t an option.

“Kevin,” he said delicately, thinking of his dream that was definitely not just a dream, “there are some things they can’t know.”

Kevin sighed. Jean could picture him, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Is this about the hazing?” Kevin asked. “About Red Death? Jean, there will be too many allegations to count, with no proof. There’s no way you’ll be held liable for anything you did.”

Jean rolled his eyes. Of course Kevin assumed he was referring to Red Death. Held the night before the first home game of the year, Masque of the Red Death, commonly abbreviated to Red Death, was the party to end all parties. The Ravens used it as an unofficial initiation for their new members. Starting the day after the party, the upperclassmen would start a list of activities for the next year’s initiation. As the date got closer, they’d hold a vote to determine what made it into the night’s agenda. Jean had played a part, just like all of his teammates. There were countless other Ravens he could single out, if he wanted to, who actively pushed for some of the more harmful challenges. But he knew it wouldn’t come to that. Red Death was kept top-secret among Ravens. Since phones and cameras were banned from the party, there was simply zero evidence to back up anyone’s claims about what happened that night. And besides, most of the Ravens were in the same boat as Jean; too drunk to remember anything they’d done that night. Even if someone did manage to snap a picture that night, they wouldn’t be able to recognize anyone; masks were required in the dress code for the evening. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Jean whispered.

“Not what you–? Jean, what else is there?” Kevin asked, exasperated. “Riko’s dead. You, me, and Neil are the only ones who know what he did to us. That’s your story to bury; I won’t tell.”

Jean hesitated. Once this came out, there was no going back. But if he didn’t tell Kevin, didn’t get him on his side, then it might come out in other ways, ways he couldn’t control. He couldn’t risk the entire Trojan line-up learning his secrets.

“Kevin, there are other things.” Jean said quietly. “Things you don’t know.”

Kevin didn’t respond for a long while, so long that Jean worried they’d lost connection. He pulled his phone away from his ear and glanced at the screen. The call was still there.

“Kevin?” He asked hesitantly.

“I’m here, Jean,” he said softly. He took a deep breath, then said, hurt in his voice, “We shared everything. What didn’t you tell me?”

Kevin’s words stung. They had shared everything; every scratch, every bruise, every stitch. They both had a mental record of every time the other had been injured at the nest.

But Jean couldn’t share what he hadn’t remembered.

“This has just started coming back to me,” he tried to explain. “You know when you drink too much, and you can’t remember everything that happened? It’s like that. I’ve been having dreams.”

“Dreams?” Kevin scoffed. “You’re worried about dreams?! They aren’t fucking real, Jean.”

“These ones are different,” Jean muttered.

“So, what? Riko got in a couple extra punishments while you were too drunk to remember? Big deal.”

Jean stared at his clock. Yellowy-green numbers on a gray background. It wasn’t the one in the nest, with its harsh red numbers. The one that haunted him at night, while unspeakable things happened to him.

“Kevin,” he said, voice barely a whisper, “he let the other players…” Jean trailed off, unable to say it, unable to put into words what had happened to him. He closed his eyes, blinking away tears, and took a shaky breath in.

Kevin was silent as Jean’s words sunk in.

“Oh, fuck,” he cursed, once he’d connected the dots. “Fuck. Jean, who?”

Jean shook his head. “I do not know all of them. Or how many times. But for sure it happened once during your freshman year, when Riko was trying to get all the upperclassmen to accept him as captain.”

A loud thud echoed through the phone line.

“He traded you?! For a captainship?!”

“Kevin, please–”

“No, Jean. This is–” Kevin was breathing so heavily that Jean could hear it through the phone. “It’s fucking despicable.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Jean’s heart in his throat at the sudden outburst, even though Kevin was halfway across the country and in no way capable of laying his hands on him at the moment. He shoved his shaking hands under his thighs, digging his fingertips into the bedspread.

“No,” Kevin finally said, “You’re right. They can’t know about that. This needs to stop before it goes down that road. I’ll call Kathy in the morning, see if I can get on her show for next weekend. It’s short notice but she never passes up an opportunity to talk Perfect Court.”

Jean closed his eyes, remembering his trip with Riko to Kathy Fernidand’s studio, backing up Riko as he faced down Kevin and Neil. Riko had been so excited to humiliate them in public, but Neil had thrown him for a loop. Jean’s fingers idly traced the now-faded scar on his left bicep, the one he’d stitched up that night. It all felt like ages ago.

“Jean, you need to do some press, too,” Kevin continued. Jean’s heart sank. He had no exposure to the media; Riko and Kevin had always been the ones in the spotlight. Jean couldn’t schmooze like they did; what if the interviewer got bored with his story? What if they thought he wasn’t worth the air time? Kevin kept talking, oblivious to his internal struggles, “Find a talk show or a radio slot, somewhere you can tell your side of the story. Your coach probably has a few contacts. Keep spreading those lies you’ve been telling to your teammates. And I need a transcript or a recording with every word you say. Our stories need to match up. Got it?”

“I don’t do press,” Jean pointed out.

“You do now. Learn up.” Kevin hesitated, then added, “Don’t do anything Neil does.”

Jean snorted out a laugh. As if he needed to be told. He’d watched enough press conferences through the years to know what was appropriate and what was frowned upon.

“We’ll get through this,” Kevin told him, “We always have.”

A memory flashed through Jean’s brain; him and Kevin, hiding out in Jean’s room after Riko had thrown a fit and gone at both of them with a knife. They were both too old for sleepovers, but they’d snuggled under the covers of Jean’s bed anyways, fresh gauze over their sloppy stitches, promising each other these exact words.

“Together,” Jean whispered, seeing a teenage version of himself doing the same in his memory, linking pinkies with Kevin.

“Together,” Kevin echoed. “And Jean? I’m really fucking sorry he did that to you. If I would’ve known–”

“Thank you,” Jean interrupted. He didn’t want to hear what lengths Kevin was willing to go to to avenge his pain. It might heal the divide between them. And Jean wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

“Goodbye, Kevin,” he said, forcing the end of the conversation.

After a moment of hesitation, Kevin returned his goodbye. Jean ended the call and closed his eyes, rebuilding the mental barrier he’d put up between himself and Kevin. He needed it more now than ever; letting his emotions fall prey to Kevin’s manipulations never ended well.

Jean awoke, drenched in sweat. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, wiped his hair off his forehead. The nightmares were getting worse.

He trudged to the bathroom, splashed some water on his face, then stuck his mouth under the tap to drink. He didn't bother turning on the lights. Didn't bother glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He knew what he would see, knew it wouldn’t be anything good. He got back into bed, hoping for sleep. Knowing it wouldn't come.

Tonight had started normal enough. Memories of Riko and Kevin, their first few years in the nest. Then, they’d morphed into the sinister horrors he was coming to expect in his sleep. The dream with Ty was coming less often. In its place, that woman whispered in his ear more and more. He still couldn’t recognize her voice. Other dreams were appearing, too, though none of them were distinct enough to remember yet. Scenes blurred together, in that strange way dreams worked, making him think that they were just that: dreams. But after the one with Ty, he couldn’t be sure.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, until his alarm went off at its usual time. Getting up, he went through the motions: make breakfast, get dressed, walk to the practice facility. His heart wasn’t in any of it.

“You okay, man?” Owen asked, during a rest period. They were in the weight room to start the morning. Everything felt heavier than normal; even Jean’s warm-up weight was a struggle to move.

Jean shrugged. “Just tired.”

And he was tired, his already sparse sleep schedule ripped to shreds by the recurring nightmares. He frowned, frustrated with himself. A lack of sleep had never gotten in his way in the nest. He was stronger than that. He was a Raven, and Ravens didn’t let base impulses like sleep or hunger get in the way of their performance.

He sat down on the bench, lining up for the next set, and pushed the urge to rest from his mind. Staring up at the metal bar, he took a deep breath, then got into position for the lift, rolling his shoulder blades back, pushing his chest up, and bracing his feet against the floor. He gripped the bar tight and lifted it off the rack. He got five reps in before getting stuck.

“C’mon, Moreau. You got this!” Owen cheered.

Jean struggled with all his might. He’d never failed a set; he wouldn’t start now. This bar will move. And inch by inch, it did, until his arms were straight. Owen reached his hands out to help guide the bar back to the rack, but Jean shook his head. He needed to do two more, get up to eight reps, otherwise his set would be incomplete. Otherwise he would be a failure. Failure was not acceptable.

Owen let go of the bar, allowing Jean to complete another rep. He paused again at the bottom, arms shaking with exertion. Pushing his chest out, grinding his heels into the ground, Jean put all his strength towards lifting the bar.

“Don’t fail on me now, Mr. Freak of Nature. Gotta uphold your reputation!”

He’d meant it encouragingly, but Owen’s choice of words dragged Jean back to his dreams.

Such a tough guy on the court, freak.

Jean tried to push the woman’s voice from his brain. The bar was still halfway up; frozen in place. He couldn’t slip into a dream, not here, not where his teammates would see. Jean grunted, pushing with all his might. He wouldn’t let the dream win.

If only they could see what a pussy their little prodigy is in bed.

The dream forced its way back into his head, and Jean’s arms finally gave up the fight. They had just enough strength left in them to prevent the bar from dropping out of his grip entirely. He guided it down, resting it on his sternum. And all of a sudden, he wasn’t in the weight room. He was back in the nest, back in his dorm, with that girl on top of him, hands wrapped tight around his throat.

Jean’s breaths came faster as his hands flew to his neck, fighting an invisible force. His chest heaved, but he couldn’t get any air in. His surroundings became blurry. He was trapped, frozen in place. The nightmare was winning.

Then, the pressure on his throat was gone. The weight on his chest was gone. He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them. Owen was standing behind the rack, in his usual spotting location, holding onto the re-racked bar. Jeremy was in front of him, leaning over him just like he’d done in the dream, when he’d–.

Jean sprang to his feet, giving Jeremy a shove.

“Jean,” Jeremy started.

“Stop trying to help me,” Jean demanded. “I can handle myself.”

He stormed out of the weight room and charged down the hallway, oblivious to where his feet were taking him. All he cared about was getting away. From everyone.

He ended up on the fifth floor. He hadn’t been up here since that conversation with Ichirou on his first day. It felt like a lifetime ago. Like he’d done that day, he headed to the corner alcove with all the windows. He focused his attention on the view outside, to prevent himself from falling into a bottomless pit like he’d done the other night, when Jeremy had woken him and his thoughts had nearly suffocated him.

He looked at the practice football field, wondering not for the first time why the football team needed so many numbers on their field. Were they idiots who couldn’t tell how far they had to run to get to the goal line? Exy didn’t need nearly that many markings. His heart was only half in the jest, but it helped to pull him out of his funk, regardless.

Beyond the field lay the skyline of the city he now called home and, past that, the range of mountains that bordered the city to the east.

Ocean on one side, mountains on the other, Jean mused, before he could remember not to. Just like home.

His heart panged at the realization. It seemed like everywhere he turned in Los Angeles there were reminders of Marseille. Jean had ignored them for the past two months; ten years of conditioning to reject his past had done its job. But perhaps…

He looked over his shoulder, checking to be sure the hallway was still deserted. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, trying to remember. He dug deep into his memories, places he hadn’t dared to venture in the nest. He thought of his parents. His mother, teaching him how to play piano, her hands getting the keys he couldn’t reach. His father, letting him play with the steering wheel and gearshift before they took one of the sports cars out on a joyride. Their faces were lost to time, but he still remembered the comfort of being wrapped in their arms, their soothing voices whispering to him before bed.

His breathing steadied out, calm washing over him.

“Mon petit oiseau,” his mother used to call him. My little bird.

Then, like a bad tape, the memories tarnished.

Speak English, boy! The Master growled at him. Your team cannot understand you when you use that savage tongue.

Jean jerked back on instinct, bracing for a hit that didn’t come. His eyes fluttered open, and he forced himself to focus on his surroundings again. Trojan red and yellow. Crimson and gold, Jeremy’s voice corrected in his head. Outside, the football team had gathered in the middle of the field, watching as their kicker attempted a field goal. Jean watched the ball go through the uprights, right down the middle. Down on the sidewalk, a tour group wandered past.

Jean wished he had someone he could talk to, could share the burden of this with. It was too much for one person. Jeremy’s face flashed through his mind but he shut that down, hard. Jeremy wasn’t to be trusted. None of the Trojans were. Even when he’d been with Riko and Kevin, Jean had been different, separate. Alone kept him safe. Alone was best. He would pull through the next nine months. He had to. Failure was not an option.

Chapter Text

Jean had made a mistake.

Scratch that. Jean had made many mistakes. So many that he could follow them, trace them back through the past few weeks, one after another, like a trail of dominos.

Losing it at practice last week. Clink. Telling Kevin about his dreams. Clink. Pushing Jeremy away. Clink. Allowing him to get close in the first place. Clink. On and on it went, each mistake leading to another. Sometimes, he wondered if the list would ever end. 

His mistake today? Letting Jeremy catch up to him during warmups.

“I’m serious, Jean. You’d take a day off if you were injured. It should be the same for your mental health.”

Jean scoffed and rolled his eyes. Jeremy hadn't let up from this topic since that day in the weight room. He was starting to sound like a broken record. Jean marveled at the Trojan insistence that even a paper cut be properly healed before an athlete was cleared for practice. How disconnected from reality it was, like living in a pipe dream. Sometimes he wondered what they would say if he told them the truth. That he’d played through nearly every injury imaginable, at one point or another. That sheer adrenaline fueled him during most games, the fear of failure the only thing keeping him upright. Jean was all too familiar with gritting his teeth and playing through the pain. He imagined telling all, spilling his secrets until there were none left. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth; one more mistake waiting to get added to the list.

“‘Sup, losers.” Alvarez’s greeting interrupted Jean’s thoughts. She caught up to him, matching pace. Laila did the same, on the other side of Jeremy, and the two quickly began talking in hushed tones. Captain stuff, Jean assumed.

He ignored them and raised a threatening eyebrow at Alvarez, glancing around for potential weapons. Last week she’d managed to get most of the backline directly in the face with a squirt gun by running up to them and starting random conversations just like this. Jean wasn’t going to let himself be fooled a second time.

“No need to get hostile,” she said, raising her hands so he could see she was unarmed. “Just stopping by for a chat before we blow you two out of the water.”

She winked at the reference to her previous week’s prank, then leaned in close to Jean, “If you want, you can help me with the next one. I’m going after the strikers. The key to this one is man power; create a big distraction and then, BAM!, we attack. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Ignoring the disbelieving look Jean threw her way, she outlined the details of the plot. It involved chicken costumes ‘borrowed’ from the production company her brother worked for, however many members of the pep band she could convince to show up, and copious amounts of soap bubbles.

“While they’re distracted with that, we’re loading up on ammo. Oh, that’s another thing. We need to stock up on water balloons. They limit how many you can buy at once so we'll need to take multiple trips to the store. Anyways, we load up, we send out the band, and then–”

“He said what?!” Laila shrieked, snapping her head around to stare at Jean.

“Mon Dieu,” Jean muttered under his breath. On the one hand, he was glad he didn’t have to hear the end of chicken-band-bubble-gate, but he was really not looking forward to continuing his previous conversation with Jeremy. Especially if Laila was now involved. 

“Jean doesn’t believe in mental health days,” Jeremy explained to Alvarez, filling her in on their conversation.

“Says the guy who’s been having hallucinations?” Alvarez shook her head disapprovingly, side-eyeing Jean. “Not a good look, man.”

Jean didn’t bother pointing out that she was the one crafting multi-layered pranks to humiliate her teammates. He sighed, resigned to his fate. This conversation would happen eventually, whether he liked it or not. They wouldn’t let up until he’d been converted to their Trojan beliefs. And it wasn’t like he could avoid them forever; he lived with them.

“I have not been having hallucinations,” Jean countered, repeating his argument to Jeremy from earlier. “And even if I did, I don’t see why it matters. I can still hold a racquet.”

Laila sighed, closing her eyes and briefly touching one of the crystals hanging around her neck. She’d told him what they all meant at one point, but Jean hadn’t paid enough attention to remember. This one was a deep blue color. If her strained expression was anything to go by, it probably gave her clarity to see past the urge to punch her teammate.

“It’s not just about that, Jean,” she said, opening her eyes. “Moods are contagious. If you’re having a bad day, that negative energy is going to spread to the rest of your team. Better to take the day for yourself, let your mind heal, then come back feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy said pointedly. “I have been trying to tell him that all morning.”

Jean shook his head, asking the question he’d never gotten a straight answer to. “What if you have ‘negative energy’ on a game day?”

“It’s all relative, just like physical injuries,” Laila explained. “You get a concussion, you’re out of the game, no questions asked. A sprained ankle? The medics might clear you with a sturdy wrap job and a promise to take it easy. Same goes for mental health. Being aware of yourself and your limits is the most important thing.”

Jean scoffed. A concussion might take most players out of the game, but not him. He was Jean Moreau. He was Perfect Court. He didn’t have the luxury.

“What don’t you agree with?” Laila asked, words clipped. Clearly this all made perfect sense to her.

Jean glanced over to the bench, where a couple of players were barred from warm-ups due to injuries sustained during the past few weeks of conditioning. Another athlete might pity them for being unable to play. But Jean knew better. If they really cared, they could play through the pain. He chewed his lip, debating how to communicate that with his teammates without the whole thing blowing up in his face.

He made the mistake of glancing at Laila. She was staring daggers at him. He knew at once she’d connected the dots. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, in disbelief. “Are you telling me that the physical injuries part of that analogy is what you disagree with?

Jean hesitated. Another mistake. Laila’s expression morphed into horror. She grabbed his jersey and dragged him off the track, out of the way of their passing teammates.

“Jean Moreau,” she scolded, “Please tell me you have sat out for injuries before.”

“Of course I have,” Jean lied, trying to save face.

“Yeah?” Laila prompted, still not believing him. “When?”

“I broke a finger once,” Jean said, truthfully. “I sat out for that.”

She didn't need to know that he’d only sat out for the first hour of practice, or that his punishment for doing so had been a second broken finger.

“Okay. What else?’

Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Wasn't one thing enough? If Laila expected him to list out every injury he’d sustained at Edgar Allan, they’d be here until dinner.

“Concussions?” Laila asked, her face braced for disappointment. Jean bit his lip to keep from reacting. Concussion prevention was all the rage at USC. Some big studies had come out in the past few years showing just how dangerous concussions were, and how prevalent they were in college sports. USC was spending thousands of dollars a year on injury education, safety equipment, monitoring tools, and who knew what else for their student athletes. Jean thought it was all a waste of time. If you could treat a hangover, you could treat a concussion; the symptoms were nearly identical. And if you could play exy with a hangover, well, who were these scientists to say you couldn’t play with a concussion?

“Of course I have sat out for concussions,” Jean spat out, knowing he had to believe the lie for it to work on Laila.

Her eyes narrowed. “Really? Tell me one time you sat out of a game for a concussion.”

Merde.

Jean’s most recent concussion popped into his mind. Summer break, last year. Riko had been on edge ever since Kevin left, but things had reached a boiling point once the exy season was over. Jean supposed that, in the absence of exy opponents, Riko had needed a new outlet to blow off steam. That outlet, as usual, ended up being Jean. After a particularly grueling interview with the media that went completely off-script, Riko had dragged Jean up to the top of the concrete steps leading down the dorms. He’d turned him around, back to the steps, and gave him a push. Jean had tumbled down two full flights before coming to a stop. It was a wonder he hadn’t been killed.

Jean cleared his throat to hide his hesitation. He would offer this one, as a truce. He needed to placate Laila and get on with their workout. “I had one last summer. In the off-season.”

It backfired. Badly.

“You got a concussion in the off-season?” Laila blurted out, shocked. “How does that even happen? Are the Ravens truly that brutal?”

Jean swallowed. He’d sustained more injuries, concussions included, during practices than during games. It was rare that any opponents played harder, stronger, faster than him. During a game, numbers were limited; one athlete covered one athlete. During practice? There was no stopping his teammates from ganging up on him. He’d spent countless hours of scrimmage defending himself from every other player on the team, backliners included.

“Jean?” Laila probed. 

Jean felt backed into a corner. She’d tricked him, he hadn’t seen it coming, and now he’d have to reveal Raven secrets to her. That couldn’t happen; it wasn’t allowed. He needed to divert her attention. Only one solution came into his mind: tell her the truth.

He was disgusted by the thought. But he saw no other option. Unable to look her in the eyes, he stared across the court, watching his teammates complete their laps. Cautiously, he muttered, “It didn’t happen on the court.”

Laila was silent for a moment. When Jean finally looked at her, her eyes were wide with surprise.

“What do you mean, Jean?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jean muttered, feeling exposed. He wished he could rewind time, go back to ten minutes ago and outrun Jeremy like he usually did when he didn’t feel like talking.

Laila was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. Probably for her, he had. Getting such a serious injury from practice was an alien thought for her; getting it off the court was unthinkable.

After a moment of silence, she spoke softly.

“Is this…like what happened with Kevin’s–”

“No,” Jean said forcefully. “You will not speak of that.”

Laila blinked, taken aback by his sudden anger. Jean didn't have the patience to placate her. Considering the conversation dead, he turned and ran over to where the backliners were now doing their warm-ups. He threw his body into the workout, but his unease wouldn’t go away. Knowing that Laila knew the truth, however tiny a morsel it was, made his skin crawl. He scanned the court, watching her practice her drills with the other goalies. He’d half-expected her to make a beeline for Jeremy after their conversation, but he was halfway across the court, engrossed in his own warm-ups.

Still, he resolved to keep a careful eye on Laila throughout the rest of practice. She didn’t know any details, but she knew enough to be dangerous. What if she talked to Jeremy? Or worse, Coach? They wouldn’t stop until they got the truth from Jean. Once out, the story wouldn’t take much to spread to the rest of the team. Jean knew firsthand how quickly rumors got out of control, and he had plenty just waiting for the perfect opportunity to come out. What if the team found out he’d been lying about–.

No, he told himself forcefully, stopping that line of thinking. The Trojans wouldn’t find out. About any of it. Even if he was pressed for more details about the concussion, he could always lie and tell them he fell down the stairs, it was his own fault, he wasn’t watching where he was going. He’d tripped. It had all been a terrible accident, nothing malicious about it. Or maybe Riko had been the one who’d tripped and Jean, in his haste to save him, had fallen in his place. Yes, there were options. If it came to it, he would find a good story.

Once warm-ups were done, he followed his teammates to the bench for the start of scrimmage. Despite his desire to stop thinking about it, Jean dwelled on the possibility of his careful web of lies unraveling throughout all of practice. It didn't stop even when he was called off of the bench and onto the backline with Alvarez.

He got into position, assuming a fighting stance; he was paired against Jeremy. The last time they'd faced each other, Jean had gone easy on him, like he always had with Riko. Coach Rhemann had made it clear that he was disappointed with Jean's performance that day. Even worse, Jeremy hadn't stopped chiding him about how many goals he'd been able to score on him.

It was time for some friendly revenge.

Jeremy, done talking strategy with his fellow striker, ran over to take his place opposite Jean. He gave Jean a wink, taunting, “Time to see what you're made of, Moreau.”

Jean answered with a glare. He knows, a voice whispered in his head. Jean ignored it, tightening his grip on his racquet. He had no proof that Laila had told Jeremy anything about their conversation. It was paranoia, getting the best of him.

The whistle blew. At first, Jean stuck to Trojan rules, making sure to keep his aggression in check, relying on his technical skills to get an advantage, pulling out every trick shot in the book. But, after fifteen minutes of play, the inevitable happened: Jeremy scored on him.

“Good shot,” Jean begrudgingly complimented as they lined up. If he’d been allowed to use Raven tactics, that never would’ve gotten past him.

Jeremy smirked, “I dunno, Moreau. Felt like I had a pretty wide window. You sure you don’t need to get your head checked?”

Jean’s stomach dropped. Jeremy’s wording was a coincidence, it had to be. He glanced across the court to where Laila was sitting on the bench, looking for confirmation. She gave him a little wave.

No. No, no, no, no. Jean gripped his racquet so hard it was a miracle the thing didn’t snap in two. The game had resumed but he was rooted to the spot, frozen with the revelation. Laila had spilled. She’d told Jeremy everything. But when? Jean had been watching them the whole time. It must’ve been during their water break, when they broke for scrimmage.

“Yo, daydreamer,” Alvarez shouted at him. “It’s game time. Time to stop undressing hot chicks in your brain and start focusing on the STRIKER WHO’S RUNNING RIGHT AT YOU!”

Too late, Jean saw Jeremy. Right in front of him. He swung his racquet, and missed by a long shot. Jean chased after him, determined to stop him. He launched himself at Jeremy, tackling him to the ground, rolling with the force of it. Jean barely had time to think of how upset Coach would be at such a foul move before they were hitting the boards hard, Jean pinned underneath Jeremy.

Jeremy groaned. Except it didn’t sound like Jeremy. It sounded like–

“What the fuck, Moreau!”

Alvarez pulled off her helmet, shaking her ponytail loose. Jean blinked, confused. Maybe he really did have a head injury. How had he mistaken Alvarez for Jeremy?

“I’m. On. Your. Side.” She yelled out, accentuating each word with a pummel to his chest, her long hair brushing against Jean’s cheek.

Her hair, brushing his cheek. If only they could see what a pussy their little prodigy is in bed.

And Jean knew that this was Alvarez. Knew that she was his teammate, his friend. But he couldn’t stop the dream from taking over.

Jean being pushed down, his teammate on top of him, just like this.

Her, leaning down, hair brushing his cheek, just like this.

Jean sucked in a breath, suddenly desperate for air. He knew who the woman was. Katrina, one of the Ravens’ most vicious backliners. She’d been the bane of Jean’s existence when he’d started at the nest, never wanting him on the court with the college team, thinking it an insult to her skill that a mere child could be on the court with her.

You don’t get to play with us if you can’t fuck with us.

The pieces fit perfectly. Katrina on top of him, her long blonde hair tickling Jean’s cheek, her manicured nails digging into his skin, ripping away his helmet, his throat guard. They were back in the nest, on the Raven court, the whole team watching. Even the players on the bench, the coaching staff, had come onto the court to watch Jean Moreau be put in his place.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening, Jean thought, panicked. He shoved her with all his might, desperate to get away. 

“Way to make a gal feel special,” Katrina joked. She flipped her ponytail before getting to her feet, holding out a hand out to help him up. Jean didn’t take it; he couldn’t accept help, not from her. He scrambled away on his hands and feet.

“Fine, do it yourself, then.”

Jean blinked, his breathing heavy. Katrina was gone. In her place was a very concerned, mildly annoyed Alvarez. He glanced around, saw his teammates looking at him like he was crazy. His eyes locked onto Jeremy, his heart about ready to beat out of his chest. Jeremy looked indecisive, as if he wanted to help but didn’t know if he should. Jean wanted to scream. He’d been such an idiot, telling Jeremy not to get involved, not to help. Couldn’t he tell that Jean was floundering now? That he wanted his help? That he needed it?

Jean shoved himself to his feet and backed away from Alvarez. He’d only taken a few steps before colliding with someone else.

“Hey, Jean. You okay–?” Laila asked quietly.

“Get away from me,” Jean spit out, his voice shaky. He pushed her away, greatly misjudging his own strength. Laila landed hard, all the breath knocked out of her, head hitting the court floor. She wasn’t wearing a helmet; she’d been on the bench. Alvarez was at her side in an instant, worrying over her, checking for signs of concussion. Once Laila had taken in a few steadying breaths, Alvarez turned her attention to Jean.

“Dude!” She yelled at him, rage in her voice.

He cowered under her glare, glancing away from those accusing eyes. His teammates were staring at him as if he’d lost his mind, as if he’d gone on a rampage, as if he’d pushed Laila to the ground intentionally. He knew the coaching staff felt the same; they were just hiding it better. At the moment, Jean didn’t have the composition to explain himself.

Biting back tears, he ran to the locker room, leaving his helmet where it lay on the court. He tore off the rest of his protective gear and threw himself under the shower, fully clothed. Hot showers are for pussies, Riko’s voice sneered in his head. Jean turned the dial to cold, just like it had always been in the nest. His breaths came in hitching gasps, hot tears mingling with the cold water running down his face. For the first time in weeks, he knew he didn’t have to worry about being interrupted. After that display of aggression, the truth was staring the Trojans in the face: Jean was every bit the brutal Raven he’d always been.

I’m losing my mind, he thought helplessly. I’m losing my mind, and I’ve pushed away anyone who would’ve dared to help me.

His body shook. Whether from the cold of the shower or the silent sobs wracking his body, Jean wasn’t sure. He hadn’t felt so alone, so isolated, since leaving the nest. Even there, in that brutal place, he’d always had a partner, someone who was obligated to stand by him, even if they hated him.

But now? He was alone, just like he’d wanted. And it was killing him.

Jean wiped his palms on his pants. He wasn't ready for this.

Coach Rhemann had coordinated an interview for him with Rob Hill. The radio announcer for various USC sports teams, Rob was the face of a radio show on the side, talking with athletes about their pasts, presents, and futures. Jean and Jeremy would be the focus of an upcoming episode; Jean to carry out Kevin’s plan regarding the Raven investigation, Jeremy to discuss his senior year and professional dreams.

Jean had listened to a few episodes in preparation. In hindsight, that had been a mistake. All the athletes sounded so well put-together, so normal. There were no awkward pauses or outbursts. When Rob asked a question about their families or their high school teams or their hopes for the future, they had answers. Jean's whole public life was a lie; he shuddered to think what would happen if he forgot his cover story and accidentally revealed the truth.

“Jean Moreau!” Rob said as he walked into the recording room. He extended a hand. Jean shook it, hoping his palms weren't too sweaty.

“Natasha give you the run-down?” He asked, sitting down behind the desk and booting up his computer.

Jean nodded in response. The woman at the front desk had told him how this would work while Jeremy was being interviewed. He'd talk with Rob for an hour or so, whatever felt ‘natural.’ Nevermind that none of this felt natural to Jean. They'd splice together the best bits of the interview, get it approved by Jean and Coach Rhemann, then release it the following week. It had calmed Jean's nerves slightly to know that it wasn’t live and he had some say in how the episode turned out, but only just. His brain still liked to focus on the worst possibilities.

“Your headset's there,” Rob said, pointing. “We'll do a sound check before we get rolling, make sure you come through okay.”

He clicked around on the computer, asked Jean to tell him about his morning, then clicked around some more as Jean talked. Finally, he nodded.

“Good. Everything is sounding great.” He made a few final clicks, then turned his full attention on Jean. “Now, before we begin, I like to go through a list of possible topics, see what's on- and off-limits. Your coach told me you want to talk about your transfer and the Edgar Allan investigation. We’ll get to that, but we’ll start with some more softball questions first to get us started.”

Jean knew this already; it had been laid out in the email Coach Rhemann had sent him. After a brief pause, during which Rob likely realized that Jean wasn’t going to respond, he went ahead.

“Okay, let’s see,” he said, pulling out a notepad. “Usually we start with some sport-specific discussion. Since we’re in the off-season, you can tell our listeners how the exy team is spending their days, what a typical week looks like, that sort of thing.” He glanced at Jean to gauge his reaction. Jean shrugged in agreement, and he continued. “Family and background is usually next–”

Family. The pounding in Jean’s heart was loud enough to drown out whatever else Rob was saying. He thought this interview would be focused on exy, and exy only. He didn’t want to talk about his family, couldn’t talk about them. There was too much baggage there. He knew what he was supposed to say, what his cover story was, but it was all too close to the truth.

“Jean? Did I lose you?”

Jean snapped his gaze back to Rob, trying to mask his emotions.

Rob smirked. “You look like a deer in headlights, kid. Must’ve hit a nerve. Let’s take a step back. What was it I said?”

Jean blinked at him, wondering why Rob was taking the blame for this. Jean was the idiot who’d let his stupid memories get the best of him. Jean was the one who couldn’t act like a professional if, god forbid, the word family was uttered in his presence.

Staring at his lap, he cleared his throat and mumbled, “Family.”

He could hear the scratch of pen on paper as Rob crossed out the topic.

“Not a problem,” he said. “There’s a reason I ask.”

Jean glanced up at him warily. He was smiling sadly. Jean wanted to throw his pity in his face.

“Next one,” Rob announced, and they continued down the list. Rob seemed disappointed to learn Jean didn’t have any hidden talents or special hobbies outside of exy. And Jean certainly didn’t miss the raise of eyebrows when he gave the okay to talk about Riko.

Look at this messed up kid, Jean imagined him thinking, Got a dead friend he’ll tell you all about. But his family? Totally off-limits.

The actual interview part of the session started off fine. Jean ran through a typical week during the summer, highlighting details he thought someone who listened to a college sports podcast would want to know about. He couldn’t think of anything more boring, himself. Who cared about this stuff? Conditioning was conditioning, end of story. Rob chimed in every once in a while, asking probing questions to get more information out of him, steering the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go.

By the time they got to the meat of the interview, Jean was on a roll. He recited his cover story, talking about the club team he’d supposedly played for in France, his imaginary recruitment by the Ravens. It all felt surprisingly easy. Jean wasn’t sure why he’d been so apprehensive at the start.

“So you begin your freshman year, and you make starting lineup right out of the gate. How cool is that?”

“It was pretty cool,” Jean lied. In reality, it had been a nightmare. He’d barely slept the week before the game, knowing the Master would spare no expense in punishing him for even the smallest of mistakes.

“And across the court is your other half, so to say. Kevin and Riko. Walk me through that.”

“It was a moment I will never forget,” Jean said, knowing what Rob wanted to hear. It wasn’t a lie, not technically. He would never forget the look on the Master’s face when he missed his first block, the pain of the beating after the game. “We had practiced together, of course, but that was nothing compared to playing against an opponent, knowing every choice you made had real life consequences.”

Rob hummed in response, oblivious to the sub-text, and segued into his next topic, “And now, as many of our listeners know, the Perfect Court is shattered. I want to offer my sincerest condolences for your loss. Riko’s death has affected everyone in the exy community, but I know that’s nothing compared to what you must feel.”

“Thank you,” Jean said solemnly.

“Is there anything you want our listeners to know? Any stories of his you think should live on?”

Jean paged through his memories of Riko. The games they used to play as kids. The late night practices, focused drilling sessions, high on exertion. The times Riko would lose it, beating Jean within an inch of his life. Punishments that left him bloody on the floor, woozy with pain.

Jean's breathing hitched. 

“Aw, crap,” Rob muttered, as if this were a somewhat regular occurrence. Jean was only vaguely aware of him shouting something to his assistant before the memory overtook him.

It was June, that much he knew. The Ravens were well into their summer schedule; he had lost track of the days weeks ago. They'd just finished up a grueling scrimmage, upperclassmen and starters only. Jean could already feel the bruises starting to form; his teammates hadn’t held back. Still, things were better than they could've been. He didn't think he had any broken bones, only some bruised ribs from a hard block. Those were half his own fault, really.

He’d been looking forward to an ice bath to soak his aching muscles. Instead, he’d gotten Riko. He'd let Jean out of the dormitory and up the stairs to the main lobby.

“Where are we going?” Jean asked.

“Stupid question,” Riko muttered. “We're going up, Three.”

They didn't speak the remainder of the climb.

They got to the top of the flight, to the door the Ravens used to enter and exit the nest. But Riko kept going, up the next flight, the one that led to the concourse. When they reached the top, Riko didn’t move to open the door. Instead he turned to face Jean.

“Well?” Jean asked.

“Well, what?” Riko sneered.

Jean knew it was in his best interest not to respond.

“Asking questions,” Riko mumbled, half to himself, “like those idiot reporters. Talking to me?!” His voice shot up in intensity. “Who do they think they are, anyways?”

A horrible feeling settled in the pit of Jean’s stomach. He glanced at the stairs. Imposing, unyielding. A long way to fall, he thought nervously.

“You know what I wanted to do to them, Three?” Riko asked, suddenly calm. He had a way of doing that, changing his mood in a split second. Jean knew it was all a ruse; the calm before the storm.

Jean glanced at his captain. Something flickered in his eyes, simmering just below the surface. A muscle in his face twitched, yearning to change into a ghastly smile.

“Well?” Riko asked impatiently. Jean gave another look to the stairs below him. He called it a flight but it was more like one and a half, maybe even two. He could see the landing at the bottom, the one where the door to the main lobby was. If he got lucky, his body would stop there. If he didn’t…

“Riko,” he whispered anxiously, knowing it was too late.

“I wanted to do this,” Riko said excitedly, face contorted in glee. And he gave Jean a push.

Jean remembered the feeling of falling, his stomach leaping into his throat. It felt like ages. It felt like no time at all. He hit the first landing, trying to grab hold of something, anything. But it was futile. His body slammed into the wall, hard. Then momentum took over, sending him tumbling down the next flight. Had he had the faculties to put his arms around his head? Or had they just happened to land that way?

He came to, lying on the cold concrete, cradling his head, face inches away from the door to the nest. His head screamed in pain. A dark pool of blood slowly grew next to him. Was that his?

He lay there for who knew how long, wondering if this would be it. Was this fall the thing that killed him? Would his suffering finally be over?

Someone kneeled over him. When had they opened the door?

“Breathe,” Jeremy commanded. Jean frowned, confused. What was Jeremy doing in the nest?

“A little softer,” a voice replied. “Put your hand on his back. Good, just like that.”

Jean grabbed onto the voices like a lifeline.

“Keep talking to him,” the voice continued. “Remind him to breathe.”

“Breathe, Jean. It'll be okay,” Jeremy said, somewhat awkwardly. The dark stairwell faded away, the concrete slowly being replaced by soft beiges. “You're safe here.”

And then Jean was back in the present, back in Rob Hill’s office. The pain from the nest was gone. Jeremy was on the floor next to him, his hand on Jean's back, looking to Rob for guidance.

Jean jumped to his feet, lurching backwards until he hit the wall. His anger flared. How many times did he have to tell Jeremy that he could handle himself? He opened his mouth to shout a retort, but Rob interrupted.

“Great job, Jeremy!” He praised. “Excellent work.”

He turned his smile on Jean. “Welcome back, Mr. Moreau.”

Jean looked away, ashamed. His memories had won. He’d been too weak to stop it. In public, no less. He deserved punishment for acting so selfishly. A few cuts, maybe? An extra practice session, his teammates told not to hold back? He wasn’t sure what the Trojan methods would be, what their rules were; they hadn’t punished him yet. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Jeremy got to his feet, advancing towards him. Jean tensed, expecting the worst.

“Thank god,” Jeremy cried out, throwing his arms around him. “For a minute there I thought we had lost you.”

Jean was confused, only for a moment, before remembering his past blunder. The cafeteria, when he dropped his tray. Rhemann hadn’t punished him for that. Despite the realization, Jean felt a lump form in his throat, guilt forming a pit in his stomach. He should be facing repercussions for his actions, not being coddled like this. Jeremy lay his head on Jean’s shoulder, his curls tickling Jean’s neck. 

“Relax,” Jeremy murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Jean focused on Jeremy, the pressure of his head on Jean’s shoulder, his arms around his back. It felt…nice. He’d told Jeremy, time and time again, to stay away. Because he thought it would be better that way, because he thought he’d be safer. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

Hesitantly, he brought his arms up, wrapping them around Jeremy. Riko would never have allowed this. He would've said it was weak, would’ve pulled out a knife, would've thrown Jean down another set of stairs. But Jeremy did none of those things; he just squeezed tighter.

Jean let out a breath, some of the tension leaving his body. He’d spent the past few weeks avoiding any vulnerability in front of Jeremy, worried that he’d be taken advantage of in his fragile state, worried that it would be used against him. But here he was, weak as he could get, and Jeremy was offering support, forgetting the recent animosity between them. Was this what it felt like to have someone truly care for you, no strings attached? It was almost unbelievable. Jeremy, who’d known him for barely two months, who Jean had been actively trying to distance himself from for the past few weeks, was offering more to him than Kevin or Riko ever had. With them, there had always been a trade-off. But Jeremy hadn’t asked for anything in return; he’d just wanted to help. Maybe this was what Jean needed. Maybe this was good.

“Thank you,” Jean whispered. He squeezed tight, imagining the words, thank you for being my friend, coming out of his mouth as he did so.

Jeremy sighed, his head nestling more firmly into the crook of Jean’s neck, and Jean knew that he’d gotten the message.