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If you asked a player from a rival team about Jean Moreau, they’d likely say he was terrifying—mean and vicious on a level that left a lasting impression.
But if you asked one of the Ravens, they wouldn’t say a word. Talking about Jean was off-limits.
Jean Moreau was infamous for his calculated brutality. He never went far enough to earn a red card, never quite drew a yellow, but he consistently did just enough to knock opponents out of commission for several games. His job as a backliner was to protect the strikers, the dealers, and the goalie, to shut down any chance the other team had of scoring. And he did it without mercy.
When he joined the Ravens at only 14, the odds were stacked against him. His body hadn’t caught up to his role; he was small, barely more than a kid playing alongside college-aged athletes. He had no way to survive on that court except through violence—quick, relentless, unyielding violence that made him dangerous even when he was outweighed.
It was the same story when he officially joined the lineup at 16. Though he’d grown taller, he was still physically at a disadvantage compared to the rest of his team. But he didn’t have the option of backing down. He was property, bound to the team in a way that meant harsher punishment and no chance of escape. No matter the injuries or exhaustion, he had to play.
And to keep his place as one of the ERC’s best backliners, Jean had to be ruthless.
If you asked Jean himself about that violence, he’d keep silent, too. He wouldn’t answer any more than the Ravens would.
But the truth was, Jean Moreau hadn’t always been this way. There was a time when he’d been different—when he’d been gentle, even sweet.
Once upon a time, before his hands had known the weight of violence, Jean would gently braid his sister’s hair. His fingers, now hardened and crooked, had once been small, soft, and unscarred, moving with a delicate, almost reverent care. Each braid was woven with the love of an older brother who knew nothing of cruelty, nothing of the sharp edges life would one day hold. He took his time, smoothing each strand with a patience and tenderness he didn’t even know he possessed.
His eyes, bright with innocence, shone with an open curiosity. Back then, they saw only wonder in the world—the blue stretch of the sky over Marseille, the glitter of sunlight on the water, the faces of strangers that meant him no harm. He hadn’t yet glimpsed the shadows lurking beneath things or the cruelty hidden in people’s hearts.
He would call her name softly, his voice warm and gentle, carrying down the narrow streets of their neighborhood. It was a voice unburdened by anger or bitterness, a voice that would rise in laughter, echoing off stone walls. His sister’s laughter would answer, light and free, her small hand reaching for his as they ran along the cobblestones, weaving through bustling markets and crowded alleyways.
Back then, Jean was simply a boy, a brother, with dreams too large to fit into words and a heart still untouched by darkness.
That all changed when he was brought to the Nest. There, sweetness and innocence weren’t options. He was forced to become something darker, something that would be unrecognizable to his younger self.
The only person who remembered the softer side of Jean Moreau was Kevin Day. But Kevin, the Fox, never spoke about him.
And there was one other—a young girl who idolized Jean Moreau, his biggest fan.
It happened after an away game in Pennsylvania, against Penn State. The Ravens had won.
The rest of the team had already boarded the bus, leaving Jean alone to pack up the last of their gear. He was almost done when he heard a soft voice behind him.
Turning, he saw a young girl, standing there with wide eyes and an awkward smile, dressed in a homemade jersey with his number on it. His own name, stitched unevenly across the back in letters that were just a bit too big.
“Do you like being a backliner?” she asked, her voice shy but curious. Jean blinked, caught off guard. It had been years since anyone had approached him this way. “I want to be a backliner too, but my sister says that all backliners hate their position.”
For a moment, Jean didn’t know what to say. He looked around instinctively, checking for cameras or lurking reporters. But there was no one. The bus doors were closed, the windows tinted and rolled up. No one was watching.
He knelt down slowly, holding her gaze, and gestured for her to come closer. “I do like my position,” he said, his voice low and steady, his French accent heavy on the words. “In fact, I think it’s the best position. You get to protect the people around you, but you also have to stop as many players on the other team as possible. It’s a hard job, but it’s worth it.”
The girl listened closely, nodding slightly as he spoke. Then her face lit up. “I want to be a Raven like you,” she declared, her eyes bright with excitement.
A sharp tug of emotion surprised Jean, and he realized this girl reminded him of his younger sister—the one he hadn’t seen in years. He felt a sudden, fierce desire to keep her out of the world he’d found himself in.
“When you’re older, maybe think about trying out for the Trojans,” he said gently. “They’re a good team; they win the Kayleigh Day Spirit Award every year.” He hesitated, then added, “We win championships, but… that award is something special.”
The girl tilted her head thoughtfully. “If you weren’t a Raven, would you play for the Trojans?” she asked.
Jean hesitated, then spoke softly, almost to himself. “I was always meant to be a Raven.”
But he looked her in the eye again, his gaze steady and certain. “If you want to be a backliner, do it. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. I love my position. And you should too, if it’s what you want.”
She smiled, her eyes shining with something like pride. “Thank you,” she said, her voice small but sure, before she turned and scampered away.
Jean watched her go, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. Then he turned back to the task at hand, finished packing the gear, and climbed onto the bus, heading straight for his seat.
After that encounter, there were other attempts from fans to get him to open up. Some came with questions, others with praise, hoping for even a word in response. But he kept his silence, just as he always had.
At least until he saw Renee.
The moment Jean saw her, something shifted inside him. His world, long painted in shades of black, seemed to brighten, touched by hints of color he hadn’t seen in years. Memories stirred, fragments from a life he’d left behind in France—streaks of light cast through stained glass in the church he used to attend, or rainbows arcing over the Mediterranean after a storm.
But Jean didn’t speak of those days. Not anymore.
When the Ravens returned to the Nest, Jean went straight to his room. There, tucked beneath his bed, was the one relic of France he had managed to keep: an old Bible. It had been a gift from his grandmother on his sixth birthday, written in French, its pages worn from his hands. He’d come to America with several books, some history, some fiction, but all were taken from him. He was told French was forbidden here, that he was not allowed to speak it.
Jean hadn’t obeyed at first. For months, he fought back, hurling every French curse he knew at his new captors. It didn’t matter how often he was beaten; he clung fiercely to his mother tongue, defiant. But one day, he stopped. The Nest had ground him down until there were only two languages spoken within its walls: English and Japanese.
English was hard for Jean; he’d been homeschooled in France, tutored only in French by his nannies. Japanese came easier—his mother had been Japanese, and he remembered his parents’ quiet conversations in the language. But even in Japanese, the Nest stripped words of their meaning.
He hadn’t connected with anyone until he met Renee. He got her number in January when Riko dragged him to a Foxes game, and afterward, Kevin texted him with her contact. The number saved to his phone automatically. That night, he sent a simple “Hello” with his name. When Renee replied, he was startled. But slowly, they began to text more regularly.
Their exchanges became a part of his routine. Renee would tell him how her day went, and he’d respond, careful to reveal nothing. But then, her messages changed. She began asking questions—small ones at first, like “How are you?” or “I watched your game last night. Looked like you were limping. Are you okay?”
Then, her questions grew bolder: “Is Riko hurting you?” and “Do you need help?”
Jean couldn’t answer those. Instead, he tried to shut her out. He was blunt in his replies, then eventually ignored her altogether. He didn’t reach out again until he heard that Nathaniel had escaped his father’s clutches and was now under the FBI’s protection. Confused and panicked, he texted both Renee and Kevin: “What is going on?”
After that, things spiraled quickly. Kengo Moriyama was hospitalized, and his phone was flooded with messages from Renee and Kevin. But he didn’t respond. He only messaged them days later, reassuring them with the lie: “Everything’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. Spring break came, and the Ravens continued their grueling practices. Then, news broke: Kengo Moriyama was dead. Riko’s father left for New York to arrange the funeral, but Riko himself remained. The moment they were dismissed, Jean grabbed his phone and sent a warning to Renee.
Once he pressed send, a blow struck him from behind, and his vision blurred.
The next hours were agony. He drifted in and out of consciousness, trapped in Riko’s room, his body wracked with pain. He knew he was going to die here. Yet, when he was finally alone, he fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking.
He dialed Renee’s number, barely able to breathe. When she picked up, the first words that escaped him were, “I’m sorry.”
Her voice was urgent, steady. “Jean, I’m almost there. Just hold on for a few more minutes.”
But Jean could barely speak, his voice a weak rasp. “R-Renee, I’m sorry. Tell Kevin I’m sorry. Thank you… for everything.”
And then everything went black.
He remembered almost nothing of the days that followed. Riko’s death felt like a fevered dream, fragments he couldn’t quite piece together.
Now, it was September, and he wore a different jersey. He played for the Trojans, on a team that wasn’t drenched in darkness. Little by little, he was learning that he didn’t need violence to survive on the court.
As the Trojans game wrapped up, Jean felt the familiar roar of the crowd around him, the steady beat of excitement in the air. And then, as he scanned the bleachers, his gaze landed on a familiar face. It was her—the girl with the homemade jersey, the one with his name sewn across the back.
She was perched in the stands, her eyes wide and shining, clutching a new Trojans jersey that bore his new number, '29'. When she saw him looking, she waved, a huge smile spreading across her face. Jean felt his heart tighten, a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time blooming inside him.
For the first time in years, he lifted a hand to wave back, a small but genuine smile crossing his face.
He was starting to see that he didn’t have to be the villain.
He no longer had to be violent.