“No one did this to me,” he said. “I was injured in scrimmages.”
“I work with the Foxes,” Abby reminded Jean. “Even they can’t hurt each other this badly on the court. Lord knows enough of ‘em tried over the years.”
“I find it unsurprising they’re mediocre in everything they do.”
“This,” Abby said, touching very careful fingers to the side of his head, “is not from a scrimmage. Even the Ravens practice in full armor, I assume? Look me in the eye and tell me how they managed to tear out so much of your hair through a helmet.”
Jean’s hand went up unbidden, finding hers and then the raw aching points along his scalp. Memory skittered at the edge of his mind: one hand over his mouth and nose to hold his head down while the other hand yanked as hard as it could. For a moment the remembered sensation of ripping, peeling skin was blinding, and Jean swallowed hard against a rush of bile. He quickly dropped his hand to his lap.
“I asked you a question,” Abby said.
“Take me back to Evermore,” Jean said. “I won’t stay here with you.”