Page 113 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“Kingman,” DeMarcus called out during a water break. “Your head in the game?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You keep looking at the sidelines. Documentary girl isn't even here today.”
He was right. Sloane and her crew were notably absent, which should have been a relief but somehow felt more ominous.
“Just focused,” I said.
DeMarcus studied me. “Everything good? You seem tense.”
“Everything's fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn't look convinced. “Just remember, rook, we take care of our own here. Whatever's going on, you don't have to handle it alone.”
Before I could respond, Coach was calling us back to drills.
That evening,Artie came home from practice looking troubled. She dropped her gear bag by the door and went straight for the couch, where Holly immediately claimed her lap.
“What's wrong?” I asked, sitting beside her.
“Coach Maher wanted to talk to me privately after practice.”
My stomach dropped down to the floor and rolled around. “About Team GB?”
“No. About the documentary.” She scratched Holly's ears absently. “Someone from Sloane's team contacted USA Rugby. They were 'fact-checking' stories about my history.”
“What?”
“They framed it as background research, but the questions were invasive.” Her voice was tight with anger. “They wanted to know if I'd ever dated women on the team, if my bisexuality affected team dynamics.”
“That's—“
“Not journalism. I know. Coach Maher shut them down, but she's worried. She said they seemed more interested in gossip than sports.” Artie looked at me. “She asked if I was safe.”
“Safe?”
“That's what worried me. The way she said it, like she was concerned about more than just invasive questions.” Artie shifted to face me fully. “She also said two other players on the team were contacted. Similar questions about their personal lives.”
“Sloane's building something,” I said.
“Yeah, but what? And why?”
We didn't haveto wait long to find out.
Sunday's game was intense from the start. The Sharks came out aggressive, and Xander was playing like a man possessed, but not in a good way. He was off, making mistakes I'd neverseen him make, getting called for penalties that were high school rookie errors.
During a timeout, I caught him looking up at the stadium boxes where the VIPs and press sat. His face was tight with something that looked like fear.
“Rosemount looks like shit,” Flynn said beside me.
“Yeah.”
“You think he's injured?”
“Maybe,” I lied. But I knew that look. It was the same one he'd had in the library when he'd ended things. The look of someone backed into a corner.
We won, barely. 20-17, with a field goal in the last two minutes. The celebration felt hollow, though. Xander had disappeared before the final whistle, not even staying for the post-game handshakes.
