Page 21 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“Yeah, you too. This is some intimidating shit.” Tyson looked around the field, taking in the same scene of upcoming death and destruction we knew was coming out way.
Before I could respond, the offensive line coach blew his whistle and the real work began.
The first drill was simple. Snap the ball, execute the play, don't screw up. I'd done this thousands of times in college. But the moment I took my position and looked across the line at the Bandits' starting defensive tackle, a six-foot-six monster named DeMarcus Clay who'd been to three Pro Bowls, I realized I wasn't in college anymore.
I thought I'd be practicing across from other rookies. Looked like Coach was testing me already.
The snap count felt different. The speed was different. Everything was faster, harder, more precise than anything I'd experienced. DeMarcus ate me alive on the first play, spinning around me like I was standing still and sacking our quarterback before I'd even processed what was happening.
“Again,” Coach called out.
Again, DeMarcus destroyed me. But this time I saw it coming a split second earlier.
“Again.”
By the time practice ended two hours later, I was exhausted in the best possible way. DeMarcus had thoroughly schooled me for two straight hours, but each rep I'd gotten a little bit better at reading his moves. This was exactly the kind of challenge I'd been hoping for. The chance to learn from guys who'd been perfecting their craft for years.
Tyson looked just as beat up as I felt, but he was grinning.
“Well,” he said as we trudged toward the locker room, “that was fucking incredible.”
“Right? I mean, I got destroyed, but holy shit, did you see some of those plays?” I was already replaying the best moments, the ones where I'd actually managed to slow DeMarcus down for half a second.
Flynn appeared at my elbow, looking energized despite being covered in grass stains. “How'd the offense go?”
“It was beautiful. Painful, but beautiful. You?”
“Same. These guys are on a completely different level. I can't wait to get back out there tomorrow.”
We showered and changed, both of us still buzzing with adrenaline from the intensity of practice. This wasn't like college, where our talent and family name had carried us. This was the real deal, and every rep was going to make us better.
The drive home felt shorter than it should have, my mind racing with everything I'd learned. I kept thinking about the way DeMarcus had read my footwork, how I could adjust my stance to give myself better leverage. There was so much to work on, so much room to improve.
The documentary crew had been pretty unobtrusive too. Sloane seemed to know what she was doing, professional but not pushy. Maybe this whole filming thing wouldn't be as weird as I'd worried about.
When I walked into the house and found Artie on the couch with takeout containers spread across the coffee table, I was still riding the high from practice.
The sight of her curled up there, completely at home in our space, made something warm settle in my chest. She was still wearing one of my old Denver State shirts, and something about seeing her in my clothes sent a flutter through me that I wasn't quite ready to examine too closely. Not when we were both still adjusting to everything, new city, new careers, new livingsituation. Better to focus on getting settled first before worrying about anything else.
“Thai food,” she announced without looking up from her tablet. “Because you look like you just went fifteen rounds with a heavyweight boxer, and I figured you'd want to celebrate surviving your first day with actual League players.”
I collapsed onto the couch beside her, accepting the container she handed me. “Best decision ever. I'm starving.”
“So? How was it? Did you do anything embarrassing for the cameras? Are you besties with DeMarcus Clay now?”
“Only if letting DeMarcus squash me like a pancake a hundred times in a row counts for both,” I said, digging into the pad thai. “That guy is an artist. A terrifying, three-hundred-pound artist who just taught me everything I don't know about protecting my quarterback.”
She looked up from her tablet, studying my face. “You're grinning.”
“Am I?” I reached up to touch my face. “Artie, it was incredible. I mean, I got absolutely destroyed for two hours straight, but I learned more today than I did in my entire senior season. These guys are on a level I didn't even know existed.”
“And I'll get to watch it all on repeat whenRookie Risinghits FlixNChill,” she said, settling back against the cushions. “You know, most people would be traumatized by getting pancaked by a Pro Bowl defensive tackle. You're treating it like Christmas morning.”
I tried not to think about how much I liked the way she said “I'll get to watch” like she was genuinely excited to see me succeed. Like she was proud of me in a way that went beyond friendship. But that was dangerous territory, and we had enough to figure out without me making things weird between us.
THE ROOMMATE SITUATION
ARTEMIS
