Page 32 of The Goat in the Bedroom
Finally, she stepped back slightly and smiled. “Goodnight, Gryff.”
“Goodnight.”
But we still didn't move, both of us lingering in that charged moment until finally, reluctantly, we stepped inside together.
I stood in our living room for a long moment after we'd said our final goodnights and headed upstairs, staring at the ridiculous and cute throw pillows Artie had insisted on buying and trying to process what had almost happened.
Sean's words echoed in my head. Some chances don't come around twice.
He was right. And if Artie was seriously considering moving to Great Britain, my chances were running out fast.
KINGMAN MEN PLAY BETTER
ARTEMIS
Gryff had another rough day at practice.
I could tell from the way he slumped into the kitchen when he got home in that particular shade of frustration that came from knowing you'd underperformed. Again.
“Let me guess,” I said, looking up from my laptop where I'd been reviewing game footage from my own training. “DeMarcus ate you alive?”
“Clay, Mahelona, and pretty much everyone else on the defensive line.” He grabbed a protein shake from the fridge and downed half of it in one go. “Tyson pretended not to know who I was after practice. He was kidding around, but I'm playing like shit.”
This was becoming a pattern. For every good practice day Gryff had, there seemed to be two or three where he came home looking like he'd been put through a blender. It wasn't that he was bad, or that he wasn't cut out to play in the pros. He was clearly talented enough to be there, but he wasn't playing at the level that had made him a Heisman winner.
And in the League, talent wasn't enough. You had to be consistent. You had to prove yourself every single day.
“You're still adjusting,” I said, though we both knew that excuse was wearing thin. They'd been in training camp for weeks now.
“Flynn's adjusting fine. Flynn's playing like he belongs there.”
That was true. From what I'd observed, Flynn seemed to be settling into professional football with the same steady competence he'd brought to everything else in his life. But then again, Flynn had Tempest. Flynn was happy and settled and in love.
I knew what I had to do.
The running joke that wasn't really a joke about how Kingman men played better when they were getting laid was absolutely true. It was practically a legend at DSU by the time we'd been freshmen. There were more than enough warm and willing partners to keep both Flynn and Gryff playing at the top of their games.
The pattern was undeniable, even if people laughed it off as coincidence.
But what if it wasn't about sex at all? What if it was about happiness, about having something stable and wonderful in their personal lives that freed them up to excel professionally?
Gryff was clearly not happy. He was stressed about proving himself, worried about fitting in, probably still processing the huge life change of moving halfway across the country, away from his family for the first time. And all of that anxiety was showing up in his performance on the field.
“You know what you need?” I said, closing my laptop and giving him my full attention.
“Better reflexes? Faster footwork? A time machine so I can go back to college where I actually knew what I was doing?”
“You need to get laid.”
He choked on his protein shake. “Excuse me?”
“It's a proven fact. Kingman men play better when they're getting action. Everyone knows it.”
“They do not.”
“They absolutely do. Your brothers dominated the field last season and won the Big Bowl game like it was just for funsies. It's like a family superpower or something.”
Gryff stared at me like I'd suggested he take up interpretive dance. “That's... that's not how athletic performance works.”
