Page 103 of The Goat in the Bedroom
He nodded, satisfied. “Then you'll do.”
The next night I was pacing the room Flynn and I had been assigned at the team hotel.
“This is a terrible plan,” Flynn muttered as we waited for the signal from Tyson. We were fully dressed in joggers and hoodies like we were about to rob a bank instead of sneak our girlfriends into our room.
“It was literally your idea,” I reminded him.
“Past Flynn was an idiot. Present Flynn recognizes that Coach will actually murder us if we get caught. Not to mention penalties from the League.”
“We're not going to get caught.” I checked my phone. Artie had texted that she and Tempest were in the lobby, waiting for our go. “Tyson's got this.”
Right on cue, we heard Tyson's voice in the hallway. “Oh shit, Coach, I think I did something to my hamstring at practice.”
“What? When?” That was Coach, immediately concerned.
“I don't know, man, but it's seizing up. You better grab that security guard and help me to the elevator.”
Flynn and I pressed our ears to the door, listening as Tyson led Coach away from our room and the stairwell, his fake injury getting more dramatic by the second.
“Now,” I whispered to my phone.
Two minutes later, there was the softest knock on our door. I yanked it open to find Artie and Tempest in all black like cat burglars, complete with black beanies.
“Are you wearing tactical gear?” Flynn asked.
“It's called commitment to the bit,” Tempest said, pushing past him. “Also, your hotel has terrible security. We just walked right in.”
But I wasn't listening because Artie was in my arms, and she smelled like strawberries and home.
“Hi,” she whispered against my chest.
“Hi.” I pulled back to look at her. Three hours apart shouldn't have felt like three years, but it had. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
“You guys are gross,” Tempest announced, already sprawled on Flynn's bed. “But also, Tyson deserves an Oscar. We could hear him from the elevator talking about muscle spasms and his grandmother's arthritis.”
“He's really going for it,” Flynn agreed, sitting next to Tempest. “Think he'll actually get checked by medical?”
“Nah, he'll miraculously recover right before?—“
A knock on the door made us all freeze.
“Room check,” Coach's voice called out.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hissed. “Into Tyson's room, go.” Hopefully Ty's roommate was fully dressed.
Thank god we'd gotten the adjoining and made a plan B especially for a situation like this. Which was, of course, all Tempest's idea. She was the brains of this operation. The rest of us were the muscle.
Artie and Tempest dove for the door while Flynn and I tried to look casual, which was impossible because we were both fully dressed, instead of in bed asleep like we were supposed to be.
I opened the door, trying to look sleepy. “Hey, Coach, didn't you already check our room?”
He looked at us suspiciously. “Yes. I did. And now I'm doing it again.” He walked right in and even looked in the bathroom and under the beds.
Coach stared at us for a long moment and walked toward the adjoining room door. We were so busted. Then DeMarcus Clay appeared behind him.
“Coach, Tyson's asking for ice. Kid's really worked up about his hamstring.”
