Page 108 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“I know. But after?”
The promise in his voice made my stomach flip. “After.”
The Team GBdinner was at a restaurant that screamed Scottish wealth—all dark wood and tartan and pictures of rugby legends on the walls. My dad had undersold it as “just a wee chat about possibilities,” but there were five coaches there, all in matching Team GB polo shirts like they'd coordinated.
“Artemis,” The head coach, Teddy Riata, stood to greet us. “So wonderful to finally meet you properly. Your father speaks very highly of your abilities.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying not to feel like I was at a job interview.
“And this must be Gryffen,” he continued, shaking Gryff's hand. “James mentioned you'd be joining us.”
My dad had the grace to look slightly guilty. “Thought it would be good for everyone to be on the same page.”
What followed was less dinner and more full recruitment presentation. They'd done their homework—they knew my stats, my playing style, my injury history. They had tablets with training facilities, showed me videos of their current squad, talked about coaching philosophy and Olympic preparation.
“The facilities in Edinburgh are world-class,” Coach Riata said, swiping through photos. “And with your father on the men's coaching staff, you'd have family support right here.”
Family support. I glanced at my dad, who was trying to look neutral but failing. He wanted this. He wanted me home, wanted to make up for lost time, wanted to share rugby with me again like when I was little.
“The timeline is what's crucial,” another coach added. “You'd need to step back from Team USA within the next six months to meet the three-year residency requirement for the next Olympics.”
“That's... soon,” I said.
“It is. But think about what you'd be gaining. A chance to represent your own people, represent your homeland.”
Your homeland. Your own people.
I looked around the table at these men who looked like my dad, sounded like my dad, came from the same rugby tradition I'd been raised in. This was my culture, my heritage, my blood.
“You belong here,” Coach Riata said, as if reading my thoughts. “This is where you're from. This is your rugby home.”
Under the table, Gryff's hand found my knee, just resting there. Not pushing, not pulling, just... present. Reminding me he was there.
“Plus,” my dad added quietly, “we could finally have time together. Real time. Not just phone calls and the occasional holiday.”
And there it was. The thing that made my chest tight. Three years of getting to know my father again. Three years of Sunday dinners and rugby talk and rebuilding what distance had taken from us.
But three years without Gryff.
I looked at him then, really looked at him. He was listening politely, asking intelligent questions about the program, being perfectly supportive. But I knew him. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept touching his water glass but not drinking, the careful neutrality of his expression.
He was prepared to let me go if that's what I wanted. He'd smile and support me and slowly die inside because that's who he was, someone who put everyone else first.
But that's not who we were together.
Together, we protected each other. Together, we chose each other.
“The opportunity won't come again,” Coach Riata was saying. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
I thought about all the times in my life I'd had to pack up and leave. Thirteen moves in thirteen years, each time tellingmyself not to get attached, not to put down roots, not to expect permanence. I'd gotten good at leaving. Expert at it, really.
But Gryff had changed that. The Kingmans had changed that. For the first time in my life, I'd found something worth staying for.
“I need time to think about it,” I said diplomatically.
“Of course. But don't take too long. These decisions have a way of making themselves if you wait.”
The rest of dinner was less intense, more social. My dad told embarrassing stories about my youth rugby days. The coaches talked about the Six Nations tournament. Gryff charmed them all by asking about Scottish rugby history.
