Page 153 of The Goat in the Bedroom
Two Years Later
“You cannot seriously be wearing that shirt,” I said, staring at my husband.
Gryff did a little spin, modeling the custom t-shirt with Vincent's face photoshopped onto a rugby ball with the words “My wife is the GOAT” underneath. Flynn’s had Holly's face and it read “I’m with the GOAT.”
“The Olympics are supposed to be a dignified international sporting event.”
“And yet here we are,” he grinned, pulling me in for a kiss. “Ready to watch my wife win and her team win gold.”
My stomach did that flutter it always did when he called me his wife. Even after a year of marriage, it still felt surreal. Gryff Kingman had chosen me, had built a life with me, had taken a week off from the Bandits during the preseason to be here.
“Coach isn’t going to kill you for missing practice and the game,” I said against his lips.
“Coach told me if I didn't come support you, he'd bench me.” He kissed me again. “Plus, the Olympics are in LA. I can literally see our house from the stadium.”
“You cannot see our house from the Coliseum.”
“I can feel it in my heart.”
“That's not how geography works.”
We were interrupted by pounding on our hotel room door. “Artie,” Jules's voice carried through. “Stop making out with my brother and get ready. We have to leave in twenty minutes,”
“We're not making out,” I called back.
“Liar.”
She wasn't wrong.
The U.S. Women's Rugby team had made it to the gold medal match against New Zealand, and my entire body was thrumming with nervous energy. Four years of training, of choosing this team over Great Britain, of everything. It all came down to today.
“Hey,” Gryff said softly, reading my anxiety. “You've got this. You're Artemis Fraser-Kingman. You eat Black Ferns for breakfast.”
“That sounds inappropriately sexual.”
“Your mind went there, not mine.”
The ride to the stadium was surreal. Our bus had a police escort. People were lining the streets with American flags. Someone had made a giant banner with my face on it, which was both flattering and terrifying.
“Is that supposed to be me?” I asked, staring at the artistic interpretation.
“I think they captured your warrior spirit,” my teammate Madison said.
“I look like I'm constipated.”
“Warrior constipation.”
When we arrived at the Coliseum, I could already hear the crowd. 80,000 people. A sold-out Olympic final. In my adopted home city.
“Fraser-Kingman,” Coach Williams called. “Ready to captain this team to gold?”
Captain. They'd voted me captain a month ago, and I still couldn't quite believe it.
“Ready, Coach.”
As we went through warm-ups, I kept scanning the crowd. Then I saw them—an entire section of purple and gold, every single Kingman wearing those ridiculous goat shirts. Gryff and Flynn with Vincent and Holly's faces. Chris had one with all four goat faces arranged like Mount Rushmore. Bridger was holding a banner that read “THAT'S MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW” with an arrow pointing down at whoever was beneath it.
There were new additions to the family section too. The Kingmans were multiplying at an alarming rate but from Bo, who was actually born in a stadium, down the the youngest, who was content in his father's arms wearing the tiniest set of ear protectors you ever saw, they looked at home.
