Chapter 6
THE ROOMMATE SITUATION
ARTEMIS
I'd never felt more alive.
“Fraser, that was textbook,” Coach Maher called out as I rolled to my feet after the tackle drill. “Show them again how to use your momentum instead of fighting it.”
I jogged back to the line, ignoring the ache in my side. This was what I lived for. The moment when everything clicked, when my body did exactly what I trained it to do, when I felt like the athlete I'd worked my whole life to become.
The LA Elite Rugby Center was nothing like the makeshift fields and borrowed facilities I'd trained on in college.
Everything here was designed for excellence, the pristine pitches, the state-of-the-art recovery equipment, the coaching staff who'd played at the highest levels internationally.
Being here meant I was serious about my Olympic dreams, and everyone around me was equally committed.
“Again,” Coach called. “This time, Katrina, I want you coming in harder. Fraser's not going to break.”
Katrina grinned at me from across the drill setup. She was built like a brick house with arms that could probably bench press a small car, and she'd been eyeing me since I joined the team like she was trying to figure out if I could keep up.
“You sure about that, Coach?” Katrina called back. “She looks pretty delicate to me.”
I snorted. “Try me.”
What followed was two minutes of the most beautiful violence I'd ever been part of.
Katrina came at me like a freight train, but I read her approach perfectly, redirected her momentum, and took her down clean while securing the ball.
We both hit the ground hard, but I popped up first with the ball tucked safely against my ribs.
“Again,” I said, offering Katrina a hand up.
This time she really brought it. So did I. By the end of the drill, we were both grass-stained and grinning, and I had a new bruise forming on my shoulder that I'd wear like a badge of honor.
“Nice work, Fraser,” Katrina said, slapping my back hard enough to rattle my teeth. “You might actually survive training camp.”
“Might?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Ask me again in six months.”
This was what I'd missed during the college off-season, training with people who understood that rugby wasn't just a sport, it was a way of being in the world.
Here, my size wasn't something to apologize for or try to minimize.
It was an advantage. My strength wasn't intimidating, it was exactly what the team needed.
My body, which had spent so many years feeling too big, too much, too intense for civilian life, fit perfectly into this world of elite athletes.
“Team meeting,” Coach Maher called out. “Recovery and strategy session.”
We gathered in the team room, twenty women who'd earned their spots through years of dedication and natural talent. I was still getting used to being surrounded by athletes who matched my intensity, women who understood the particular kind of hunger that came with Olympic dreams.
“Alright, ladies,” Coach began, pulling up footage on the wall screen. “World Cup highlights. I want you to study how these teams move the ball, how they support each other, how they make decisions under pressure.”
For the next hour, we analyzed game footage with the kind of detail that made my accounting brain happy. Rugby was chess played at full speed, and I loved the strategic element as much as the physical challenge.
“Fraser,” Coach said as we were wrapping up, “stay after. I want to talk about your role.”
The rest of the team filed out, and I settled back in my chair, suddenly nervous. Individual attention could mean anything from praise to criticism to being cut from the squad.
“You’ve been a center for a long time, right?” Coach asked.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I've been watching your interactions with the other girls on the team, and I’d like to see you take on more of a leadership position. Think like a number eight in fifteens. Your tactical awareness is excellent, and you've got the size and speed to be very effective.”
My heart jumped. Number eight was a leadership position, one of the most important spots on the field. “I'd love the opportunity to take on a role like that.”
“Good. We'll start working on it next week. And Fraser? You're settling in well with the team. Keep it up.”
I practically floated out to the parking lot. Leadership position. That meant serious Olympic potential. This was everything I'd worked for.
My phone buzzed with a text from Gryff as I was loading my gear into the car.
GRYFF
How was practice? Still have all your limbs?
All limbs accounted for. Plus some awesome new bruises to show off.
Can't wait to see the damage. BBQ for dinner?
Perfect. I'm starving.
The drive home through LA traffic should have been annoying, but I was still riding the high from practice.
Everything was falling into place. The training, the team dynamics, the possibility of making the Olympic roster.
For the first time since graduation, I felt like I knew exactly where I was heading.
Gryff's truck was already in the driveway when I pulled up, which meant he'd beaten me home from his own training. The house looked different than it had this morning. There were boxes stacked by the front door and the sound of music drifting from inside.
I found him in the living room, surrounded by packing materials and what appeared to be half the contents of a store.
“Please tell me you didn't buy more furniture,” I said, dropping my gear bag by the door.
“I didn't buy more furniture.” He held up his hands innocently. “I bought decorative accessories.”
“Gryff.”
“And maybe one chair. But look at this stuff, it's all from that list you made.”
He was right. Scattered across the coffee table were the throw pillows I'd ordered, a set of ceramic bowls in colors that actually matched, and several picture frames that didn't look like they'd come from a hotel liquidation sale.
“You went shopping,” I said, impressed despite myself. “Voluntary shopping. For home decor.”
“I may have gotten excited. I wanted our place to feel like home.”
Our place. The casual way he said it made something warm settle in my chest. I'd never had an “our place” before, never had someone who wanted to make a space feel like home with me.
“Well, let's see what we're working with.”
For the next hour, we unpacked and arranged, arguing good-naturedly about pillow placement and whether the ceramic bowls belonged in the kitchen or on the dining room table as a centerpiece.
“These are perfect,” Gryff said, holding up a throw pillow shaped like a sleeping sloth wearing a tiny knitted hat. “Completely ridiculous but perfect.”
“I told you they were aggressively cute.”
“Where did you even find this stuff?”
“The internet is a magical place full of adorable animal-themed home goods.” I was arranging the picture frames on the mantel, trying to figure out the best configuration. “Speaking of animals...”
“Oh no.”
“Look at this backyard,” I continued, gesturing toward the sliding glass doors. “It's huge. It's practically begging for a dog. Or two dogs. Or maybe a llama?”
“We are not getting a llama.”
“But look how much space we have. And the neighbors can't even see into the backyard because of that fence. It's like the previous owners designed it specifically for pet ownership. And don’t you think Burrito Petito needs a friend?”
Gryff sank onto the couch and buried his face in his hands. “Artie, we just moved in. We're both starting new careers. The last thing we need is to add pet ownership to the chaos.”
“Or,” I countered, settling beside him with my laptop, “the first thing we need is something to make this feel like home. Something that depends on us and gives us a reason to come back here every day.”
“We already have reasons to come back here. Like food and sleep and not being homeless.”
I opened my laptop and navigated to the website I'd been browsing during lunch breaks. “But look at these faces.”
The screen filled with photos of dogs and cats available for adoption from local rescues. I'd been doing research, and LA had an amazing network of animal rescue organizations.
“Artie, that's not fair. You can't just show me pictures of sad animals.”
“I'm not showing you sad animals. I'm showing you animals who need homes. Like this little guy.” I clicked on a photo of a golden retriever mix with the most soulful brown eyes. “His name is Buster, and he loves playing fetch.”
“Buster,” Gryff repeated, leaning closer despite himself.
“And look at this sweet girl.” I scrolled to a photo of a border collie mix with one blue eye and one brown eye. “Her name is Ziggy Stardust, and she's great with other dogs.”
“Ziggy Stardust,” he said, and I could hear him weakening.
“Right? And this rescue has a great program where they do home visits to make sure it's a good fit. Very thorough, very responsible.”
“We'd still need to puppy-proof the house.”
“Only if we're bad dog parents. Which we wouldn't be, because I've already researched proper puppy care and training.”
“Of course you have.”
I scrolled through more photos, pointing out various adorable animals who definitely needed our love and attention. A three-legged dog named Tripod. A beagle named Sherlock Holmes. A hedgehog named Sir Reginald Pricklebottom.
“You've been planning this,” Gryff said accusingly.
“I've been preparing. There's a difference.”
“Artie, I love that you want to save every animal in Los Angeles, but we need to be practical. We're both traveling for games and training. Who's going to take care of pets when we're not here?”
“Flynn and Tempest, duh. They’ll be excellent pet-sitters. Very responsible, very loving.”
“You've thought of everything, haven't you?”
“I've considered the various scenarios, yes.”
Gryff was quiet for a moment, studying the photos on my laptop screen. I could see him weakening, the way he always did when presented with something that needed caring for.