Chapter 22 Here Me Roar
HERE ME ROAR
ARTEMIS
Gryff was coiling beside me like a spring, ready to explode.
His jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding, and his free hand had curled into a fist on his thigh.
In about two seconds, he was going to say something that would definitely make it into the show, probably edited to make him look unhinged.
I squeezed his hand once and gave him the smallest shake of my head.
“I got this, babe,” I said to Gryff, keeping my voice light.
Then I turned to Sloane with my sweetest smile. “Can I ask you a question?”
She blinked, clearly not expecting me to take control of the interview. “Of course.”
“If I walked over there right now and kissed you, which I'm not going to do because consent matters, would that make you a lesbian?”
Her face went pink. “What? No, that's not—“
“No?” I tilted my head. “But by your logic, one kiss, one relationship, one experience defines someone's entire sexuality. So which is it?”
“That's different—“
“Is it? Because last time I checked, me eating a salad doesn't make me a vegetarian. I'm bisexual when I'm with a man, when I'm with a woman, when I'm single, when I'm married. It's not about who I'm with, it's about who I am.”
Sloane's mouth opened and closed like a fish.
“And just to be crystal clear,” I continued, my voice steady and firm, “Gryff and I aren't together despite our bisexuality or because we've somehow 'moved past it.' We're together because we love each other. All of each other. Including the parts that make people like you uncomfortable.”
“I'm not uncomfortable—“
“Really? Because you just spent five minutes trying to erase fundamental parts of our identities to fit some narrative you've created about what 'real' love looks like.” I leaned forward.
“Our love is real. Our identities are real.
And if you can't see that, that's a you problem, not an us problem.”
The silence stretched out. Sloane's phone was still recording, but she looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
“I think we're done here,” she said stiffly, grabbing her phone.
“I think we are,” I agreed pleasantly.
She stood up so fast she nearly knocked over her chair, muttering something about needing to check footage before hurrying away.
The moment she was gone, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My hands were shaking slightly from the adrenaline.
“Holy shit,” Gryff said quietly. “That was...”
“I know. I'm amazing.”
“You are.” He turned to face me fully, his eyes intense. “You protected me.”
“That's what we do,” I said simply. “We protect each other.”
He kissed me then, right there in the hotel bar, deep and thorough and claiming. When we broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against mine.
“I love you,” he said. “Every part of you. Including the parts that just verbally destroyed a reality TV producer.”
“Especially those parts?”
“Especially those parts.”
Back in my hotel room, we barely made it through the door before Gryff pressed me against it, his mouth hot and insistent on mine.
“We have the Team GB dinner in an hour,” I managed between kisses.
“I know.” His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. “I just... watching you defend us like that. Defend yourself. God, Artie.”
“I wasn't going to let her diminish what we have.”
“No, you weren't.” He kissed me again, softer this time. “You're incredible.”
The tension from Sloane's interview finally flittered away like nothing more important than a fall leaf on the wind. The way we felt about each other, protected each other, and loved each other more than someone like Sloane could ever understand was what was important.
I pushed him toward the bed, and he sat down, pulling me between his knees.
“We really do have to get ready for dinner,” I said, running my fingers through his hair.
“I know. But after?”
The promise in his voice made my stomach flip. “After.”
The Team GB dinner 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 telling myself 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.
But through it all, I kept thinking about that word. Home.
After dinner, we walked through Edinburgh's old town, the castle lit up on the hill above us. My dad had offered to walk with us, but I'd asked for some time alone with Gryff.
“They made a compelling case,” Gryff said carefully.
I stopped walking. “Are you doing the thing?”
“What thing?”
“The noble self-sacrificing thing where you pretend you want me to leave even though it's killing you.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Maybe.”
“Don't.”
“Artie, this is your dream. Playing in the Olympics—“
“Is my dream. You're right. But you know what else is my dream?” I turned to face him fully. “You. Us. The life we're building in LA. Vincent and Holly probably destroying our house right now. Sunday dinners with your family. That's my dream too.”
“But your dad—“
“Will understand. Because he chose love once too. He chose my mom and rugby and a life that took him all over the world.” I took his hands. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay?”
“Three years is too long.”
His face fell slightly. “To wait for the Olympics?”
“No. Three years is too long to be away from my home.” I squeezed his hands. “And you're my home, Gryff. You've always been my home.”
The look on his face, relief and joy and love all mixed together, made my chest ache in the best way.
“Really?” he asked, voice rough.
“Really. I've moved thirteen times in thirteen years. I know what home feels like, and it's not a place or a country or even blood family. It's you. It's where you are. It's where we are together.”
He kissed me then, right there on the Royal Mile with tourists streaming around us, deep and desperate and full of promise.
“I love you,” he said against my mouth. “I love you so much I can't breathe sometimes.”
“I love you too. And I choose you. I choose us.”
“Your dad—“