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If he hadn’t married Kip, stepping into the locker room after a gold medal overtime win would have been the best moment of Scott Hunter’s life. But celebrating with his team in his last Olympics is a close fucking second.
They’re singing along to Party in the USA when a harried looking guy with a walkie talkie pushes inside the room and pulls Scott aside.
“Kash Patel is here,” he shouts over the guys nodding their heads like yeah and moving their hips like yeah. Pricey is moving his hips a little more than ‘yeah,’ but who is Scott to judge.
It takes him a minute to compute Kash Patel is here considering he’s already shotgunned two beers, is fucking exhausted, and as loath as he is to admit it, Rozanov is right: he’s getting old. “You mean the Director of the FBI? That Kash Patel?”
“Yes. Do you want to invite him in?”
He shares a glance with Vaughny—making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while still dancing along to the music—and Sully, who’s wearing not only a pair of goggles on his eyes but someone else’s on his head. Also, inexplicably, a feather boa.
“No?” Scott says.
“He said President Trump wants to call,” walkie-talkie guy insists, like this might be a compelling addition.
Vaughny licks the knife and puts it back in the open peanut butter jar. “Definitely no then.”
“Yeah, no, we’re good,” Sully agrees. He uses what’s left of his teeth to pop the top on a beer and throws an arm over Scott’s shoulders, pulling him back into the fray. “What a fucking weirdo. What’s Kash Patel even doing here? Shouldn’t he be dealing with the cartel? Or finding Nancy Guthrie, that’s some crazy fucking shit.”
“You know who he reminds me of?” Vaughny continues with the deep introspection of someone well past tipsy. “Those guys in college who didn’t get a frat bid, but they’d show up with a shitty six pack to the house and hope they could party anyway.”
Sully toasts him somberly. “Pigeon behavior.”
“Hey,” Scott raises his voice to include the rest of the team, “we should call the ladies and see if they want to party together. Someone get Knighter on the phone.”
“Two for two!” Pricey shouts.
“Yee,” Vaughny agrees. And he scrambles for his phone as a new chorus of USA! USA! USA! starts.