Page 12 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

NILES

After the women's session wraps, Weston and I stick around to congratulate a few of our friends on a job well done.

We've known some of them since the days of off-season summer camps and junior competitions.

They deserve our support. I'm not going to let the way the cameras keep panning our way, or the photographers that seem to follow my every movement, stop me from supporting our friends the same way we always have.

They'll do the same for us tomorrow. It's always been this way and there is no reason to change just because the media has decided I'm interesting.

I won't give them the satisfaction of changing me.

I won't stop showing up for the people who have shown up for me.

Tomorrow I'll give them a better reason to pay attention.

In the car, Weston is practically bouncing in his seat. "Did you see that insane bar combo that Gabby pulled off? That release was so clean, and the transition? I don't think I've ever seen anyone except you fly like that."

"It was badass," I agree. "Her dismount was perfect too. She makes it look easy."

"Oh man, and Rina's vault? I thought she was gonna hit the ceiling, and she still stuck that landing like she was glued to it. She earned that gold, man."

"Yeah, that scream you let out was kind of embarrassing though."

"Embarrassing for you, maybe," he shoots back. "I was living my best life today. Between those queens kicking ass and you showing up Peter Trenton?" He mimes kissing his fingers. "Today was perfection."

Wyatt's hands flex on the steering wheel, but he keeps his eyes focused on the road.

I was waiting for someone to bring up Peter's bullshit.

Weston is still going on about the women's competition, talking about how he can't wait to get home and try the vault combination that won Rina her medal today.

"Are you going to do the Kasamatsu two and a half again tomorrow? I didn't know you were working on that one. It was clean," he says appreciatively.

"Thanks, but I'm still planning to go with?—"

"What did he say to you?" Wyatt interrupts suddenly, spitting the words out like they were forced from him.

"Nothing worth repeating."

I shake my head, letting him know I'm not doing this. I don't want to repeat it. I don't want to remember the heat of his breath on my neck, or the low voice that almost sounded like he was trying to be seductive rather than just teasing.

Do you like getting fucked like a real man?

The memory itself tastes like the bile that crept up my throat. I'll lose my considerable appetite if I have to think about it anymore.

What I'm not going to do is let him get under my skin. He's not going to drag me down. I'll be damned if I let him. I haven't come this far, worked this hard, to let someone like Peter Trenton take this from me. If anything, it lit a fire in me.

My goal today was simple: observe, play it safe, conserve my energy. I wasn't looking to draw anyone's attention today. I plan on coming in hot tomorrow and blowing them all out of the water. And they won't see it coming.

"Niles, if anyone is inappropriate with you, you need to report that kind of behavior to?—"

"—and draw more attention? I'd rather not. Peter might be able to get away with the bullshit he pulled today, but all it’ll do is make me look bad, and I can't afford that.

I have to be above reproach—work harder, jump higher, land cleaner—to earn the scores that keep me at the top.

I'm under constant scrutiny, and I'm not about to let some phobic asswipe turn my dreams and milestones into a joke or accuse me of doping because they can't measure up. "

I clear my throat and take a breath. "I can handle Peter, who, by the way, might actually be on 'roids. His breath was terrible," I say, holding back a shudder. I turn around to look back at Weston. "And did you see his arms?"

Yes, I'm deflecting. But I'm not lying. We saw Peter only a few months ago at a regional competition, and his arms were not that big.

"Oh, and the acne," Weston chimes in, nodding. "I think you might be right. He's always an asshole, but he seemed especially worked up today."

Peter has been a problem ever since my status was leaked.

He was annoying before, too. He has a bad habit of accusing others of cheating when they do better than him.

Which is a real shame, because he's a great gymnast. He wouldn't be competing at this level if he wasn't. If he focused on himself instead of making excuses, he'd be a force to be reckoned with.

After dinner, we go back to the hotel for an early night. Weston says he's going to soak in the tub and call his girlfriend. Grimacing, I tell him I'm going to go for a walk. I'm not about to sit in there and listen to him have phone sex.

He yells at my back as I'm walking out. "Prude!"

I consider knocking on Wyatt's door, but he's barely spoken to me, and he might need a break from my antics.

Not to mention, getting myself all worked up isn't going to help me relax.

So, true to what I told Weston, I head outside to go for a walk.

There's a man-made pond behind the hotel with a walking path.

That's where I run into Wyatt. He seems as surprised to see me as I am to see him, but we don't say anything and just fall into step.

It's nice out. Cool and breezy after a hot summer day. There are fireflies popping up around us as the sun sets, the songs of crickets and distant bullfrogs filling the silence until Wyatt finally speaks.

"I need to know what he said."

"Why?"

"I can't defend you if I don't know."

"I don't need defending."

Does he think I'm a child? Or incapable of looking after myself?

He frowns. "Niles?—"

"It was just more of the usual, okay? Wanted to know what my bulge was made of. Nothing new or creative."

Diverting my eyes to the sidewalk in front of us, I stew in my discomfort. Trying not to think about his breath or the chill that ran down my spine. My dinner churns in my stomach.

"You're lying."

"What?"

He stops walking and faces me. "I've known you most of your life, Niles. I can tell when you're upset. And whatever he said to you today bothered you more than you're letting on."

Jaw tight, eyes aching from how hard I've been glaring at the ground, I shift my gaze to his. My voice drops angrily.

“Fine. You want to know so bad? He wanted to know if I take it up the ass. You know, like a real man does. Then made some fun guesses about my junk," I say pointedly. He doesn't need to know every little detail about how he said the words and how they made me feel oily and gross.

Wyatt's face goes red. Almost purple. His jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grinding. His fingers flex before he balls his hands into fists at his side.

I'm embarrassed. And angry. Angry that assholes like Peter think they can get away with talking to me like that, angry that I'm embarrassed about it. Angrier still that Wyatt can tell.

So I lash out by pushing. By making him feel as uncomfortable as I do right now.

"What's wrong, Wyatt? Don't you want to know the answer?"

"No," he croaks.

I make a tsking sound like I don't believe him. "Why not? Afraid you won't like the answer?" My voice is lower than usual and purposefully menacing. "Tell me, Wyatt. What about you? You ever taken a dick?"

"No."

"Ever been with a man?"

Silence. Interesting…

"Did you like it?"

He swallows hard. "I don't know."

I roll my eyes. "You don't know?"

"It's not… You don't understand?—"

"Don't you dare say it. Don't you fucking dare,” I spit angrily, not wanting to hear him tell me I’m too young or some such bullshit. “Do you see me as a man or not?"

Wyatt's mouth drops open. Shuts again. His eyes look pained. "Of course I see you as a man. I see you as you are, Niles."

"Not because I'm trans, Wyatt. That's not what I mean.

What I mean is, do you see me, right now , as I am?

Not a kid you used to coach. Not Weston's best friend.

Not someone fragile you think you need to protect.

" I pause for a moment, then repeat the question, drawing the words out pointedly. "Do you see me as a man ?"

He hesitates. "Yes. And I'm trying to accept it. But it's hard."

A dangerous urge to push him to the brink rushes through my veins. I take a step closer. Then another. I look down, then slowly drag my eyes up his body.

"How hard?"

His pupils dilate. His mouth gapes open like a fish. He looks unraveled. Completely terrified, too.

I should back off. I've taken this far enough, and none of this is his fault. I have a bad habit of lashing out when I’m feeling emotional, like him thinking I’m an asshole is better than him seeing me cry. He wouldn’t be put off by it, hell, Weston cries at commercials.

With my hands held up in defeat, I walk away, leaving him standing in the middle of the sidewalk like a statue, frozen in his discomfort. I should probably say something to smooth things over, but I can’t trust myself.

So far, the competition has been smooth.

Session one is over, and it's been fun watching the Junior and Senior Men's first session compete.

Everyone really seems to have come to the competition in high spirits and ready to give it their all.

I've been especially impressed by the high-level skills shown by the Junior Men. I don’t remember the competition being that hardcore when we were in the Juniors.