Page 15 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

WYATT

The drive home from Illinois took five hours longer than it should have thanks to a storm system that parked itself over half the state.

It wasn’t just the traffic or the white-knuckled grip I kept on the wheel, it was the tension—thick and simmering between me and Niles.

Part of it was the charged moments we shared over the course of the trip, but a larger part was our disagreement over what should be done about Peter Trenton.

In my opinion, we should be filing a formal complaint at all levels.

I’m positive that the Athlete Safety department of USA Gymnastics would step in and do something about the public harassment that occurred at a USAG-sanctioned event.

If not, the U.S. Center for SafeSport would be interested to hear about the outright abuse that occurred in bathrooms. Peter could be banned from competing ever again.

Hell, if I’d had it my way, we would have reported the incident to the on-site event director.

There were multiple witnesses of Peter’s inappropriate “jokes” referring to Niles as a woman, and if I heard correctly, enough people were congregating around the halls when they had their altercation in the bathroom, too.

Enough to corroborate that Peter was the one picking fights, in the event he tried to say otherwise.

Not to mention the bruise across the lower part of Niles’ back from where he hit the sink.

Even Peter’s coach knows he’s out of hand.

He’d come over to me earlier in the day, before the competition started, and apologized for Peter’s behavior the day before.

After observing Peter throughout the competition, I think what Niles and Weston said about Peter being on steroids might be accurate.

If not steroids, then some other substance that is having a big impact on not only his physical appearance, but his behavior.

He’s always been a brat, for as long as we’ve been in the same competition group with him, but the inappropriate impulses and anger outbursts are concerning.

I’m worried the situation with Peter will escalate, but it’s Niles’ call. He doesn’t want to draw more attention to the media circus surrounding him, which I can understand. I just don’t see how he’ll be able to focus on the path ahead if Peter’s behavior continues to be an issue.

The argument escalated when we were halfway home and Niles caught on to Weston making a point to follow him into the restroom when we stopped for gas.

I understand why he was upset, I really do, but I also know how afraid Weston was when he’d realized Niles had been in the bathroom for too long, and that Peter had followed him in.

My soft-hearted son had cried to me that night, that he’d been genuinely terrified that something bad could have happened to his best friend.

The words that Peter had used, whether he’d back them up or not, were horrific.

And heartbreaking because of how true they could be.

Niles isn’t safe as long as people like Peter are around.

Eventually, Niles made a convincing argument that he's not likely to be recognized by the general public.

No one was looking at him or watching us anywhere we went, but I still noticed how closely Weston kept an eye on him.

There was a silent agreement between us that we'd both make sure nothing bad happened like that again.

We took a couple of days to recover once we got back, to let the guys rest their joints, soak in the hot tub, and sleep in. I dove straight into work. Claimed I was catching up after travel, which was half true. The other half was avoiding the gym as if my sanity depended on it.

Sid threw a surprise party for the boys on their first day back after the Classic.

There were streamers, banners, a catered table of protein-heavy snacks, and a hired photographer to take press shots.

Sid gave a short speech, clapping both Weston and Niles on the back with a proud smile before launching into how Nationals are just around the corner.

He told the gathered crowd that he’s never been prouder, but that he's going to need to rely on me more than ever.

Sid had already called me with the news the day before.

His Achilles tear is worse than originally thought.

Surgery is scheduled for the same week we’ll be gone for Nationals.

And considering he has a brutal rehabilitation period ahead of him, he’s unlikely to even make it to Belgium for the Worlds Competition in September.

I told him we’ve got it covered. The boys are ready.

I didn’t have to do much at the Classic aside from spotting and clipboard duty.

It’s true, they barely need any coaching at all.

Still, I avoided looking at Niles when I said it.

Because the reality is I wasn’t just hands-off during the last competition. I was hiding.

He made me feel so out of control I didn’t trust myself to even speak to him.

In the last couple of weeks since we’ve been back, I’ve been spending more time in my office, locked behind multiple monitors, eyes glazed from too many hours reading lines of code.

It’s easier this way. Let the distraction of work chew up my time instead of thinking about the way Niles looks at me, or the way I feel when I look back.

Today is a little different. I’ve been forced out of my office for an impromptu pool party.

I’ve escaped inside under the guise of getting food ready to grill for dinner.

Everything’s prepped, but I’m watching Weston and Aimee splash around in the pool.

They’re laughing as they wrestle around, Weston drifting deeper into the pool with her legs wrapped around his waist. They’re young and in love and completely unbothered by the world. Free and happy.

And all I can think is that’s what Niles deserves.

Not me.

Even if I gave in to whatever this thing is between us, it would always have to be hidden. Carefully managed. Never simple. I’d never be able to give him what Weston and Aimee have. The freedom. The lightness.

He deserves more than that.

A crunch behind me makes me turn. Niles is standing at the kitchen island, grinning as he bites down on a raw carrot stick. He doesn’t look guilty for staring. In fact, he looks pleased with himself.

"How long have you been standing there?" I ask, trying not to let my voice catch.

"Not long enough," he says, raking his eyes down my body.

I instinctively pull my shirt closed where it’s gaping. His eyebrow lifts and he shrugs, as if to say he likes the new view just fine.

His eyes drop to my crotch. I shift, and he smirks, letting me know he notices the way my swim trunks tighten.

"Stop it," I mutter.

"You’ve been avoiding me,” he says pointedly. His voice is teasing, but I know him well enough to recognize the slight tinge of hurt in his eyes.

“I’ve been busy.”

“If either of us thought a little separation would do us good, I can definitively say it didn’t help. You might have actually gotten hotter in the last week or two.”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” He moves around the counter, and I instinctively take a step back. Niles chuckles. “You’re not afraid of me are you, Wyatt? I won’t hurt you.” He pauses, leaning back with a wicked little glint. "Unless you want me to."

I should walk away, but I don’t. Can’t. Because, God help me, I’m looking too. I’m frozen to the spot, my eyes absorbing every inch of him in front of me.

The way he’s leaning back stretches out his torso, accentuating his cut abs.

His body is lean, taut with corded muscle.

Practically hairless, save for the thin line below his navel that disappears into low-slung shorts.

Two puckered scars beneath his pecs catch the light.

They are physical proof of his strength.

They’re healed now, barely pink, but I remember when they were new.

I remember the day he first swam in my backyard without a binder.

The first time he ran a 5k shirtless, flanked by me and Weston, grinning like the sun itself.

He was always confident. Always knew who he was. But those scars marked something else. Something irreversible.

And standing here, I can’t deny it anymore. He’s beautiful. Not just his body, though that’s certainly part of it. I can no longer deny that I find him attractive. Desirable, even.

What stands apart is the fire in him. The stubborn courage. The self-assurance that makes people either admire or fear him.

It’s dangerous.

Because he’s going to get what he wants. He knows it. I know it.

How long I’m able to stay strong in my own convictions remains to be seen, but I’ve never seen Niles Pruitt set his mind on something and not achieve his goals. And I’m ever aware of the weakness eating me up from the inside.

Pulse racing, I grab the tray of marinated chicken for the grill and step outside. He follows with the serving platters and foil packets of veggies and potatoes. Our hands brush as he hands them to me. Neither of us says anything.

During dinner, Weston teases Niles about a date he’s considering for tonight. Niles looks down at his phone screen, and Aimee leans over to look.

“Ooh, he is hot. But… how old is he?”

“Old enough to punish me. Young enough to keep up. Hopefully.”

My food turns to ash in my mouth. It takes half my glass of water to swallow it down.

“Niles definitely has a type,” Weston says, shuddering dramatically.

“What can I say, I have daddy issues,” Niles shrugs with a smirk.

I nearly choke on my water.

Niles glances at me, lips curling like The Grinch Who Stole My Goddamn Sanity .

“It’s hard though,” Niles says, with feigned exasperation. “I just can’t find the right Daddy to punish me and ruin my little boy pussy the way I need.”

What the— That does it. Water explodes from my lips and nose, and I accidentally squeeze the glass too hard. It cracks and falls to the ground, shattering across the patio.

“Shit, sorry. Don’t move,” I call out, sputtering and trying to navigate the mess through watery eyes from the burn of snorting it up my nose.

I run to get a broom and dustpan, both to clean up the mess and to get away from the table. What the hell did he just say? I cough again. Shit. It feels like I inhaled glass. I’m doing my best to put it out of my mind, actively trying not to look anyone in the eye or engage with Niles at all.

I spend the rest of the evening trying to avoid all of them under the guise of giving them space.

Later, Weston and Aimee are tangled up on a lounger, lost in each other.

I’m washing up in the kitchen. Niles comes in with an armful of dishes, damp with a sheen of sweat from the humid night, wearing only a clingy pair of briefs that leave little to the imagination.

What happened to his shorts? Did he get back in the pool?

I really need to talk to him about boundaries.

"Do they have to shove their heterosexuality in my face like that? I mean, I respect and love them the way they are, but their choices make me uncomfortable."

I snort, trying to act normal. "Believe me, I don’t want to see that either."

Laughing, he closes the blinds with a snap.

Suddenly, it’s too quiet. We’re too alone. The space is too intimate.

He brushes past me. I know he’s doing it on purpose, but I flinch every time our arms touch. When he’s standing next to me to help rinse the dishes that don’t fit in the dishwasher, our hips bump.

Water and suds splash as we wash and rinse.

Niles flicks soap bubbles at my face. I forget to be on my guard and retaliate.

It escalates, devolving into a ridiculous bubble fight.

Water and suds fling everywhere. A laugh I barely recognize as my own bursts out of me, and I have to catch his wrists to stop him from soaking me again.

We’re laughing, but the space between us shrinks fast. Just like that night in the hotel. The gateway sandwich. There’s nothing and no one to blame but myself this time, and now he’s even closer. Nearly naked and we’re pressed together. Breathing hard, I can feel every inch of him against me.

He’s right here. Practically under me, our mouths mere inches apart.

"Are you really going on that date?" I ask, voice low and raspy.

His eyes flash. "Why? Are you jealous?”

I don’t answer.

"You gonna do something about it? Give me a reason to stay in tonight?”

I should say something. Tell him that I don’t want him to go, even if I can’t say why. Even if it can’t mean anything. Even if I refuse to voice the reasons out loud.

Niles arches his hips, pressing against the erection I want to pretend isn’t there.

And I step back. Because it’s the only thing I can do.

I step back and walk away, cooling down in the bathroom by splashing some water on my face. I’m only gone for a few minutes, trying to build myself up to talk about this with him. To explain why this can’t happen.

When I return to the kitchen, he’s gone.