Page 2 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

NILES

By the time we finish our normal warm-up circuit, I'm already sweating through my tank top.

The mid-July heat is putting the gym's air conditioning to the test, and it is not holding up well.

The stifling room, which usually smells like chalk and the antibacterial cleaner they use to disinfect everything at night, currently smells faintly of feet and body odor.

Weston finishes his last stretch and heads for the pommel horse.

It's not my strongest event, but West always makes it look easy.

I hang back for a minute, chalking my hands and watching him work.

He doesn't need a spotter, but I still hover nearby, watching his smooth movements.

His arms flex and roll as he circles, muscles popping under his skin, sweat making him shine under the overhead fluorescent lighting.

He's graceful in a way I don't think I'll ever be on that thing, though I practice all the time to improve.

Weston's movements are calculated and confident.

It's almost hypnotic, and I don't realize how long I've been watching until he dismounts, landing only a foot away from me.

He pumps his eyebrows, knowing just how impressive he is. "You gonna take a turn, or try to one up me on the high bar?"

I smirk. "Thinking about it."

West's eyes flick to the door before he rolls them and tilts his head towards the high bar. "Come on. We both know you're going to get up there and try something reckless now that he's here."

He doesn't say who, but he doesn't have to. We both know who he means. And we both know he's right. I like showing off when he's in the room.

Wyatt’s gaze on me makes me want to fly.

He must have just come from the weight room.

He's wearing a tight-fitting compression shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders, black athletic shorts that show off the bulk of his thick thighs, and gym shoes.

His hair is damp at the temples, right around where the tiny smattering of silver strands are growing in.

West and I like to give him shit about his hair going grey, but honestly, I love it.

It looks damn good on him. I'm pretty sure there isn't much that wouldn't look good on him.

This man can do no wrong. He's got Henry Cavill looks with Pedro Pascal charisma, hotness multiplied by a thousand because he doesn't seem to be aware of just how fucking sexy he is.

I swear everywhere he goes, men and women alike drop their panties and Wyatt, gorgeous oblivious Wyatt, picks them up and hands them back to them, like, "Oh, you dropped these," and then goes about his business as if he doesn’t notice the puddles he leaves behind.

Wyatt's arms flex as he wipes a towel over the back of his neck.

My mouth goes dry. He's more built than Weston. He’s bigger, heavier, and solid in a way that screams safety and sex at the same time.

It's all too easy to imagine what it would feel like for him to lift me in his arms, one hand bracing my back, the ease of it like I weigh nothing to him.

He could hold me up and press me against the wall with one hand and still have the other free to?—

Whoa there, Niles. Shut it down before you embarrass yourself.

Before anyone notices me drooling, I head to the bar and jump up without a spotter.

I start slow, lazy even. A couple of kip casts, a basic swing—just enough to look like I'm doing something.

I'm barely paying attention, watching him in my periphery.

I can feel when his attention shifts. His gaze feels heavy on my skin, it gives me weight and focus.

Now that I know his attention is on me, I turn it up.

Three full turns into a release. My legs split mid-air.

I rotate, catch the bar, swing again. My grip tightens.

I hit a twisting double tuck dismount. Admittedly, I'm slightly off balance, but I land it steady enough.

Not my cleanest work, but it doesn't matter.

What matters is Wyatt—his eyes on me, his reaction, his response.

I land facing him. His arms are crossed, but his mouth twitches. I wink, and his ears turn red.

Goddamn.

The weekend comes rushing back. I feel a little bad, I can sometimes get a little testy when I’m worked up.

Wyatt showing up when I was dressed like bait and fleeing a date with some asshole who thought he was entitled to know everything about my body before we were even served our first drinks.

Not to mention he was rather pushy about buying me a drink, even though I told him I was only twenty.

Sure, I have a fake ID that I use on occasion, but I don’t typically drink before a hookup.

He gave me major creep vibes, which is why I'd texted Weston to come get me.

The guy was two drinks in and not taking hints when I got the text that Wyatt had arrived.

The moment I saw him I felt ashamed. It's bad enough I've been crushing on him since before I was old enough to understand what a crush was.

Then he shows up in his sleek Audi like some kind of romance book hero—silently seething as he watched me run out of the bar with my bad date hot on my heels.

He pulled away before he asked any questions.

Just like always, he was there for me. Silent, solid, and protective as ever.

Wyatt's been there for me since I was five years old.

But something about seeing him that night, feeling his eyes rake down my body when he saw me in that outfit, just made my attraction to him worse.

Seeing him notice me at all seemed to give my inside thoughts encouragement to become outside thoughts, and sealed my fate.

Before that night, I would have kept going about my business, making jokes here and there but knowing I never had a chance.

After? For the first time, I got the tiniest inkling of real possibility…

and I know I'm about to become a problem.

Because there is no other option for me other than Wyatt Lincoln.

He might not know it yet, but he is mine and I am his and no amount of embarrassment will deter me.

Flushed, I walk towards the vault with Weston.

"Seriously?" he says, side-eyeing me. "You aren't even being discreet about it anymore, are you?"

"What?" I say, tearing my eyes off his dad and trying to feign innocence.

"Are you gonna eye-fuck my dad all day or do you want to get some work in? US Classics are in a couple weeks."

I groan dramatically. "But he's sooooo hot."

West rolls his eyes with a huff and walks off. He's used to my bullshit by now. He's heard me say it for years. Poor guy thinks I'm joking.

I'm not.

Weston nails his vault. Tight form, solid rotation, textbook landing.

An easy mid-fourteens score if we were at competition.

I clap, whoop, and mentally prep for my turn.

I love the high bar, love the height and visibility.

But the vault is what I’m best at. It’s also one of the only events where Weston and I can really compete with each other, so we've spent more time on it.

I've been working on this new combo for months.

It's a high difficulty move with a risky execution, but if I can hit it and land it cleanly, it'll turn heads and earn me a high enough score to make it to the next qualifier.

Steeling myself with a slow, deep breath, I sprint down the runway.

I hit the springboard and launch just as a loud bang echoes through the gym, pulling my focus away.

I don't even know what it was, but it throws me off enough that I falter, twisting late.

My angle is off, and I know the landing is going to hurt.

I say a quick, silent prayer that I don't break anything and take myself out of the running.

This is supposed to be our year. It sucks that one little mistake could end everything.

But thankful I never hit the mat, because big, strong arms catch me.

A sturdy chest absorbs my momentum, and I know by his smell who’s caught me before I process it fully.

Wyatt smells like clean sweat and earthy musk, barely disguised by spicy deodorant and fresh laundry. He smells strong. Warm. Comforting.

Arousing.

He cradles me like I'm breakable. I should hate it, but the way he looks down at me, wide-eyed and worried, distracts me. My hands move to his chest, fingers curling into the tight fabric of his shirt. I can feel his body heat and the frantic beating of his heart through my fingertips.

"You good?" he asks, voice low.

I nod, unable to speak or swallow. Blood roars in my ears as Wyatt lowers me to my feet. I slide slowly down his body, feeling every muscle and ridge on my way down.

Clearing my throat, I turn to walk it off.

Chin held high so everyone can’t see how not fine I actually am, I head to get a drink of water.

Hopefully, no one notices my legs shaking.

Maybe I just look shaken up over the almost-fall.

It’s probably better they think that than know I was actually caught up in an inappropriate fantasy about my best friend's dad.

By the time I turn around again, Wyatt is nowhere to be seen.

West is giving me a look from his spot over near the vault.

I wave a hand to let him know I'm fine. After gulping down some water, I make my way back over to try again.

I'm intercepted halfway there by Sid, the owner of the gym and our main coach.

He's stomping across the floor, closing and locking a side entrance, muttering curses in a mix of Russian and English, something about parasites and cameras.

"Pruitt! Lincoln!"

Weston raises an eyebrow, but Sid waves him off. "Not you, your father. Where did he disappear to?"

"I'm here," Wyatt says, emerging from the upstairs office. He trots down the stairs casually, but his tight expression betrays his worry. We meet him at the bottom of the stairs.

Sid doesn't even look at me when he speaks, he talks straight to Wyatt like I'm not even there.

"Did you see that bullshit? Press, trying to sneak footage. This is twice now."

Wyatt frowns. "What do you want to do?"

Sid sighs and rubs his temples. "I think Pruitt should start coming after hours. Avoid the attention. It's distracting the others, and dangerous for him."

My stomach twists. "Hold on—" I'm right fucking here. Why is he talking about me like I'm a problem to be managed? "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Of course not," Wyatt says. He lifts his hand to my shoulder but thinks better of it.

His face is tight with something like sympathy, which makes it worse.

I can't stand to be pitied. "It's to keep you safe.

Weston and I will join you, of course. It might be nice to practice without so many people around. " He's trying, but I don't like it.

Sid nods and continues, barely acknowledging me. "You still have the key, yes?"

"Considering you haven't changed the locks since I was a teenager, yes."

"Good. You can supervise."

"Yeah," Wyatt says. "I've got it." He cuts his eyes over to me, clearly signaling Sid to get his head out of his ass and actually talk directly to me rather than over my head.

Big, burly Sid has enough hair to pass as a teddy bear, but he’s not built for emotions or grace. "I am sorry, Niles. It is truly not your fault."

"How do we know they're here for me? They could be here to photograph the great Alexei Sidorov. Olympic gold medalist training the next wave of greatness," I say with a flourish.

He rolls his eyes and scoffs but finally looks directly at me. There's anger in his eyes, but it’s not directed at me. The pity, on the other hand… I hate it. I hate being perceived as weak or singled out for being different. It's bullshit.

Sid thumps me on the back. "Get out of my gym before the next headlines are about the great Alexei Sidorov breaking some paparazzo's nose."

I throw up a half-salute, mostly to cover the sting in my throat and behind my eyes, before walking towards the locker room.

A weight drapes itself over my shoulders. Wyatt's arm. He's trying to comfort me on instinct. I should shake it off, but I don't.

Instead, I lean into him, just for a second, and forget everything else. The press. The awkwardness of constantly having an audience about something that has nothing to do with my talent or skill. The stares of every other athlete.

I soak up his warmth, basking in his breath near my ear and the way his chest rises and falls when I let my cheek rest there.

Then I look up. Right into his eyes. Dark, unreadable hazel eyes boring into me.

My lips feel dry, and I lick them without thinking. His eyes drop to the movement and the small hallway leading to the changing room is suddenly filled with awareness. It's thick and electric.

But Wyatt pulls back like he’s been shocked and clears his throat.

"Grab your bag," he says. "I'll grab Weston and we'll go for an early lunch."

And just like that, he's gone again, leaving tension and confusion in his wake.