Page 3 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

WYATT

This is wrong. It's so wrong.

I'm trying not to notice him. God knows I'm trying.

But ever since that night I picked him up, and he said those things, I can't help it.

I'm seeing Niles in a way I never have or ever wanted to.

In a way I never considered I'd look at my son's best friend, a kid I've known since kindergarten tumbling class.

That's the thing, though. He's not a kid. I've known that for a while now, but to know a thing and to really notice it are two different animals. And for better or worse… I'm noticing. I hate myself for it, but I'm fucking noticing and I don't want to. I want to stop. I need to stop.

Every time I catch my eyes tracking him across the gym, I consider gouging them out. Not having eyes would be better than the fucked-up thoughts that creep up on me when my guard is down.

Focus, Wyatt. Focus.

Niles and Weston are at the high bar. Weston is on the side mats, stretching while he takes a water break, while Niles jumps up and grabs onto the bar, taking some easy test swings until he notices me watching.

His lips quirk up at the sides, and then he's flying.

Every move is effortless, combining sharp control and impossible height.

It's apparent from the start that he's not working through his routine for the upcoming competition, but that's not too surprising.

This is how it always goes with these two.

They start off easy enough, warming up, working on their routines as they should.

But it never takes long for them to get restless or competitive, especially when there's no one else around.

What starts as a simple practice quickly ramps up into chaos.

Weston whoops and calls out, egging Niles on. Here we go.

I know the moment Niles is about to try something he shouldn't.

"Niles," I warn, though my tone is mild.

Weston snorts at Niles' wicked grin. I rub a hand over my face and say a prayer to whatever deity might be paying attention that he doesn't hurt himself right before the US Classics.

It's a prayer I've repeated since Niles and Weston graduated to more complicated gymnastics.

The older they've gotten and the more confident they’ve become, the more grey hairs I've gained.

My smart watch vibrates, alerting me that my heart rate is rapidly increasing.

These boys are going to put me into an early grave.

Niles builds momentum quickly, swooping around the bar as if gravity doesn't exist. His body is stretched out long and straight like a blade cutting through the air.

His grip shifts, and he swings underneath the bar, spinning away from it and launching forward.

He lets go of the bar completely, then flips backwards while twisting in the air, body fully extended before catching the bar clean and easy.

I know from experience the shockwave that jolts through your arms when they absorb the force of a landing like that, but Niles spins through the next move like it's as easy as breathing.

There's zero hesitation when he uses the swing to explode upward again, pulling into a fast, tucked backflip over the bar. He spins through the air and then snaps back down, catching it again like it’s nothing.

Before I can take a breath, he's onto the next stunt. He launches into a double backflip, adding a twist like his body is made of springs and arrogance instead of flesh and muscle like the rest of us. Jesus.

He catches it. Perfectly, of course. His legs are tight, toes pointed, not wasting a single moment or inch of movement as he swings out again and resets.

I should probably say something and stop him before he wears himself out or gets injured, all for the sake of showing off.

He's stacking way too many high-difficulty releases with barely a breath in between.

Sid would be barking at him in broken English and Russian curses if he were here to witness this farce of a practice.

Not that it's unusual for Weston or Niles to show off, but this is even more than usual, especially right before an important meet.

I can only watch, though. My muscles tense with each release and I blow out heavy breaths each time he catches himself. He looks… Fuck . He looks alive.

Niles told me once that when he's in the air, it feels like flying. Like freedom. It's the only place where his brain and body are in perfect sync, where he can let go and let his instincts take over.

On his third wide rotation, I know he must be winding up for a big dismount. The whole bar bends beneath him as he lets go, flipping into a double-twist double layout, body perfectly straight. It's the same dismount he has planned for the Classics, one he's been working to perfect for months.

He lands it strong and solid. A perfect, powerful landing stuck right into the mat without a step.

The only hint of impact is the slight ripple of shock that moves up his strong thighs.

I've recently become all too aware of how every visible inch of muscle flexes when he walks or works out, even more so when he's wearing those ridiculous short shorts he always wears to practice.

Something I never noticed before but can't stop noticing now.

Niles straightens and lifts his chin before turning his smirk directly at me.

And winks. Because he knows I was watching every second.

Meanwhile, I'm hoping no one can hear my stupid watch going off as I stand here with my hands clenched and my heart in my throat, pretending like watching him defy the laws of physics doesn't impress the hell out of me. Pretending it doesn't do stupid, dangerous things to my stomach and my mind.

Shaking my head as if I'm exasperated instead of impressed, I turn around to hide the worst of my reaction and walk away as casually as possible.

I consider heading up to the office and pretending I have some filing to do.

I've been working at this gym since I was a teenager, and I still come in often to help Sid. Working from home affords me the flexibility to step in as assistant coach here and there or help run the office when needed. It’s one of the best parts of my job.

It's also how I've never missed a gymnastics competition, school event, or opportunity to show up for my son.

It's something I didn't have growing up, and something that I had to work especially hard for after becoming a father at seventeen.

It was Sid who gave me extra hours and let me bring my baby to work after my dad kicked me out.

It was Sid who encouraged me to keep working towards my own Olympic dreams.

I was a gymnast too, once upon a time. I guess technically I still am, although my skills are far from what Weston and Niles have cultivated.

Their dreams now are the same as my dreams twenty years ago.

I trained hard, aimed high. Life had other plans, obviously, but the love for it has never left me.

I've watched elite athletes train for decades.

It's how I know just how talented Niles and Weston are.

It's how I know they have a real chance.

West's strength is unmatched on rings and pommel. He’s amazing, all bulk and power, while maintaining a grace I've never been able to master on that apparatus.

And Niles? Niles is sleek and sharp… like a blade.

He doesn't just fly, he cuts through the air like he’s made of something lighter than flesh and bone.

His control is insane. When he swings, it's flawless.

When he flips, he might as well be taking flight.

He doesn't just stick his landings, he owns them.

As always, the rest of practice spirals into a competition between Weston and Niles. The phones come out to record various ridiculous challenges they've seen on social media. It’s their favorite pastime.

"Dad!" West calls. I arrange my face into something that I hope resembles interest in whatever ridiculousness I'm about to be roped into. "C'mere. We need help with something."

"Define 'help'. Is this more of your TikTok bullshit?" I say, crossing my arms.

Niles' face splits into a grin and he nods. Then he holds up his phone, showing me a short video clip of an adorable little girl and a man I'm assuming is her dad. They're doing a complicated, and really impressive cheerleading move, considering the little girl's age.

I raise an eyebrow. "You’re stealing ideas from toddlers now? Also, I’m pretty sure it only works because she's so tiny. Although I have to admit her form is impeccable."

"Niles is tiny," Weston deadpans, shrugging. It earns him a punch to the arm, and he barely blinks in reaction. He turns to Niles and pats him on the head.

"Asshole," Niles grumbles, but it's obvious he's amused.

"Niles might be tiny compared to you, but he's still not tiny enough to pull off that kind of air."

Niles' shoulders straighten and a devilish smirk twists his lips. "Is that so, old man?"

"Really?"

He raises an eyebrow in challenge, and Weston rolls his eyes as he moves into position.

"We just need you to shoot the video," West says.

"This is a terrible idea."

"Yep," they say, perfectly synced.

Still, I step into position and hold the phone up.

I know by now, after recording many, many of these idiotic challenges, that they want footage of the setup as well as the stunt itself.

Weston crouches down, and I watch Niles climb onto his back, clambering up to his shoulders.

There's some wobbling and giggling as they maneuver into position, Niles stands on Weston's hands, laid flat over his shoulders.

Niles snorts when Weston has trouble lifting him initially, but they manage to get balanced well enough. Weston counts off, then launches.