Page 34 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

NILES

I should’ve expected the worst when Wyatt actually took his meds before the long flight.

He hates the way they make him feel after he comes down, so he tries to avoid taking them.

But with everything that’s been happening, the packed eight-hour flight, and travelling with a large portion of the USAG staff and teammates, he really didn’t have much of a choice.

He’d end up getting sick on the plane and vomiting everywhere, not to mention the potential of a panic attack from the enclosed, pressurized death machine, as he calls it.

Weston and I basically made him take it. Weston rolled his eyes and called him a dumbass, and I blew him in the airport bathroom. Different tactics, positive results.

But now, halfway over the Atlantic, I’m dealing with the aftermath.

Wyatt Lincoln—stoic, guarded, responsible Wyatt Lincoln—has his arm slung lazily around my shoulders like we’re not wedged between his son and several of the USAG team trainers.

His head tips against mine, his breath warm where it ghosts across my ear, and every few seconds he lets out this soft, content little hum that makes my whole body tense.

Weston keeps leaning forward and staring over at me like I’m the one behaving strangely. All I can do is shrug and try to push him off me.

“Wyatt,” I murmur out of the corner of my mouth. “Personal space.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re high.”

He hums again, clearly pleased with himself. His hand slides down a little, settling on my thigh. Not my knee. Not my arm. My actual thigh. His big hand spreads out and kneads the inside of my thigh like he’s about to move higher, completely unconcerned that we’re surrounded by people.

I can feel Weston’s eyes drilling into us.

“I love you,” Wyatt sighs softly, his lips brushing my hair.

And just like that, I stop breathing.

So does Weston.

I don’t dare look at him. I focus on Wyatt, who’s blissed out and oblivious, nuzzling against me like I’m the most comfortable pillow he’s ever found.

Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I pry his hand off me gently and place his hand in his own lap.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” I say, needing to extricate myself from the situation. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s better or worse to not know what he might say in my absence.

“M’kay.” He smiles at me like I just promised him the world.

I haul myself up from the seat, heart hammering. When I sneak a glance at Weston, he’s not staring at me anymore. He’s looking at his dad. His expression is flat and unreadable.

When I get back with the water, Wyatt takes it gratefully and guzzles it down. Water drips down the sides of his chin as he grins up at me, loose and unguarded.

“You’re so beautiful.”

I almost drop the cup.

Weston sees and hears that one, too. My stomach churns, and I wonder if maybe I should take one of those pills and let fate take the wheel.

By the time we land in Belgium, Wyatt has thankfully calmed down. He’s much less affectionate, but he’s severely nauseous. This is why he hates the meds, they give him what is effectively a wicked hangover.

He’s silent on the lift to the hotel. Weston helps him check in because the lights are hurting Wyatt’s eyes and he’s so groggy he can barely answer his own name, much less any details about the booking.

I push the luggage trolley to our room, while Weston helps his dad into the room next door. When he comes back, he seems out of sorts.

“There’s a massive soaking tub,” I tell him.

There’s a flicker of interest when he peeks into the huge bathroom. He turns to look at me, like he wants to say something, and I tense. But if he was going to, he changes his mind.

“I’m going to take a bath then, I guess,” he grunts, and shuts the door behind him. He almost never shuts it all the way, leaving it open just enough to let me know I can come in and piss or talk to him if I need to.

Sighing, I lift Wyatt’s bags off the trolley and take them next door. He’s in the large king-sized bed, face-down.

“You breathing?” I ask softly.

He turns his face to the side, but keeps his eyes shut tight. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. “I just need water. And sleep. And for the world to stop spinning.”

I grab him a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and sit next to him on the bed while he tips it into his mouth. Some gets on the pillow, but he just flips it over and lays his head back down. I sit next to him and push the damp hair back from his forehead. Poor thing looks miserable.

“Need anything else?”

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me down. I go willingly, laying on my side facing him, his head pressed against my chest. My fingers comb through his hair soothingly.

“I screwed things up, didn’t I?”

“Maybe not. We can probably still pass it off as drunken silliness.” With everyone except Weston, I could almost believe that’s true. Unfortunately, it’s too early to know anything for sure.

He visibly clenches his jaw. I drag my fingers from his hair to cup his face. “Relax. Rest. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“I don’t want to hide forever.”

My heart beats frantically. I have no doubt he can hear and feel it where he’s pressed against my chest.

“Me either,” I admit. “Let’s get through Worlds first. When we get home, we’ll test the waters with Weston and Mom.”

Wyatt flinches. Had he forgotten he’d have to confront my mom about this? I suppose I’d be a little scared too in his position.

Eventually he relaxes and his breathing evens out. I stay for as long as I think I can get away with, not wanting to raise more questions with Weston.

“I love you,” he whispers, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

I freeze.

Then I swallow hard and answer before I can think.

“I know.”

I was expecting snark, but he doesn’t respond. His deep, even breaths tell me he’s asleep.

“I love you, too.”

I hate that I have to leave.

There’s a vending machine not far from our rooms. I grab some snacks to hopefully explain my absence in case Weston noticed I left.

When I get back to the room, he’s in bed. Either asleep or faking it.

I don’t care which, I’m too relieved to put off the conversation I know we need to have.

I climb into my bed, stare up at the ceiling, and wait for sleep that doesn’t come for a long time.

We sleep in late the next morning.

I’m groggy, disoriented, and a little hollow. I tell myself it’s the jet lag, not my worries over potentially losing my best friend, or the way his dad whispered he loves me like it was the easiest truth in the world.

I try not to think about Weston’s face. About the conversation I know we need to have.

It’s not that I want to keep everything a secret and have to hide forever, but it’s been easier not having to explain ourselves to anyone.

And I’ve enjoyed sharing something with only Wyatt.

The secret has been fun, in a way, but mostly it’s just been really special.

I’m terrified that our families’ opinions might make Wyatt decide he doesn’t want to be with me after all.

I know I’m not worth losing his son, and I’d never want him to give anything up for me.

Is it too much to ask that we get a little more time together before someone pops this bubble we’ve been in?

Weston and I meet Wyatt downstairs to go find some lunch since we missed breakfast. He seems to be feeling better. Today is supposed to be one of our rest days to walk around the city and see the sights.

Weston says something about splitting up, but Wyatt shuts it down immediately. After everything with the press coverage and this competition being a big deal in this city, we are to stay together and go nowhere unsupervised.

I overheard Wyatt’s conversation with Sid. I know this is because of me. Because this world isn’t safe for people like me. And thanks to Peter Trenton, there’s a target on my back. It’s not fair that Weston has to suffer because of my drama.

We wander the city, stopping at tourist shops, gawking at statues, taking photos in front of chocolate shops and fancy storefronts that none of us can afford.

After a while, we all seem to relax. Wyatt stays back, acting as the dutiful dad and coach, close but not too close to cramp our style.

Weston is joking around with me again, like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t watch his dad drape himself all over me and tell me he loves me on the plane.

I try to laugh along, but it’s hard when Wyatt’s walking half a step behind us the entire time.

Silent and tense, like every corner could have danger behind it.

I catch him scanning doorways and windows, checking over his shoulder like he can’t stop himself.

Still, I suppose he’s not the worst security guard we could have.

His hand brushes the small of my back once when we’re crossing the street, and I flinch. Not because I don’t want him to touch me, but because I want it too much.

I don’t think Weston notices.

It feels like I’m suffocating.

Wyatt doesn’t speak unless Weston asks him something directly. He’s not acting like himself. Maybe a more professional, protective version of himself. The stick-in-the-butt version of himself.

It makes me want to scream.

The person I want most right now is the one I can’t have.

Not out here. Not where people might see. Not where Weston could get confirmation that there’s something going on. Because he definitely has an inkling.

Even so, Weston buys me a beer when we stop for dinner.

“Happy Birthday, bestie,” he says, holding up his own beer to knock against mine.

“It’s not my birthday yet, tomorrow is.”

“Yeah, but this is the only day we can safely celebrate. And the drinking age here is like sixteen or something,” he says. He’s grinning, almost like a dare, but it feels forced.

I look over to Wyatt, not really asking for permission as much as his opinion. He shrugs.

I lift my beer in thanks and take a sip. It’s good. So I have a second with our dinner. And a third after.