Page 40 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)
WYATT
I’m tense before the event even starts, sitting stiff in my seat, nerves already frayed. I’m on edge for both of them. Weston’s not competing today, but he’ll be sitting with the rest of the national team to support Niles and the other all-around gymnasts.
I despise how much stress I’ve caused them both.
I hate even more that I feel like I’ve failed my son.
At the same time, I found something really special with Niles, and I hope Weston will eventually see that.
I hope he’ll understand. More than anything, I hope he and Niles can find their way back to each other.
Because Weston needs Niles, and Niles needs him, too.
When they file out onto the floor, Weston’s eyes find mine.
I brace for him to look away. For him to keep ignoring me like he has for days now, but he doesn’t. He holds my gaze.
Not angrily. Not coldly. Just… steady. Like he’s searching for something. Trying to read my mind the way Niles always does.
There’s nothing in his face that tells me what he’s thinking, but after a few seconds, Weston gives me a short, reluctant nod.
I’m not sure what it means, but it’s the first non-hostile interaction we’ve had since he busted in on me and Niles the other morning. It’s not much, but it’s something.
“Your son, I’m guessing?”
The voice beside me makes me jump. I turn to see a man around my age, maybe a little older judging by the greys threading through his dark hair and scruff. He’s close to my build but it’s hard to tell since he’s wearing a jacket. There are tattoos peeking over the collar of his shirt.
“He looks a lot like you,” he says, smiling like we’re already friends. His eyes crinkle at the edges like it's something he does often.
“Uh, yeah,” I say awkwardly. Then I notice the logo on his jacket. Sports Unleashed .
Great.
The guy glances down at his jacket. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not here to do interviews or gather intelligence or anything. I’m a sports journalist, not that kind of journalist.”
I blink at him and wonder if there’s any possibility of me getting a different seat.
“I’m really just here to take some notes for a small piece on Olympic-bound LGBTQ+ athletes. I have no interest in private lives, I promise.” He holds up his hand to shake. “I’m Mik.”
I accept the handshake reluctantly and turn my attention back to the floor where officials are doing a last safety check.
I catch Niles’ gaze, and he smiles up at me.
It’s not quite the same as his usual cocky confidence, but compared to the last few days, he looks almost normal.
It’s not victorious, but not like he’s given up, either.
There’s a spark of hope there that sends a surge of adrenaline through me.
I jerk my attention away from making heart eyes at the athlete who is almost half my age, remembering too late that there’s a fucking journalist sitting right next to me, but Mik isn’t paying attention.
He’s waving at someone, trying to get their attention.
A minute later, a younger version of Mik with more of an auburn tint to his hair slides in next to him, followed by a brick shithouse of a guy with ginger hair and a beard.
The bearded guy says something in a timber too low for me to hear, and then the three of them laugh when he switches places with the younger guy.
They pass a beer and snacks to Mik before they take their seats.
As they get settled, I notice the younger guy looks a lot like Mik but also favors the big guy.
Mik must notice me staring. “This is my son Jace, and my husband Jason.”
“Oh, uh, hey. Nice to meet you.”
Jason reaches over and shakes my hand. Jace leans forward and waves before his eyes widen with recognition.
“Oh hey, you’re that coach?—”
“Jace,” his dad says, cutting him off. He looks at him pointedly, then swats Jason, who smacks the back of Jace’s head.
“Don’t start. He’ll think we follow that bullshit.
” He turns to me. “Sorry. I want to make it known that we do not condone nor do we follow gossip rags and rumors, especially when they’re being spread by confirmed assholes. ”
“Bet,” the kid says. “I was just going to say that we’re here to cheer your boys on.”
Mik smiles and nods. I’m not sure if I should be comforted by their outward show of support, or more on edge. Either way, sitting next to a journalist is making me sweat.
“Seriously, man. I’m not that kind of journalist. Here’s a card if you want to look me up.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, slipping the card into my pocket without even looking at it. Mik and his family don’t pay me much mind after that, but I can’t help stealing glances at the way his fingers are linked with Jason’s, so casually holding hands and sharing small looks and kisses here and there.
Would Niles and I ever get to have a relationship like that?
One that we wouldn’t have to hide? Even if I step far away from any position that has professional ties to his coaching, would a relationship with this large of an age gap ever be accepted?
Is my best-case scenario having to correct people when they assume he’s my adult son?
My stomach twists, and I force myself to focus. The competition is starting, and Niles deserves all of my attention in the here and now.
Rings are first. He’s a little shaky getting started, but he settles into the routine.
His holds are locked in—static, tight, steady.
His dismount is clean. Not stuck dead, just barely a soft hop forward.
He walks off shaking out his hands, and I’m probably the only person other than Weston who knows how frustrated he is.
That tiny hop costs him, but he still walks away with a 13. 966, which isn’t bad.
From the moment Niles touches the mat for his floor routine, I’m on the edge of my seat.
His floor is always steady, but I’m not sure what changes his coach has made for his flashier passes.
The routine is tight, if not a little safe.
I know he’ll want more from apparatus finals day than 14.
066, but it’s good enough to keep him in the game for now.
Pommel has never been his favorite, but he manages well enough.
His circles stay clean, even if they’re not fast. There’s no obvious hesitation, and no visible form breaks, but it’s not exactly a standout routine.
In another competition, it might have earned him more than a 13.
733, but he has to earn every tenth at this level.
I can see him talking to himself as he approaches the vault. This is where he shines.
The team has been going back and forth on vault difficulty all week.
It looks like the coach called it and went conservative—a high-difficulty Yurchenko double instead of something riskier.
It’s safe. Clean. And Niles nails it perfectly.
From my seat, I know it the second he lands.
No hop. No slide. Just planted feet, arms locked, head high.
I stand without thinking when the score drops: 14.466. Huge. Mik and his crew are up cheering with me.
Niles shoots me a smile, but I know what he’s thinking… if he’d been allowed to throw the harder vault, he could’ve broken fifteen.
I know he has to be getting tired. He was restless all night. I hope the vault gave him a surge of confidence and adrenaline to get him through the last two events.
He steps up to the parallel bars and starts without hesitation.
He’s clean through his transitions, controlled and precise, but the power I know he’s capable of isn’t there.
His hand placements drift a little, and his turns aren’t as tight.
When he swings through the last release, his legs separate just a fraction, but if I can see it from up here, I’m sure the judges did too.
His dismount is solid. One step. 13.900 is not a bad score at all, but it’s not enough to make up ground.
He’s going to need a stellar high bar routine to make it to the podium.
Not being the one standing with him before he starts his last and favorite event is excruciating. I feel his steadying breath in and out, and my hands instinctively squeeze together, imagining them around his waist, giving him that last unspoken encouragement.
You’ve got this.
He throws every release without hesitation. Practically floats with each twist and flip. Nails every move perfectly. I catch myself leaning forward, fists clenched against my knees.
When he hits his one-arm giant? I swear the arena goes silent.
He dismounts with a flourish. He’s made a name for himself and sticks it.
Both arms up. He knows he killed it. Everyone does.
Mik and his family are jumping up and down with me, thumping me on the back and shoulders like I was the one that just got his best score of the day. 14.573
At the end of the day, Niles final scores put him at 4th place overall. Not quite on the podium, but so damn close. I can’t see his expression well enough from where I’m sitting, but I know what he’s thinking. I’m familiar with the gleam in his eye as he walks off the floor.
On apparatus finals day, he’s coming for total domination. No coach could talk him out of pulling every skill in the book to get those top scores.
The moment that brings everything together, however, is when Weston walks up to shake Niles’ hand, and pulls him in for a bear hug.
That has to be a good sign, right?
I knew that soft-hearted little shit couldn’t hold a grudge against Niles for too long. I only hope this means we’re somewhere on the way to forgiveness, and maybe even acceptance.