Page 7 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

WYATT

Thirteen hours in a car with Niles Pruitt. I must be out of my damn mind.

It's true that I absolutely hate flying and will gleefully drive for days to avoid an airport.

Normally, Niles and I have a lot of fun on these trips.

But this time is different than it's ever been before.

I can feel the air between us, oppressive and humid.

No matter how much I blast the air conditioner, it does nothing to relieve the thickness in the air.

It's made for a long road trip. Especially when all my attempts at normal conversation or our typical road games have been met with innuendo or knowing smirks.

Weston is dead to the world in the back seat, headphones on and his hoodie pulled over his face. He said he was going to binge watch Squid Games , but I'm pretty sure he's out cold again. He has been most of the drive.

We're about halfway through the trip, and still quite a few hours from Illinois.

We stopped for lunch at a rest stop off the interstate, finding a shaded spot in the grass under some trees.

We laid out a blanket and stretched our legs and ate the packed lunches Brianne made us chopped Cobb salads with cold grilled chicken, corn cut off the cob, and avocado salsa.

She also included a container of the little quinoa cakes she makes that Weston insists he doesn't like the smell of but always ends up devouring.

She even packed us individual containers with fruit, complete with our names and little stick figures drawn on the lids.

Mine is holding what I'm assuming is a stopwatch, Weston's is flexing huge biceps, and Niles' is doing a cartwheel under a rainbow.

Niles’ mom is a truly special woman. She's always been so determined to make up for what Niles' dad lacked or left behind after leaving.

She's the strongest woman I know. She was a huge support to me when Weston was little and I was working overtime to make ends meet.

We helped each other, and in a way, we were able to provide our boys with both a mother figure and a father figure.

I'll never forget the first time I met Brianne and Niles, though I can't for the life of me remember what name she'd introduced Niles as that first class.

He was adorable, with dark curly hair and big, observant, stormy blue-grey eyes.

He and Weston took to each other immediately.

It wasn't until we got to talking a little more that we realized we were neighbors.

My parents had all but disowned me when they found out I'd gotten someone pregnant, but my uncle had just moved out of the country for a contractor job with the military and let us rent his house from him for far less than what it was worth.

It was still more than I could afford, but it was unlikely that I'd be able to find someone else willing to rent to a seventeen-year-old with no credit or references.

It's a beautiful house with a big yard that I could have only dreamed of providing for Weston back in those days.

Brianne helped me buy the house after she'd gotten her real estate license and I'd finally started making decent money once I finished college.

I was lucky enough to put my computer science degree to work and get a great job working from home as a penetration tester for a large cybersecurity company.

I've worked for the same company ever since, and it's afforded me a lot of opportunities to be present in Weston and Niles' lives.

Along with the flexibility to work from anywhere I can bring my laptop, the pay is enough that I could provide my son with a secure life.

I sent Brianne a text thanking her for the lunch and some pictures of the boys making a spectacle of themselves doing flips and tricks in the large green space.

They've done this almost every time we've stopped to stretch their legs and get out some restless energy, and it almost always draws a few onlookers.

I clapped along with them after Niles wowed with a small, difficult part of his floor routine.

"Nice job, kiddo!" I said proudly, thumping him on the back. We'd headed back to the car feeling energized.

Or at least I did. Weston was yawning before we even got back on the interstate.

Now he's sprawled out in the back seat, long limbs folded over in a way that only a young gymnast could be comfortable.

He's got his big over-ear headphones on, and they're crooked from how his head is pressed up against the door.

It looks terribly uncomfortable, but he's snoring away.

He's always been like this. Ever since he was a baby, car rides knocked him out.

I used to drive him around the block just to get him to sleep on those hard sleep-regression nights or when he was teething.

Some things never change, I guess. Road trips always end up being just me and Niles, but this time it's different.

Niles is in the passenger seat beside me, legs pulled up under him, sunglasses perched on top of his head.

He's picking at the label on a bottle of water like it's personally offended him.

His phone is face-down in the console cupholder, but he's been checking it nonstop.

I don't ask about the news or press vultures, knowing that if he wants to talk, he will.

I'm here for him either way. That's how we've always worked. Only he's not talking to me now.

What if the constant notifications are from that dating app he used to hook-up with that asshole?

He wouldn't be sitting in the seat next to me, chatting up some middle-aged twat, would he?

What if he's setting up a date or a hook-up or whatever it is he does?

Would he try to find someone on the road, meet them at the hotel?

The idea sits heavy in my gut, and I find myself sneaking glances at him and flinching every time he checks his phone. I want to ask, but I don't. I don't want him to think I don't believe he can handle himself. I don't think that. He can. That's not the issue.

So what is the issue, then?

Me. The issue is me. And the quiet, insistent twist of jealousy I'm too ashamed to name.

Where did this even come from? It doesn't seem possible that a switch could just flip this fast.

But it has, and I don't know what to do about it.

Somewhere between picking him up from that bar and this road trip, in the very seat he's sitting in now, something has changed. Or, if his teasing is to be believed, maybe it didn't change. Maybe I'm just seeing it now.

He's quiet for a while, staring out the window as trees, houses, and long stretches of farmland blur past. I can feel the tension pulsing off him in waves, like static before a storm.

"You okay?" I ask finally.

He scoffs. "That depends. You going to call me 'kiddo' again?"

I glance over at him. He's smirking, but there's something pointed beneath his usual carefree expression. He never did like it when I called him things like that, but I never put together how much or why until this moment.

"I only do that when you're being a smartass," I joke.

"I'm always a smartass."

I chuckle. "That's fair."

He shifts in his seat so he's facing me. "So what do you call me when I'm being a good boy?"

I swallow. Hard. He watches me like he's waiting for something, but when I can't come up with a reasonable response, he grins evilly.

"Thought so."

"Don't start," I mutter, glancing at the rearview mirror.

"Too late."

A huff of air escapes me. "Niles…"

"Yes, Mr. Lincoln ?"

"See, now you're being a smartass again."

"You prefer to be on the same level as me, then? Want me to call you by your name? Wyatt? "

Something about the way he says my name sends a jolt of awareness through me. "Watch it." It comes out more like a croak than a warning.

"Or maybe you'd like me to call you… Daddy ?"

I choke on a quick intake of breath and cough. "Only if you want to give me a heart attack."

The smile that spreads across his face is dangerous.

Niles is good at this. Poking. Prodding. Flirting with the edge of things he doesn't fully understand. Or maybe he does, which is way worse. A quick glance in his direction tells me he absolutely knows what he's doing to me. And he's doing it anyway.

"Shouldn't you be napping or something?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

He shrugs. "Nah. Too keyed up. Full of jittery energy, you know?"

"Not really."

"You don't get nervous, ever?"

The way he asks, paired with the evil smirk, proves he knows the answer to that question. I'm determined to derail this line of conversation.

"Back in my day, I was too cocky to get nervous," I say, pretending I don't realize his game.

"And now that I'm the coach, it's not the same.

It's a lot different when you're the one holding the stopwatch. I feel a nervous excitement for you both. But also I’m still a bit cocky, because I know how awesome you both are, and I'm proud. "

My proud dad moment does nothing to deter him.

"I bet you were a menace back in the day."

I snort. "That's one word for it."

"Cocky Wyatt would be something else. I can only imagine that you had all the boys and girls panting for you."

There's a lull while I focus on the road in front of us, the hum of tires on asphalt beneath us, the clouds casting shadows across the dashboard.

Miles upon miles stretch. The silence between us is thick, not uncomfortable exactly but not calm either.

It's a knowing silence. Like the silence itself is aware there's something heavy behind it, waiting to emerge.

Niles eventually breaks the silence. "I've been thinking."

"Dangerous," I say.

"Shut up. I'm serious."

I glance over again. He's staring at me now, lip between his teeth. Serious. Intense.

"This wouldn't be as weird if you let your guard down a little," he says. "Because you're trying to pretend there's nothing here. You're trying not to see it."

"What is there to see?" I try to ask nonchalantly, but I know it just comes off breathy and wanting. Like I need to hear him say it.

"That I'm not a kid anymore."

"I know you're not, but?—"

"I'm not fragile."

"I never said you were."

"You didn't have to."

"Niles—"

" Wyatt ."

"This… whatever game you're playing here… It's not…" I flinch when Niles' fingers lightly touch my knee, resting his hand there without putting any pressure. The heat of the contact radiates through my jeans and makes my skin feel like it's vibrating. "You're playing with fire," I rasp.

"Then burn me," he whispers, his voice so quiet I wouldn't have been able to hear it except for the way he's leaning over the center console. He spreads his fingers out, palm resting on my leg.

"I can take it, Wyatt. The heat. The pain. All that tension and frustration you're holding that has you ready to snap. I can take it."

I look back at the road. White lines blur. The landscape and cars whizzing past blur. Everything blurs.

If I say even one more word, I won't be able to take it back. And I'm not sure I want to. Or what I'd even say.

I'm not sure of anything anymore, other than the heat of his hand on my knee and the proximity of his breath on my cheekbone. Of the pull of every buried feeling I've been trying to outrun since the night I picked him up from that bar.

I grip the wheel tighter.

This trip just got a hell of a lot longer.