Page 14 of Wrap Around (Forbidden Goals #7)

SILAS

Something has changed, but I’m afraid to get my hopes up. For the past two weeks, we've been making it work.

Maybe spending time as a family did him some good.

Even though the expectations and rules we grew up with were sometimes heavy, Gideon always seemed to thrive surrounded by the church and all his extended family that were part of it.

I think everyone always assumed he’d be a church leader like his father.

I know I did. Whenever he leads the team in prayer before we go out onto the ice, I remember what it was like to watch him speak.

As quiet and broody as he is now, he wasn’t always like this.

Gideon Shepherd was someone people once flocked to.

I still see that enigmatic young man when he’s talking to someone and doesn’t catch me watching him.

I wouldn’t say we’re friends by any means, but we’ve been working well together.

Our game has been improving enough that the local sports casters have commented on the improvement and moved on.

Not having our names in their mouths as the team's disappointments is nice.

The locker room has become lighter and louder, everyone reveling in the shift in energy that has affected the entire team .

Today's schedule is light. There’s no formal practice, just film review and optional workouts.

Most of the team spends time in the gym to stay loose before tomorrow night's game against the Islanders.

By the time the weight room clears out, it's just me and Gideon.

We're side-by-side on the treadmills, and neither of us moves to another machine when the others open up.

It starts off slow and quiet. Just two teammates running at an easy, leisurely pace.

We've both got our headphones in, and we keep our eyes in front of us, studiously watching the little screens on the front of the treadmills, tracking our progress.

When I don't think he's looking, my eyes shift over to Gideon's machine, curious.

As soon as I notice him looking my way, I snap my eyes back forward.

Then Gideon nudges his speed up. Raising an eyebrow, I do the same.

It escalates from there.

A silent challenge becomes an all-out race.

Five minutes later, we're both in a dead sprint, huffing like we're trying to prove ourselves at an Olympic qualifying event.

We're neck and neck, the sound of our footfalls pounding in unison.

Sweat drips down my back, my lungs and legs burn, but I'm grinning.

This feels good. Familiar. Almost like the past few years haven't stolen everything from us.

I push myself hard, giving it everything I've got. I can feel myself begin to wane, but a split second before I have to admit defeat, Gideon slaps the stop button. Nearly groaning with relief, I do the same, and we slow to a jog, then a walk, both sucking in gasps of air.

"Competitive bastard," he huffs, a small smile playing over his lips as he grabs a towel and mops the sweat from his face.

"Like you aren't?" I say with a laugh .

He shrugs. "You started it."

"Whatever, man. We both know you started that shit."

Hands on his hips and still catching his breath, he laughs. "Neither of us are going to be able to walk tomorrow, much less skate.”

"Speak for yourself. It’s not my fault I have more stamina than you do.

" I don't mention that my trick for always going faster, harder, and longer than everyone else is that I leave nothing in the tank for later.

I use everything I've got in the moment and hope like hell I can conjure up what I need in the final moments.

"At my size, I don't need as much stamina."

A snort escapes me. "That's what he said."

The words leave my lips before I can think better of it. It's one of those knee-jerk responses that comes naturally, even in the most inappropriate of circumstances. The joke doesn't land. It detonates.

Gideon's shoulders stiffen. I watch as that now familiar wall slams back in place. He tosses his towel into the bin and turns on his heel towards the locker room.

"Shit," I mutter to myself, and follow him.

The locker room is mostly empty. It echoes with the sound of running water from the showers. I catch up just as he's grabbing his shower caddy from his locker.

"Gideon! Wait. I didn't mean–"

"Just drop it, Si," he snaps. His voice is low and sharp. Biting.

I try again. "It's not what you think. I wasn't trying to–"

"You weren't trying to what? Remind me why I left three years ago? Turn it into a joke so we can pretend it never happened, and you can feel better about yourself? "

I pull back like he hit me, barely keeping myself from flinching when he skirts around me to stalk into the showers.

This is stupid. I hesitate, but follow him in. There's nowhere else I can seem to corner him to make him face me.

The steam is thick, laced with the smell of soap and jock sweat. It's loud. I have to raise my voice to be heard over the hiss of water echoing off the tile.

"Gideon, please. Just talk to me. Yell at me. Throw something. Fucking hit me again if it makes you feel better!" I say, my voice getting higher with every word. "Just don't shut down again. Not when we're finally making this work."

He doesn't look at me. Doesn't answer.

For the first time since I got here, I’d felt a thread of hope growing between us. And now with his clear dismissal, I feel that fragile thread snap.

Maybe I've been delusional in thinking we might ever get back even a fraction of the friendship we once had. Much less the love I know I felt between us.

He called me Si. That can't mean all is lost, right?

Or maybe I am truly delusional.

Vegas is loud. Bright. Alive.

I am none of those things.

I'm exhausted, in every way possible. We just got shut out 5-0 in our worst game of the season aside from the game where my former best friend and teammate checked me into the boards, of course .

Most of the team went out to drown the loss in neon lights and poor decisions.

I stayed behind. I'm not in the mood to fake smiles or face questions from my teammates. Like how long I expect to be here, when it's obvious that every time Gideon and I find a way to take a step forward, we fall three steps back. We’ve been playing well together, but whatever happened in the gym the other night set him off. We won that game against the Islanders by the skin of our teeth. And tonight? Well, we could have done worse, I suppose. We weren’t playing terribly, or playing against each other like before, but the fire wasn’t there.

How can we get it back, if he’s so dead set on pretending there’s nothing between us?

It's hard not to contemplate everything that brought me here. There was a lot of luck involved, but I also targeted the Red Valley team like a homing missile. I was single-minded in my momentum to get as close to Gideon as possible. But was it worth it?

Was it worth putting everything into the impossible odds that I would make it onto Gideon's team? A few weeks ago, I would have said yes. I was ready to risk everything just for a chance to prove myself to Gideon, to get him to talk to me.

He hates me. And there’s no coming back from that. I have to find a way to live with it. To work with him and coexist on a team that doesn't feel big enough for us and all of our baggage. Backing off and giving him space isn’t enough. Then again, maybe I’m not giving him enough space.

We don't have to be friends. We don't have to talk. We just have to be . So we don't lose everything and put Lily and Adaline through anymore bullshit.

The thought makes me want to scream.

A loud bang rattles the door. I sit up fast. What the ?

More banging, this time more insistent.

"Silas!"

Is that ?— ?

"Silas, for fuck's sake. Let me in already!"

What is he yelling for? Where is his key?

I yank open the door and stare into bleary green eyes and a massive frame barely able to hold itself up. Gideon sways in the hallway, eyes glazed, skin pale and clammy. He smells like whiskey, sweat, and misery.

Pushing the door open wide so he can stumble in, I gape at him. He's more than just drunk, he's a mess. A quick peek into the hallway shows me he's alone.

"What the hell, Gideon?"

"You," he says, stabbing a finger at me. "This is your fault."

He’s slurring. I scoff, despite my concern. "Oh yeah, how do you figure?"

"You broke me."

"Gideon–"

"You tricked me. Tempted me. It's your fault I'm like this."

Like this? What does that even mean?

I don't get a chance to ask for clarification.

Gideon turns several shades of green and lurches.

I barely catch him in time, dragging him through the door of the bathroom and holding him steady so most of the vomit lands in the toilet.

He crouches over it, hugging the bowl. When he seems steady enough, I try to clean up anything that splashed on the floor .

When he's done, I wet a washcloth with cold water and dab it on his forehead, then the back of his neck.

I wipe his mouth and notice his tight, dark blue v-neck t-shirt is a mess.

I help him out of it carefully and methodically, refusing to let my eyes linger.

My gaze is fixed on the fabric, on the motions of pulling the soft fabric over his head, and not the skin underneath.

Not the smooth, tan planes of his chest or the ink that twists over his shoulder and bicep.

I don't let myself look at those, either.

For once, he doesn't fight me. Just allows me to lead him towards the bed.

When I have to undo his belt buckle, I aim my gaze at the bicep closest to me. The one with the intricate snake and apple so detailed, I feel I could bite into his skin and it would be as crisp as a McIntosh.

"You're the snake," he whispers.

Looking away, I gently tug his pants down his legs and get him to sit so I can pull them off. He's still wearing his shoes. I'm on my knees in front of him, unlacing his sneakers. He watches me, glassy-eyed.

"Stop tempting me," he slurs.

"I'm just trying to get you comfortable," I say softly, sadly. "Then you can sleep this off."

"Can't sleep."

"I have a feeling you'll manage tonight. Although, you're probably going to feel like shit when you wake up."

"I feel like shit right now," he confesses.

Pulling the blanket and sheets back, I help him lower onto his back .

"Can't sleep in the same room as the snake," he mumbles. "I'm afraid of what I might do."

Tucking the blanket around him, I smooth the damp hair from his forehead. “I won’t let you do anything you’ll regret.”

“—s’too late.”

"I know, baby," I whisper. "I know."