Page 15 of Wrap Around (Forbidden Goals #7)

GIDEON

My eyes are dry and I feel like I've swallowed gravel. By the throbbing behind my eyes and the taste in my mouth, I should probably be thankful I didn't choke on my own vomit last night. That's probably only thanks to the pillow wedged under one side of my back.

I don't remember how I got here. Wait … Where is here?

The rapid pace of my heart and the bright sunlight searing my retinas when I open my eyes make my head throb worse, but I'm able to take a breath of relief that I'm in my own hotel room.

Thank fuck. Closing my eyes again, I wince as a few flashes of what I can remember play out behind my eyelids.

Pounding on the door. I was upset about something…

Then Silas... His hands steadying me, voice low and comforting. A cold cloth on my neck.

Him on his knees, looking up at me as he slowly dragged my jeans down my legs.

Oh no…

Another breath of relief leaves me when I realize I'm still wearing my boxer briefs, and there's no sign of lube or anything else on my dick.

If I was sick enough for him to feel obligated to take care of me, it's not like I think he'd take advantage of me.

I don't think that lowly of him. Don't get me wrong, I still think he's a lying piece of shit, who might or might not have exploited my sister's naivety to get her pregnant.

I want to crawl out of my own skin.

Damn it. If I keep thinking about this I'm going to puke. Again, I think. And I have to pee really bad.

Peeling one eye open at a time, I wonder if it was Silas' bright idea to open the curtains and let the sunlight in. A cursory glance at my phone, plugged in on the bedside table, says it's just past ten in the morning. The bus will leave in the next hour.

Silas' bed is empty, the bedspread is pulled up and neatly made. If not for the indent in the pillow, I'd think he hadn’t slept there at all. I feel guilty about how relieved I feel that he isn't here.

Something rancid rises up the back of my throat.

I grip the edge of the sink, breathing slow and shallow, fighting back the wave of nausea crawling its way up my esophagus.

I manage to shower and brush my teeth without puking my guts up.

When I walk out, I notice Silas left a bottle of water and some headache medicine on the corner of the dresser next to my duffle bag. Somehow it makes me feel worse.

When I make it onto the bus, he doesn't look at me or try to speak to me. He sits next to Valdez towards the back of the bus and stares out the window. Is he avoiding me ?

It's probably for the best. The more I remember about last night, the more embarrassed I feel.

It's my fault I ended up like that. I went looking for a way to forget .

The moment we got back to the hotel, I made a mad dash to our room. Silas and some of the others had stopped at the hotel bar to have dinner and drinks to drown their misery, so I knew I'd have at least a few minutes to myself.

Shaved and showered, I pulled on the tightest shirt I had, some dark jeans that I know hug in all the right ways, and a hat I could tug low over my face.

I disguised myself in shadows and walked into places no one would expect a clean-cut, wholesome, God-fearing straight man to step foot in.

Places where they don't ask questions or expect to learn your name.

No one cares who you are in those places, just what you want and what you are willing to give.

I hit up three different bars like this, on the prowl but not finding anyone that appealed.

At each stop, I drank until the ice in my gut melted and I started to care less about finding someone with the right shade of dark hair and freckles.

I wanted to hook up. Needed it. Needed someone else to erase what I can't forget.

It wasn't until I was drunk enough not to care that I found someone.

He wasn't really my type, slimmer and smaller all around than the men I typically go for, but he looked up at me through dark lashes and he had hazel eyes. Not quite like his, but it would do.

I didn't even offer the pretense of a dance.

I just gestured towards the back, where I knew there'd be somewhere dark, or a bathroom or something.

He was willing. He smirked over his shoulder as he pulled me back into an employee-only area that looked like a small locker room.

I would normally appreciate a man that didn't waste time pretending we weren't only here for one thing, but the moment he dropped to his knees and started fondling my bulge, I froze.

There was no part of me that actually wanted that man.

I could barely stand, but I still wasn't drunk enough to forget who I really wanted.

I left before anything happened. I pushed right past him and kept walking until I found myself staggering down an unfamiliar sidewalk with my stomach turning over.

If I'm remembering correctly, I puked in a random alleyway before finding my way into yet another seedy bar.

This time, all I did was drink. I don't even remember how I got back to the hotel.

All I remember are flashes of Silas' voice.

Silas' hands. Silas' eyes watching me, dark and concerned.

The way he smelled when he leaned over me, gentle and quiet and unbearably kind.

I know I deserve every ounce of the shame rotting a hole through my chest.

The next couple of weeks are excruciating, but it seems Silas and I have reached a sort of truce. We don't talk or spend any time alone. There's always someone nearby, and space between us. Deliberate space. Necessary space.

At practice, I put in the work. I show up early, stay late, and put my whole self into the game.

I push myself through every drill like I've got something to prove—because I do.

I owe this team better than what I've been giving them.

I owe Coach better. And honestly, I owe Silas something that at least resembles peace.

Even if it hurts to see him every day. Even if it feels like dying every time we pass each other without a word, a smile, a touch.

I'm trying. My passes are clean. I read his plays before he makes them, and I’m always there to cover his back.

I don't flinch when our gloves brush, don't recoil or run away every time we land in the same corner.

More than once, I catch myself calling for the puck or warning him about an oncoming player in a tone that doesn't sound angry or pained.

We play like we used to. Like we were meant to be on the ice together .

The chemistry is still there. It's potent and dangerous.

Every time I feel that rush, every time a play clicks or a pass lands right in my tape, every game that we skate off the ice to cheering fans, it feels like another layer of betrayal. Like I'm breaking an unspoken rule simply by not hating when he's around.

I say all the right things and make all the right moves, but when no one is looking, I watch him.

I can't help it. I watch the way he moves.

The easy, sure confidence he has in almost everything he does.

The strong, fluid way he skates, like he was born with blades on his feet.

I watch him laugh and chat with our teammates.

Then I notice how friendly he's gotten with some of the guys, bright and unguarded in a way he never is around me. Not anymore.

After an away game one night, most of the team goes for dinner and drinks at a local sports bar.

There’s a guy at the bar who’s clearly got his eye on Silas.

They strike up a conversation, and I can’t help but watch.

When I think I notice a lingering gaze or touch, it takes everything in me to restrain myself.

I shouldn’t be thinking about whether he’ll go home with that guy, or slip into a dark room, back alley, or bathroom stall to get each other off.

Despite having no evidence that Silas would hook up with someone, I watch him.

I tell myself I’m only watching to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, but surely he’s not stupid enough to do something like that around the team.

What kind of brother-in-law would it make me if I let him get caught, or worse, hurt, because of carelessness.

The more I watch him, the more I wonder what kind of lover he is.

To people who don’t know him and only judge him by his looks, he might come off as confident and domineering.

But the Silas I know was soft inside and wanted reassurance.

He probably likes it soft and slow, but he’s also a people pleaser that probably gives it to them however they ask.

If I were to let myself have him, I’d hold him down and use him the way he used my emotions.

Like a toy that doesn’t feel. Hard. Punishing. And then I’d walk away without a care.

Not that I’d actually do that.

Every time I catch myself staring, it's another layer of guilt, another sin to add to the pile already weighing me down.

By the time practice ends each day, I'm strung so tight I feel like I could shatter. Like if anyone so much as looks at me too closely, I'll crack and all my secrets will come spilling out.

Maybe this is the punishment I deserve. Maybe living with this torment, sitting with it rather than running away, is my penance. For everything I did. For everything I wanted. For every lie I've told myself and everyone around me just to survive.

For still wanting…

Every day after practice, I drive past a small church. It's unassuming and inviting. I've avoided it since moving here, never planned on stopping, but I've noticed it every time I pass.

Today, instead of driving on by, I stop.

I sit in my truck and stare at the open door, thinking about the way I watched Silas in the showers today.

It's the first time I've ever seen him naked.

Seeing your teammates naked is a normal occurrence, but I've made a point not to look at Silas.

I don't even go into the showers when he's there.

It's another unspoken rule, an arrangement that we both knew we needed.

We take turns. Usually I go first, since he typically does a long cool down, but today I was later than usual and didn't think anything of it until I was under the water already.

I turned around, and there he was in all his glory, in the stall directly behind me, not blocked by the half walls that act as shelves and barriers between each shower.

I wasn't expecting him, but once I looked, I couldn't stop looking.

My eyes were glued to the wide expanse of his muscular back, the curve of his lower back, the roundness of his perfect ass. Jesus, help me .

I nearly tripped running out of there without actually cleaning myself. I'm pretty sure I stink, and my clothes are sticking to me a bit from putting them on wet. But I knew I had to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.

So now I'm sitting in my truck watching a woman with short greying hair welcoming people one by one to Wednesday night worship.

People show up in everything from dress clothes to jeans.

I stare until the door is closed behind the last stragglers.

Then I find myself walking up the stone path, staring at a vibrantly colored banner that reads “ Come as you are ”.

I stare for so long, I think my eyelashes might be frozen.

I talk myself out of going inside several times and am about to leave when I hear music.

Singing. It lures me to the door, and when I crack it open to hear better, it pulls me inside.

Quietly, with my hoodie pulled over my head, I sit at the end of the last pew, as near to the door as I can.

It's nothing like my father's church. The church I grew up in always felt cold and sterile, nothing but bare wooden pews and a massive crucifix looming over the congregation.

There was no choir or holiday decorations, just a pulpit directly under where Jesus hung from the cross.

I always felt like my father and Jesus were looking directly at me.

Judging me. Condemning me. My parents were friendly and welcoming to the congregation, but my father's sermons were about obedience and law, rather than the love and acceptance I'm hearing from this woman's soft voice.

No one falls to their knees crying or speaks in tongues.

Not once do I hear the reverend mention Hell.

Everything is about love and forgiveness.

It's making me itchy.

I don't engage. Don't pray. I barely even breathe, wondering if this place, with its warm lighting and cheerful voices singing, can absolve me of my sins. If anyone could. If it’s even possible .

And halfway through the service, while everyone is standing to sing, I slip out before anyone can look too closely at me. As I tug the door open to leave, something catches my eye near the entrance.

A small rainbow flag is tucked into a flower arrangement on the small entryway table. It's not large or obvious, easy to miss. I missed it on my way in, but now that I see it, I can't look away from it.

I'm frozen, holding onto the handle of the door, cold air seeping in through the opening. It's sharp against my face.

I don't know what I expected to find here tonight. But it wasn't this… Not a space where someone like me could sit quietly in the back without fear. Not a place where God's love doesn't come with an asterisk or a threat.

And I don't know what to think about it. Or what to feel. But the tight band around my chest relaxes a little, and a strange, tentative feeling unfurls in my stomach. Something like… hope ?

I can't say stopping at that church helps me, but something about that place lingers for weeks.

And while I don't go back, the presence of the small steeple doesn't make me uncomfortable anymore.

Instead, seeing it every day on my way to and from the arena makes me feel a little less alone in the world.