Page 18 of Wrap Around (Forbidden Goals #7)

SILAS

The first game of the trip is a tight one, and we end up losing in overtime.

We are so close to winning when Gideon takes a brutal hit behind the net.

He's chasing the puck along the boards and an opposing player trips him to strip the puck.

He slams down onto one knee while they steal the puck, rush the net, and end it before the ref can wake up from whatever daydream he was in that made him miss the blatant penalty.

The horn blares, mocking us, and their team celebrates.

Meanwhile, our entire bench is on their feet, shouting indignantly while Coach is telling off the ref.

It doesn't matter how much we all protest, the whistle never comes.

I'm watching Gideon. He gets up on his own, quick and defiant, waving off Price when he tries to help.

From across the ice, I can see his jaw clenched and the falter in his stride.

Maybe it's just that I'm so tuned into his every movement that I can see the barely there grimace when he pivots to leave the ice.

I assumed he'd head right to the trainer's room, but he doesn't. He's already done showering by the time the rest of us make it to the locker room, dressing quickly into his post-game suit.

The coach questions him, but his easy, "All good, Coach," is convincing enough.

Well, to everyone else, at least. It's not convincing to me in the slightest. He's hurt.

I know he is. But apparently, he needs to be bleeding out to admit it.

He doesn't say a word on the bus ride back to the hotel. And while the rest of the team is contemplating where to have dinner, he grabs his bag and walks away.

Maybe I should leave it, let him stew and make his own decisions, but I'm worried. I can't help it.

I slip into the elevator just as the doors are sliding shut. He doesn't acknowledge me as we make our way up to our floor, and I don't try to talk to him until we're finally alone. The moment the door shuts behind us, I drop all pretenses.

"You gonna let someone take a look at that knee?" I ask, trying to act casual about it.

He doesn't meet my eyes, but his brow furrows slightly, like he really thinks he was hiding it well enough. "It's fine."

"It's not," I say quietly. "You're favoring it. I saw it when you got up, when you skated off the ice, and when you were getting on the bus."

"Stalk much?"

I raise an unimpressed eyebrow and gesture for him to get on with it.

"I said it's fine."

"Show me." He turns away, ignoring my attempts to help him. So I pull out the big guns. "If you don't let me look, I'll have to assume it's bad enough for Coach to know about."

That gets his attention. His jaw tightens, his glare as sharp as his skates.

Finally, sighing like he's being tortured, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and then reaches for his fly.

He peels off his suit with slow, angry movements, looking anywhere but at me.

I don't even have a moment to admire his strong thighs or tight boxer briefs, because the second the fabric drops, my eyes are on his knee.

It's swollen and the bruised, mottled purple coloring bleeds almost down his shin.

Hissing through my teeth, I drop to my knees without thinking.

I examine the injury, gently brushing my fingers over the edge of the bruise.

Gideon flinches, and I snap my head up, thinking I might have hurt him.

It's only then, looking up into his darkened green eyes and seeing the stiff set of his jaw, that I realize the compromising position I've put myself in.

He doesn't say anything, just looks down at me with a stormy expression before stepping around me and making a beeline for the bathroom. The door slams behind him, and the shower turns on.

After I change out of my suit and pull on some sleep pants and a t-shirt, I slip out and go to the vending area to get some ice. By the time I get back, he's out of the shower and pulling on a pair of basketball shorts.

"Lie down," I tell him softly, moving swiftly to the end of his bed to stack some pillows. "You need to ice and elevate."

I think he might argue, but he doesn't. He climbs into bed, scowling as he lifts his leg onto the pillows, letting me adjust them under his knee. I tie off the bag of ice and wrap it in a hand towel from the bathroom, then press it gently over the worst of the swelling.

Gideon exhales through his nose, eyes drifting close. He's letting me do this, but he looks pained about it.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. I don't really know what to expect from him anymore.

Sometimes we have moments where I think we'll be okay, that we might be finding our way to accepting being around each other.

But then he'll go right back to acting distant, like he caught himself doing something wrong by relaxing in my presence.

It's been days since Thanksgiving dinner and the moment of almost-tenderness that followed.

Days since he's really talked to me or been this physically close.

He's tense, but instead of shoving me off and insisting he can take care of himself like I know he can, he's letting me do this for him.

Like he trusts me to not make a big deal out of my hands on him.

Like he knows I won't say what we're both thinking.

I want to say something. Something real.

Something that would crack the tension between us wide open, but I'm afraid to speak or breathe too loud, in case he shuts me out again.

Instead, I sit here quiet and still, holding the ice in place, like it could anchor us to this moment of fleeting closeness.

We stay like that until the ice melts, and my stomach growls loudly.

Then it's like the real world has burst our little bubble, and we move apart.

I manage to get him to accept keeping his leg elevated while I order some sandwiches.

I go downstairs to pick them up from the front desk and get lucky when they tell me they have an ACE bandage in their first aid kit.

When I get back upstairs I brandish it proudly.

"Compression.”

He nods.

Without thinking about it, I settle on the bed next to his injured knee and slowly wrap it.

I'm holding my breath, pretending not to feel a jolt every time my hand brushes over his bare skin.

It's so tense I feel pressure behind my eyes, like I might tear up.

And when I finish and look up at him, I get locked in a gaze that I don't know how to interpret.

It's not angry or even heated. It's… defeated. Or sad. I'm not sure.

I don't sleep that night, too busy listening to the sound of his breathing. I'm waiting for it to even out to let me know he's fallen asleep. But it never comes .

We lose the next game. Badly. The whole team's spirits are down as we walk out of that one.

Gideon's knee has been significantly less swollen after that first night, but the bruising is a nasty, deep purple and spreading up his thigh some.

He doesn't say a word, and I don't push.

He ices and elevates it at night, and that's all I can ask for.

I consider mentioning it to Coach or the training staff, but I don't. And Gideon wears a compression sleeve, which he had in his suitcase already, everywhere.

He rarely showers with the rest of the team, so no one notices.

During the game, I started questioning my decision, especially when I notice he's not skating anywhere near as hard or fast as usual. He's compensating, playing too carefully to avoid putting too much weight on the injury. He's trying not to let it show, but it's obvious to me.

I wait until the locker room clears a bit and approach him quietly.

"You really should let the trainer look at that."

He doesn't even glance up. "Mind your damn business."

I flinch. I want to tell him I'm just trying to help. That he doesn't have to do this alone. That he's going to give himself a long-term injury if he isn't careful., but he's already shoving the last of his gear into his bag like he can bury the conversation in there with it.

So I back off. For now.

By the third game, we're all running on fumes.

Traveling can be fun, but when we're losing so spectacularly, everyone is beyond exhausted.

We're sore and groggy, and more than a few of us are grouchy.

Gideon hasn't talked to me since we left the locker room yesterday, back to ignoring me entirely once we get to our hotel room .

We go through the motions. I win the first face-off and we're off to a decent start.

Gideon passes me the puck without hesitation, and we find our stride.

I manage to put one in the net, and it feels good.

But whatever energy we find in the beginning quickly wanes.

Gideon is moving slower than usual, not quite making it to where he should be in time to keep up the momentum.

His frustration is palpable. We're doing our honest best, but it isn't enough.

We lose. Again.

That makes three losses in a row, all on the road.

Everyone is ready to collapse by the time the bus pulls up to the tarmac and we're boarding the jet.

We've got another game in Pennsylvania tomorrow.

By the time we land and take a bus to our hotel for the night, Coach doesn't even give us his usual rundown about rest and not staying out too late.

He just tells us to make sure we eat something and get a good night's sleep. We're back on the ice tomorrow morning.