Page 19 of Wrap Around (Forbidden Goals #7)

I keep my head down, letting the crowd of players with equally slumped shoulders carry me to the elevator.

I don't bother looking for Gideon. I know exactly where he is, three bodies ahead of me, standing tall like he isn't as tired as the rest of us, but looking far pissier.

His jaw clenches every time someone laughs too hard or moves too slow in front of him.

He's wound tight. Coiled like a snake ready to strike.

I can feel it from here, and I'm a little worried about the evening ahead.

Enough that I wait for the second wave to get on the elevator. I should give him some space.

Our room is dim when I get there, the only light coming from the one small bedside lamp and the sliver from under the bathroom door. Gideon's bag is on the bed nearest the far wall. I drop mine on the empty bed and eye the bathroom door warily .

We've had an unspoken routine where we enter the room separately, giving each other enough time to shower and change.

When the second person comes up, the first has already cleared the room, heading down to the lobby for something to eat or to get some fresh air.

It gives us both a chance to decompress so we don't bite each other's heads off or do anything stupid.

It's been working. Except tonight's schedule kind of ruined that routine.

Gideon is already out of the shower. I hear him moving around behind the closed bathroom door, getting dressed, brushing his teeth. Maybe staring at himself in the mirror and wondering what he's doing with his life like I do?

He comes out in low slung sweats, a towel around his neck. He doesn't say anything, just walks past to sit on the edge of the bed closest to the wall, stretching out his leg.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't answer. Not even a grunt in acknowledgement. All he does is jerk his head in a quick shake like I'm the last person he wants to talk to right now.

I nod, even though he's not looking. Fair enough. "I'll shower now, I guess."

Grabbing my toiletry bag, I slip into the bathroom with my heart hammering.

I hate this. I hate the silence and the heaviness and the way my stomach knots every time I'm in close proximity to him, but pushing him isn't going to help anything.

We're all too tired to deal with any kind of extra stress, and talking about my feelings isn't fun on a good day.

I start the water and strip out of my clothes.

It's not until I step out of the shower onto my piled up discarded clothes that I realize I forgot to grab clean ones.

No shirt, no boxers, no sweats or pajama bottoms. Just me and a bag of travel-sized soap, standing naked and cursing under my breath.

The clothes I brought in with me landed in a puddle when I first took them off, and now I've trudged over them even more.

So on top of being travel-gross, they're sopping wet.

I definitely can't put those on even just to step out and grab some clothes.

I open the door a crack. "Gideon?"

He doesn't answer, and I think for a moment that he's fallen asleep. With a hand holding the tragically tiny towel around my waist, I sneak out of the bathroom to rustle through my bag. I manage to pull a pair of boxers on before I realize that he's awake and watching me. My cheeks heat.

"Sorry, I, uh, forgot to bring any clothes in with me."

He turns over on his side, facing away from me. I pull on a t-shirt, set my duffle on the floor, and pull back the blankets. I sit for a moment, staring over at his back.

"You played great today," I murmur, even though I know what his response will be.

He exhales sharply, letting out what might be a sardonic huff of laughter or a sigh. "Didn't matter, did it?"

"It matters to me. I'm glad that we're at least playing well together again."

He doesn't look at me, doesn't say anything.

"Gideon," I try again, softer this time. "Are you okay? I wish you'd just talk to me. Or someone. Please?"

He sits up suddenly, wincing as he swings his legs off the bed. His hands grip the edge like he feels the need to hold himself in place.

"What do you want me to say, Silas? That I'm fucking exhausted? Not just from traveling and playing shitty, or from fucking up my knee. But because being around you constantly is an exercise in self-control. Because I just want to… to… "

My breath catches when he finally meets my eyes. There's so much turmoil there, it reminds me of the day we told his parents that Lily was pregnant.

"I thought I could handle this, for Lily and the baby. But I don't know that I can. And I don't know what the hell that means, or what to do about it."

If I thought my heart was aching before, it had nothing on the way it hurts now. I feel like my chest is imploding.

"You could talk to me," I say. "Tell me what–"

"I can't tell you shit, Silas. I shouldn't be talking to you at all. I damn well shouldn't be sitting in a hotel room less than three feet from you."

"Why?"

"It's too fucking much!" he bellows, wincing when he stands from the bed. He paces, pushing his hands through his still damp hair. "I… I need to take a walk. Maybe get some more ice or something."

He's gone before I can respond, the click of the door latching echoing through the room.

I lie back down, heart aching. Something is going to give soon. I can feel it.

The next day, we hit the ice for morning skate ahead of our fourth game. Back-to-backs are always tough, but we're three games into a long stretch away, and it's starting to wear everyone down. Legs are heavy. Tempers are short.

Coach keeps it light this morning, instructing us to do just enough to stay warm without draining the last of what little battery we have left.

It's going to be a rough game. I can feel it already. Allentown has been on a tear this season, and we're running on fumes.

We're halfway through some light drills when one of the trainers calls Gideon over to the bench.

He skates over, taking a slow turn, carefully planting his bad knee to propel himself over.

It's subtle, but the trainer catches it.

I breathe a silent breath of relief when the trainer has Gideon follow him to the back.

I'm just out of the showers when Gideon comes out of the trainer's room. He's in sweats now, hair wet, and limping worse than he was this morning. When he sees me, he stops dead in his tracks.

"They're benching me," he grits out. "Hope you're happy."

"What? No— Why would I be happy about that?"

He takes a few steps towards me, and I brace myself. "Like you didn't say anything," he seethes.

"I didn't."

"Bullshit."

"You know what, fuck this. I didn't say shit," I insist. "But I'm glad they noticed. You're hurt, Gideon. If you keep pushing yourself the way you are, it could fuck up the rest of your season- or worse."

He stares at me, jaw tight, chest rising and falling. I'm not sure if he wants to punch me or cry. Maybe both.

But after a beat, he turns and walks away.