Page 20 of Wrap Around (Forbidden Goals #7)

GIDEON

There's nothing worse than watching a game from the bench.

Except maybe watching your team flounder and play like shit without you.

Although, to be fair, they were playing like shit with me, too.

But every shift is a reminder that I'm not out there, every play a dig as I mentally tally where Valdez should be—where I'd be—if I were on the ice with Silas.

It's my fault that I couldn't hide my injury. The trainer wouldn't have caught it if I’d played through without limping or favoring it. And yeah, it hurts like a son of a bitch, but I could have made it through one more game. Just one more…

I don't actually believe that Silas told on me. At least not now that I've had time to calm down. The talk with the trainer was tough. Coach had come in and ripped me a new one for hiding an injury from them. I know they're right, that I could have made things much worse for myself. The truth of the matter is, I’ve been holding back a lot of aches and pains, never mentioning them because sometimes I can’t figure out if it’s normal pain or something wrong.

This time I knew. Still, something held me back from admitting to any weakness.

Like if I admitted to this one thing, all my other weaknesses might also be exposed.

And considering I'm basically a walking, talking nerve ending lately, I don't need any more stress on my system.

I'm barely hanging on as it is.

The team is barely holding it together on the ice.

Our goalie, Brent, pulls off three miracle saves in a row, helping the team hang on to a 0-0 first period by the skin of their teeth.

Meanwhile, Silas is everywhere at once, chasing the puck to drive it out of our zone.

He's too busy helping on defense to get any real momentum towards their goal, but it's enough to get through the first period.

By the second period, The Phantoms have figured out how to play our palpable exhaustion to their advantage.

They're relentless and aggressive, their shots on goal clean and fast. We lose coverage twice and pay for it.

A third goal slips in, rebounded off one of our own player's.

That hurts. And just like that, it's 3-0.

We get one back. Scored by Silas, of course.

He makes a sharp breakaway, a slick pass from Ives threading through the defense like he's following a line drawn on a whiteboard.

Silas doesn't hesitate, catching it cleanly and firing hard into the top of the net.

Damn, that was pretty. I hope it's enough to rally the team, but it isn’t. We're dead on our skates.

I reach over and clap Ives on the shoulder when he's on a break between shifts, then watch him launch back into the fray when the line changes again. My mind has lingered on him since Thanksgiving dinner. Thanks to that night, I now know more about him than I ever meant to.

He's married.

To a man.

Happily, from the looks of it. Aside from the fact that they have to hide their relationship from the public eye, the way he talked about his spouse was so… normal .

And that's what keeps circling in my head. How normal he is.

He's nothing like every stereotype or impression I was raised to believe about men like that. Like me .

I mean, obviously I know I don't fit those stereotypes.

But most of my life was spent trying to mask any sign of the truth I hid inside me.

I was afraid to show any emotion outside of anger, afraid to enjoy anything that could be perceived as feminine by my ultra-conservative Evangelistic family.

Cooking? Nope, never did it. I can still barely handle more than microwaving frozen meals or making a sandwich.

I knew not to play with dolls even before I knew I was different, because God forbid I want to play with my sister.

I was careful not to wear any colors or patterns that could be considered girly, which led to a mostly monotone wardrobe of blues, blacks, and greys.

I didn't laugh too much or talk too softly. And I never, ever cried.

There's a part of me that has always worried that my anxiety over how I presented myself overshadowed any latent tendencies.

Was it like that for Ives, too? Much like me, he doesn't seem to fit any of those stereotypes. Is it because he was aware and masked himself to seem ultra masculine? I wonder what his husband is like.

Call me na?ve, but I never considered that there might be another gay person playing alongside me on the ice.

Ives is right that there aren't any openly gay players in the national league, at least that I'm aware of.

The minors leagues don't get as much press, but surely an out player in any major professional sport would generate enough buzz to be mentioned on the news.

I think I heard about someone in the NBA coming out once, and I know for sure that a few NFL players have come out after their retirement.

Reason says there are likely a lot more gay players than we know about, but obviously they feel like they have to hide it.

Maybe if they didn't there wouldn't be so many stereotypes.

Even as I think the words, I know I'll hide it for the rest of my life.

Even after I'm too old or broken to play hockey anymore, I'll never come out of this closet.

Even if I never step foot in my parent's house again, just remembering the stern judgment on my father’s face while I knelt before him, begging to be absolved of my sins is enough to keep my lips sealed.

There are so many things I'd like to ask Ives. It'd be comforting to have someone to discuss these things with, and to know if he struggled the same way I did growing up. Honestly, just knowing I'm not alone is kind of comforting, even if I'll never grow the balls to tell anyone.

I think about Lily, and the way she didn't even blink when Ives said he had a husband.

I nearly vomited right there on the table, I couldn't believe how casually she'd acted.

I found it shocking that she didn't skip a beat.

Like it was nothing. Like it was the same as him mentioning he had a wife no one knew about.

And what was even weirder was that my teammates treated it in much the same way.

Would she feel the same if she knew about me?

Or would it be different with our close family dynamic?

Was it okay because Ives is just another guy?

Would she feel differently if she knew her own brother had been hiding this secret for as long as I can remember?

Would all the things we were taught start to whisper to her?

All the sermons? All the shame? I don't think she'd shun or hate me, but what if she worried for my immortal soul and wanted to save me?

Sometimes I think I've moved past it all, unlearned the things that were hammered into us from birth. Then I look at the way I'm putting a microscope over Ives’ every word or hand gesture is proof that I haven't.

I don't believe that people like me are inherently evil, but the voice that says I'm wrong is still there. That I've broken something sacred. That I'm the abomination my father would accuse me of being.

I am a sinner. I've crossed lines. I've done things I shouldn't, touched when I shouldn't have touched. I've wanted things I'm not supposed to want.

I still do. And I still think about it. All the time.

My eyes turn back to my biggest temptation.

He's out on the ice now, fast, cutting over the ice like he was born on blades.

You'd never know he grew up in backwoods, Tennessee.

The only reason there was a rink anywhere near us was because some rich guy's daughter wanted to be a figure skater.

She'd long grown up and moved away by the time we were kids, and the rink was opened to the public for lessons and birthday parties.

It was kind of a shithole, but it's where we learned to skate.

Silas was the one that loved it right away.

I only went because he was there, but the better I got, the more it grew on me.

I learned to love it. But mostly, I learned to want things I shouldn't.

I zone out watching him. The way he effortlessly controls the puck. The fluid way he moves his body.

Then he's gone.

Out of nowhere, the Phantoms’ beast of a forward takes him out. He hits Silas shoulder to shoulder, hard. It’s the kind of hit that makes the boards shake and the crowd gasp and fall silent. Silas goes down hard and doesn't get up right away.

I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved. I don't even notice the pain in my knee as I nearly come over the boards to get over to him. My chest feels like it might cave in.

I can't see him. There are there too many players around the crease, sticks tangled, refs yelling and pulling players apart as an all-out brawl starts.

It's chaos. My hands are braced to vault over the boards the moment Coach steps into the fray.

One of the assistant coaches pulls me back.

I clench my hands so tight my nails bite into my palms.

Come on, come on, come on, Silas. Get up.

Every second stretches into something unbearable. I'm not breathing. I can't. Not until I know he's okay.

Finally, there's movement. More refs come in to break up the fights and send the players off the ice.

A trainer takes one side while Ives takes the other, and they heave Silas to his feet.

He scrunches his nose. There's blood on his face, and he's cradling his shoulder, but he raises his other arm and waves to the crowd, letting them know he's okay.

He moves off the ice, slow and unsteady. But he's upright. Skating on his own.

He's okay .

I breathe in, sharp and painful, as if inflating a collapsed lung with fiberglass.