Page 8 of Wrap Around (Forbidden Goals #7)

My thoughts are anything but pure right now. He's the only one I ever think about. Because there's never been anyone else for me. Not like that.

There was one night when I was almost weak enough.

I don't even know why I went. It was probably Lily's idea, she was always trying to encourage me to get out and meet people, even though there was the risk of exposure.

So I went to a club in whatever city we were in.

The music was too loud, the flashing lights too bright.

A man that looked the slightest bit familiar, his blond hair reflecting the red from the lights, square jaw flexing, biceps filling out his tight t-shirt, caught my eye.

He gave me a look, and I followed him down a dark hallway, thinking maybe I could do this.

Maybe I could want him instead. Maybe I could feel something again.

But when he turned and reached for me, fingers curling into the front of my waistband to pull me forward, I froze. All I could see was Gideon's face. All I could feel were his lips on mine.

I ran. Left before the stranger could replace his kiss or his touch.

I've saved that part of myself— every part of myself—for someone who will never want me back. Not again.

When I come out of the bathroom, the lights are off. I crawl into bed and lay there, listening to the patterns of his breathing. He's awake.

I hesitate for so long, I almost startle myself with the sound of my voice in the quiet room.

"I don't care if you hate me," I say quietly. "I don't even care if you want to tank this whole damn team just to prove a point. But Lily doesn't deserve the cold shoulder from you."

There's no response. Just a rustle of sheets.

"She's your sister, Gideon. She loves you, and she's missed you so much.

" I let out a deep breath. "You can shut me out all you want, but it isn't fair to shut her out, too.

You're hurting her. I'll leave the house so you don't have to see me, or she'll meet you somewhere else if you don't want to be in our home.

But please, for the love of God, stop avoiding her. "

Still nothing. But after a beat, his scathing tone slithers through the dark room like a noxious fume meant to paralyze my heart.

"Don't you dare bring God into this," he mutters. "He was never a part of what we did."

I don't know what to say to that. So I don't say anything at all.

I hit the ice with zero expectations.

At this point, I don’t know what to expect from Gideon. The tension between us keeps building, and there has to be a breaking point. It’s getting closer every day.

He’s been ignoring me more aggressively this past week, and it’s starting to cost us. The whole team’s on edge, stuck in a losing streak, and everyone feels it.

The thing is, we could be great. There’s nothing like having a partner on the ice you can trust. Someone you can feel behind you before they even make themselves known. Unfortunately, it’s looking more and more like Gideon’s never going to be that guy. Not for me. Not ever again.

Every time I skate near him, he pulls back. He avoids eye contact, doesn’t call for the puck, doesn’t respond when I do. The only time he acknowledges me is when he has no choice.

And now his attitude’s bleeding into everything else. He gets sent to the box for interference, and Greensboro scores during a power play that could have been avoided.

The goal shouldn’t have happened. The penalty shouldn’t have happened. But here we are .

I stare at him from the bench, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn't just look angry. He looks like he's in pain.

We head into the locker room after the first period.

The atmosphere is strained. No one's talking much, just getting out of their pads, chugging water, stretching, and overall trying to ignore the tension in the room.

Ives strips completely and heads to take his ritual between-period cold shower.

Gideon sits on a bench away from everyone else, pads half off.

He usually re-tapes his stick and chats about strategy for the next period, but he's just quietly fuming, stick laying limp across his lap, jostling with the restless bouncing of his knee.

Eventually, he stands and walks out of the main locker room without a word. The door slams, and several people look at me expectantly. Coach gives me a similar look, and I try to breathe through my frustration.

Hesitantly, I follow Gideon out into the hallway. When I catch up to him, I grab his elbow.

"Hey," I say, trying to get his attention. "Are you sick? What's going on with you?"

Gideon yanks his arm free. "Why are you here?" he hisses, throwing his arms wide.

I blink. "What?"

"Why are you here? On my team? Why are you in my life again?"

"I–" I try to cut in, but he isn't finished.

"Are you doing this on purpose? Or am I being punished?"

"Punished for what?" I say, mostly under my breath. "Gideon, I didn't think… I mean. I tried to get closer, yeah. I hoped. But I never thought it would actually happen. I mean, what were the chances that I'd make it to– "

His eyes go wide with fury. "So you did follow me? Jesus, Silas."

He grabs the front of my jersey and slams me against the wall. His hand wraps around my throat. Not tight, but enough to remind me how strong he is. How dangerous he can be.

My body betrays me.

Heat rushes through me at the closeness of his body. I swallow, my Adam's apple pressing into his grip, and look directly into his eyes. There's so much anger there. So much pain. But there's something else, too. Something darker. Headier.

His eyes dart down, then back up, pupils dilating. My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips, tasting the salty tang of my sweat and nerves. His hand tightens around my throat.

“You’re the one who’s sick,” he seethes.

I want to deny it. I want to be ashamed.

But I'm not. Not really. Because I’m touch starved after a lifetime of denying anyone but him. Because even now, even like this, it feels right to have his hands on me.

He crowds me enough that he crushes my erection against my body.

The feral look in his eyes should frighten me.

It does, a little, if I'm being honest. Mostly, all I can think about is how fucking close he is.

How I can feel his breath on my face. The tip of my nose is practically touching his, a bead of sweat connecting our skin there.

His hand is close to actually cutting off my air supply, digging into my skin painfully. But I don't push him away.

"I am sick," he says. "Sick of you. Sick of having a reminder of the worst day of my life, the day I'm most ashamed of, shoved in my face. I want you gone. Off my team. Out of my life." He sucks in a breath, pausing before he loosens his grip.

He lets go of me like I'm trash to be thrown in the garbage. Something filthy that makes him wipe his hand on his jersey before he stomps back into the locker room to get ready for the next period.

We’re down by one halfway through the second period.

The tension is unbearable. The air in the arena practically crackles with it.

Fights have broken out in the stands, and both teams have been booed harder than usual.

I’m pretty sure some of the jeers are coming from our own fans now. And I don’t blame them.

My line is playing like shit. My head’s not in the game. I’m still reeling from our interaction in the hallway. And Gideon is getting worse, completely unraveling on the ice, blowing assignments, skating like he’s trying to outrun a fight he’s already halfway lost.

I’ve had it.

I stop pretending to be chill about it. No more smirks, no more soft digs. I start stealing the puck off his stick. Cutting off his passes. I’m not subtle, and I’m not smiling. I’m done letting him get away with it.

He's growling and cussing at me so much, I half expect him to throw down his gloves and finish what he started. And not in a good way.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Caldwell.”

“Get over yourself, Shep ,” I snap back. “You really gonna act like a little bitch because I got your dick hard?”

He snaps his cold, dark gaze to me, narrowing his eyes and skating into my personal space. He’s trembling with rage.

Adrenaline burns through me, making me feel reckless. “That’s right, baby. You want to act like I’m some kind of sick pervert, but we both know you were seconds away from rutting against me like a horny teenager.” I arch a brow. “Again. ”

It was a cruel thing to say and I know it, but for once I want to have the upper hand. As I propel myself backwards and away from him, I’m not sure the look on his face is worth the win. I see more than rage there. I see hurt. I see a man on the edge.

I turn, refocus, and get into position just as the puck flies my way. I stop it and take off, cutting across the ice and lining up a clean shot on goal.

A collective gasp erupts from the crowd just as something slams into me from behind. Hard.

I crash into the boards and crumple. My stick skitters away. Pain explodes across my face as blood gushes from my nose, splattering across the ice.

That hit wasn’t clean. Not even close.

Whistles shriek all around me. The arena falls deathly silent for a split second, then explodes with shouting and boos.

I roll to my side, dazed. I look up and see the ref blow his whistle again, then gesture with hands on his hips, then one hand tapping the back of the other in a downward chop: unsportsmanlike conduct and a game misconduct. He points at the player behind me.

A couple of teammates are skating towards me, but Greensboro’s goalie is closest to me. He leans down and offers me a hand, probably trying to make up for the fact that one of his guys just boarded me intentionally.

My ears are ringing enough that I can’t understand what the refs and players from both sides are yelling. I press my glove to my face, trying to stop the bleeding, and twist around to see who got tossed from the game.

My mouth drops open when I see another ref trying to escort the offending player from the ice.

It was Gideon?

He’s standing there, red-faced and breathing hard, glaring at me like he wants to take another shot. There’s no guilt in his eyes. No remorse. All I see in his red-rimmed eyes is barely restrained fury.

My chest tightens. I skate back to the bench in a haze, completely numb. I can’t hear what anyone’s saying. Not Coach, not my teammates. None of it registers.

Gideon doesn’t go to the penalty box.

He leaves the ice entirely.

Suffice to say, we lose.