Page 13 of Wrap Around
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 youdidfollow 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.
"Iamsick," 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 letsgo 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.
