Page 26 of Wrap Around
Another breath of relief leaves me when I realize I'm still wearing my boxer briefs, and there's no sign of lube or anythingelse on my dick. If I was sick enough for him to feel obligated to take care of me, it's not like I think he'd take advantage of me. I don't think that lowly of him. Don't get me wrong, I still think he's a lying piece of shit, who might or might not have exploited my sister's naivety to get her pregnant.
I want to crawl out of my own skin.
Damn it. If I keep thinking about this I'm going to puke. Again, I think. And I have to pee really bad.
Peeling one eye open at a time, I wonder if it was Silas' bright idea to open the curtains and let the sunlight in. A cursory glance at my phone, plugged in on the bedside table, says it's just past ten in the morning. The bus will leave in the next hour.
Silas' bed is empty, the bedspread is pulled up and neatly made. If not for the indent in the pillow, I'd think he hadn’t slept there at all. I feel guilty about how relieved I feel that he isn't here.
Something rancid rises up the back of my throat. I grip the edge of the sink, breathing slow and shallow, fighting back the wave of nausea crawling its way up my esophagus. I manage to shower and brush my teeth without puking my guts up. When I walk out, I notice Silas left a bottle of water and some headache medicine on the corner of the dresser next to my duffle bag. Somehow it makes me feel worse.
When I make it onto the bus, he doesn't look at me or try to speak to me. He sits next to Valdez towards the back of the bus and stares out the window. Isheavoidingme?
It's probably for the best. The more I remember about last night, the more embarrassed I feel.
It's my fault I ended up like that. I went looking for a way to forget.
The moment we got back to the hotel, I made a mad dash to our room. Silas and some of the others had stopped at the hotel bar to have dinner and drinks to drown their misery, so I knew I'd have at least a few minutes to myself.
Shaved and showered, I pulled on the tightest shirt I had, some dark jeans that I know hug in all the right ways, and a hat I could tug low over my face. I disguised myself in shadows and walked into places no one would expect a clean-cut, wholesome, God-fearing straight man to step foot in. Places where they don't ask questions or expect to learn your name. No one cares who you are in those places, just what you want and what you are willing to give.
I hit up three different bars like this, on the prowl but not finding anyone that appealed. At each stop, I drank until the ice in my gut melted and I started to care less about finding someone with the right shade of dark hair and freckles. I wanted to hook up. Needed it. Needed someone else to erase what I can't forget. It wasn't until I was drunk enough not to care that I found someone.
He wasn't really my type, slimmer and smaller all around than the men I typically go for, but he looked up at me through dark lashes and he had hazel eyes. Not quite like his, but it would do.
I didn't even offer the pretense of a dance. I just gestured towards the back, where I knew there'd be somewhere dark, or a bathroom or something. He was willing. He smirked over his shoulder as he pulled me back into an employee-only area that looked like a small locker room. I would normally appreciate a man that didn't waste time pretending we weren't only here for one thing, but the moment he dropped to his knees and started fondling my bulge, I froze.
There was no part of me that actually wanted that man. I could barely stand, but I still wasn't drunk enough to forget who I really wanted. I left before anything happened. I pushed right past himand kept walking until I found myself staggering down an unfamiliar sidewalk with my stomach turning over. If I'm remembering correctly, I puked in a random alleyway before finding my way into yet another seedy bar. This time, all I did was drink. I don't even remember how I got back to the hotel. All I remember are flashes of Silas' voice. Silas' hands. Silas' eyes watching me, dark and concerned. The way he smelled when he leaned over me, gentle and quiet and unbearably kind.
I know I deserve every ounce of the shame rotting a hole through my chest.
The next couple of weeks are excruciating, but it seems Silas and I have reached a sort of truce. We don't talk or spend any time alone. There's always someone nearby, and space between us. Deliberate space.Necessaryspace.
At practice, I put in the work. I show up early, stay late, and put my whole self into the game. I push myself through every drill like I've got something to prove—because I do. I owe this team better than what I've been giving them. I owe Coach better. And honestly, I owe Silas something that at least resembles peace. Even if it hurts to see him every day. Even if it feels like dying every time we pass each other without a word, a smile, a touch.
I'm trying. My passes are clean. I read his plays before he makes them, and I’m always there to cover his back. I don't flinch when our gloves brush, don't recoil or run away every time we land in the same corner. More than once, I catch myself calling for the puck or warning him about an oncoming player in a tone that doesn't sound angry or pained.
We play like we used to. Like we were meant to be on the ice together.
The chemistry is still there. It's potent and dangerous.
Every time I feel that rush, every time a play clicks or a pass lands right in my tape, every game that we skate off the ice to cheering fans, it feels like another layer of betrayal. Like I'm breaking an unspoken rule simply by not hating when he's around.
I say all the right things and make all the right moves, but when no one is looking, I watch him. I can't help it. I watch the way he moves. The easy, sure confidence he has in almost everything he does. The strong, fluid way he skates, like he was born with blades on his feet. I watch him laugh and chat with our teammates. Then I notice how friendly he's gotten with some of the guys, bright and unguarded in a way he never is around me. Not anymore.
After an away game one night, most of the team goes for dinner and drinks at a local sports bar. There’s a guy at the bar who’s clearly got his eye on Silas. They strike up a conversation, and I can’t help but watch. When I think I notice a lingering gaze or touch, it takes everything in me to restrain myself.
I shouldn’t be thinking about whether he’ll go home with that guy, or slip into a dark room, back alley, or bathroom stall to get each other off. Despite having no evidence that Silas would hook up with someone, I watch him. I tell myself I’m only watching to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, but surely he’s not stupid enough to do something like that around the team. What kind of brother-in-law would it make me if I let him get caught, or worse, hurt, because of carelessness.
The more I watch him, the more I wonder what kind of lover he is. To people who don’t know him and only judge him by his looks, he might come off as confident and domineering. But the Silas I know was soft inside and wanted reassurance. He probably likes it soft and slow, but he’s also a people pleaser that probably gives it to them however they ask. If I were to let myself have him, I’d hold him down and use him the way he used my emotions.Like a toy that doesn’t feel. Hard. Punishing. And then I’d walk away without a care.
Not that I’d actually do that.
Every time I catch myself staring, it's another layer of guilt, another sin to add to the pile already weighing me down.
By the time practice ends each day, I'm strung so tight I feel like I could shatter. Like if anyone so much as looks at me too closely, I'll crack and all my secrets will come spilling out.
Maybe this is the punishment I deserve. Maybe living with this torment, sitting with it rather than running away, is my penance. For everything I did. For everything I wanted. For every lie I've told myself and everyone around me just to survive.
