Page 31 of Wrap Around
"I know he is. And I'm happy for him."
He nods slowly, accepting me at my word. I mean it, too. I'm truly happy for him, and as much as I told Silas off for pointing it out, there was a small part of me that was comforted by the knowledge that I wasn't the only gay person on our team. But his insistence that Lily would be okay with it? I'm not sure about that. My family talked a big game about love and acceptance, but I know the judgement they held in their hearts. She might be fine with one of our teammates or friends, but if she knew it was her brother? She might feel differently. More than that, if she knew about me, would she be able to see through my relationship with Silas? Would she guess that the reason we fell out was because I was in love with him and he didn't want me in return?
There are too many unknowns.
I doze off somewhere over Lake Superior. When I wake up, my head is leaning on a shoulder that smells a little too comforting. My stomach drops.
I blink blearily, looking up into Silas' face.
He smiles and raises an eyebrow. "Good dreams?"
I sit up fast, rubbing my face free of any evidence that I'd been dreaming about him at all.
"Where's Landon?"
"He moved to the back to play cards. I switched places with him so I could keep reading," he says, holding up a worn paperback book. "You okay?"
I nod and look out the window, mentally calculating how much longer we'll be on this plane.
The real answer is no. I'm not okay. I'm not looking forward to this week on the road. I'm not ready to spend every night listening to him breathe, not when I've been so on edge and dreaming of him every time I close my eyes.
Not when just the smell of him so close to me makes me feel dizzy with need.
CHAPTER 13
SILAS
The first game of the trip is a tight one, and we end up losing in overtime. We are so close to winning when Gideon takes a brutal hit behind the net. He's chasing the puck along the boards and an opposing player trips him to strip the puck. He slams down onto one knee while they steal the puck, rush the net, and end it before the ref can wake up from whatever daydream he was in that made him miss the blatant penalty. The horn blares, mocking us, and their team celebrates. Meanwhile, our entire bench is on their feet, shouting indignantly while Coach is telling off the ref. It doesn't matter how much we all protest, the whistle never comes.
I'm watching Gideon. He gets up on his own, quick and defiant, waving off Price when he tries to help. From across the ice, I can see his jaw clenched and the falter in his stride. Maybe it's just that I'm so tuned into his every movement that I can see the barely there grimace when he pivots to leave the ice.
I assumed he'd head right to the trainer's room, but he doesn't. He's already done showering by the time the rest of us make it to the locker room, dressing quickly into his post-game suit. The coach questions him, but his easy, "All good, Coach," is convincing enough. Well, to everyone else, at least. It's notconvincing to me in the slightest. He's hurt. I know he is. But apparently, he needs to be bleeding out to admit it.
He doesn't say a word on the bus ride back to the hotel. And while the rest of the team is contemplating where to have dinner, he grabs his bag and walks away.
Maybe I should leave it, let him stew and make his own decisions, but I'm worried. I can't help it.
I slip into the elevator just as the doors are sliding shut. He doesn't acknowledge me as we make our way up to our floor, and I don't try to talk to him until we're finally alone. The moment the door shuts behind us, I drop all pretenses.
"You gonna let someone take a look at that knee?" I ask, trying to act casual about it.
He doesn't meet my eyes, but his brow furrows slightly, like he really thinks he was hiding it well enough. "It's fine."
"It's not," I say quietly. "You're favoring it. I saw it when you got up, when you skated off the ice, and when you were getting on the bus."
"Stalk much?"
I raise an unimpressed eyebrow and gesture for him to get on with it.
"I said it's fine."
"Show me." He turns away, ignoring my attempts to help him. So I pull out the big guns. "If you don't let me look, I'll have to assume it's bad enough for Coach to know about."
That gets his attention. His jaw tightens, his glare as sharp as his skates. Finally, sighing like he's being tortured, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and then reaches for his fly. He peels off his suit with slow, angry movements, looking anywhere but at me. I don'teven have a moment to admire his strong thighs or tight boxer briefs, because the second the fabric drops, my eyes are on his knee. It's swollen and the bruised, mottled purple coloring bleeds almost down his shin.
Hissing through my teeth, I drop to my knees without thinking. I examine the injury, gently brushing my fingers over the edge of the bruise. Gideon flinches, and I snap my head up, thinking I might have hurt him. It's only then, looking up into his darkened green eyes and seeing the stiff set of his jaw, that I realize the compromising position I've put myself in.
He doesn't say anything, just looks down at me with a stormy expression before stepping around me and making a beeline for the bathroom. The door slams behind him, and the shower turns on.
