Page 35 of Wrap Around
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 somethingsacred. 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 theassistant 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.
After the trainer checks him out, Silas has to sit on the bench with me to watch the painful ending of the game. All I do is stare, watching each shift of his body and breath of air. Like if I stop looking, something worse will happen.
We lose, and I don't feel a thing about it.
Back at the hotel, the silence between us is unbearable. Yesterday I would have welcomed it. Every time he opened his mouth I wished for him to shut up, to stop talking so I could go back to pretending he doesn't affect me.
Now I'm desperate to know he's okay. He moves stiffly, like everything hurts. It probably does. Taking a hit like that on solid ice can bruise you up pretty bad.
Silas drops his bag on the floor and slowly turns to face me. His split lip is bruised now, making the bottom center look puffy. I want to kiss it better, and then I want to pummel that forward into the ground. My knuckles are sore from how hard I've been clenching my fists since I saw Silas drop to the ice.
"You gonna stare like that all night?"
I flush at getting caught staring. Silas doesn't even try to soften the blow, just calls me outright.
"I thought you were hurt. Bad."
"I'm fine."
But when he peels off his shirt, the bruise blooming across his shoulder makes me flinch.
"You don't look fine."
He snorts. "You should see your knee. Now you know how I've felt all damn week, except I'm not hiding it and trying to play through like nothing's wrong."
I want to argue with him. To say it's not the same. But the truth is the difference is perspective. I'd rather be the one hurt. I want to admit to him that watching him go down felt like being kicked in the gut and having the wind knocked out of me.
But I can't say that.
We're too tired. Too frayed.
And this room is too small to contain all of the things I need to say. All the feelings churning inside me.
