Page 32 of Wrap Around
After I change out of my suit and pull on some sleep pants and a t-shirt, I slip out and go to the vending area to get some ice. By the time I get back, he's out of the shower and pulling on a pair of basketball shorts.
"Lie down," I tell him softly, moving swiftly to the end of his bed to stack some pillows. "You need to ice and elevate."
I think he might argue, but he doesn't. He climbs into bed, scowling as he lifts his leg onto the pillows, letting me adjust them under his knee. I tie off the bag of ice and wrap it in a hand towel from the bathroom, then press it gently over the worst of the swelling.
Gideon exhales through his nose, eyes drifting close. He's letting me do this, but he looks pained about it.
I'm not sure how I feel about that. I don't really know what to expect from him anymore. Sometimes we have moments where I think we'll be okay, that we might be finding our way to accepting being around each other. But then he'll go right back to actingdistant, like he caught himself doing something wrong by relaxing in my presence.
It's been days since Thanksgiving dinner and the moment of almost-tenderness that followed. Days since he's really talked to me or been this physically close. He's tense, but instead of shoving me off and insisting he can take care of himself like I know he can, he's letting me do this for him. Like he trusts me to not make a big deal out of my hands on him. Like he knows I won't say what we're both thinking.
I want to say something. Something real. Something that would crack the tension between us wide open, but I'm afraid to speak or breathe too loud, in case he shuts me out again. Instead, I sit here quiet and still, holding the ice in place, like it could anchor us to this moment of fleeting closeness. We stay like that until the ice melts, and my stomach growls loudly. Then it's like the real world has burst our little bubble, and we move apart. I manage to get him to accept keeping his leg elevated while I order some sandwiches. I go downstairs to pick them up from the front desk and get lucky when they tell me they have an ACE bandage in their first aid kit. When I get back upstairs I brandish it proudly.
"Compression.”
He nods.
Without thinking about it, I settle on the bed next to his injured knee and slowly wrap it. I'm holding my breath, pretending not to feel a jolt every time my hand brushes over his bare skin. It's so tense I feel pressure behind my eyes, like I might tear up. And when I finish and look up at him, I get locked in a gaze that I don't know how to interpret. It's not angry or even heated. It's… defeated. Or sad. I'm not sure.
I don't sleep that night, too busy listening to the sound of his breathing. I'm waiting for it to even out to let me know he's fallen asleep. But it never comes.
We lose the next game. Badly. The whole team's spirits are down as we walk out of that one.
Gideon's knee has been significantly less swollen after that first night, but the bruising is a nasty, deep purple and spreading up his thigh some. He doesn't say a word, and I don't push. He ices and elevates it at night, and that's all I can ask for. I consider mentioning it to Coach or the training staff, but I don't. And Gideon wears a compression sleeve, which he had in his suitcase already, everywhere. He rarely showers with the rest of the team, so no one notices.
During the game, I started questioning my decision, especially when I notice he's not skating anywhere near as hard or fast as usual. He's compensating, playing too carefully to avoid putting too much weight on the injury. He's trying not to let it show, but it's obvious to me.
I wait until the locker room clears a bit and approach him quietly.
"You really should let the trainer look at that."
He doesn't even glance up. "Mind your damn business."
I flinch. I want to tell him I'm just trying to help. That he doesn't have to do this alone. That he's going to give himself a long-term injury if he isn't careful., but he's already shoving the last of his gear into his bag like he can bury the conversation in there with it.
So I back off. For now.
By the third game, we're all running on fumes. Traveling can be fun, but when we're losing so spectacularly, everyone is beyond exhausted. We're sore and groggy, and more than a few of us are grouchy. Gideon hasn't talked to me since we left the locker room yesterday, back to ignoring me entirely once we get to our hotel room.
We go through the motions. I win the first face-off and we're off to a decent start. Gideon passes me the puck without hesitation, and we find our stride. I manage to put one in the net, and it feels good. But whatever energy we find in the beginning quickly wanes. Gideon is moving slower than usual, not quite making it to where he should be in time to keep up the momentum. His frustration is palpable. We're doing our honest best, but it isn't enough.
We lose. Again.
That makes three losses in a row, all on the road. Everyone is ready to collapse by the time the bus pulls up to the tarmac and we're boarding the jet. We've got another game in Pennsylvania tomorrow. By the time we land and take a bus to our hotel for the night, Coach doesn't even give us his usual rundown about rest and not staying out too late. He just tells us to make sure we eat something and get a good night's sleep. We're back on the ice tomorrow morning.
I keep my head down, letting the crowd of players with equally slumped shoulders carry me to the elevator. I don't bother looking for Gideon. I know exactly where he is, three bodies ahead of me, standing tall like he isn't as tired as the rest of us, but looking far pissier. His jaw clenches every time someone laughs too hard or moves too slow in front of him. He's wound tight. Coiled like a snake ready to strike. I can feel it from here, and I'm a little worried about the evening ahead. Enough that I wait for the second wave to get on the elevator. I should give him some space.
Our room is dim when I get there, the only light coming from the one small bedside lamp and the sliver from under the bathroom door. Gideon's bag is on the bed nearest the far wall. I drop mine on the empty bed and eye the bathroom door warily.
We've had an unspoken routine where we enter the room separately, giving each other enough time to shower and change. When the second person comes up, the first has already cleared the room, heading down to the lobby for something to eat or to get some fresh air. It gives us both a chance to decompress so we don't bite each other's heads off or do anything stupid. It's been working. Except tonight's schedule kind of ruined that routine.
Gideon is already out of the shower. I hear him moving around behind the closed bathroom door, getting dressed, brushing his teeth. Maybe staring at himself in the mirror and wondering what he's doing with his life like I do?
He comes out in low slung sweats, a towel around his neck. He doesn't say anything, just walks past to sit on the edge of the bed closest to the wall, stretching out his leg.
"Are you okay?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't answer. Not even a grunt in acknowledgement. All he does is jerk his head in a quick shake like I'm the last person he wants to talk to right now.
