Page 11 of On the Edge of Scandal

Ew, gross. Some creeper snuck into the women’s room. But then I hear the guy’s voice.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ladies. I’m looking for someone. Have any of you seen a girl about this tall, dark brown hair, light brown eyes, like they’re almost gold?”

It’s Coach Levenson and I want to cry with relief. He came. He came for me, even when I’m being a massive fuckup. While there are some murmurs among the crowd, I drag myself off the floor and use the wall to hold myself up long enough to unlock the stall door.

Someone must have pointed him in my direction, because when I stumble out and into someone, it’s him. Coach isn’t that tall or that big, not like Brody, but at this moment when I’m putting most of my weight on him and he’s not going anywhere but glued to the spot and holding me? He’s an anchor, steady and solid, and it makes me want to give in, bury my face in his shoulder and cry.

I also want to snuggle into him forever because he smells good, and his arms feel just right holding me tight against his chest. He rubs my back and rests his cheek against the top of my head and it feels really good.

“Okay, B. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.”

The tears I’m not letting fall are practically choking me, but I don’t want to cry here, not in front of all these strangers, some of whom might know who I am, especially after this evening’s spectacle. All I want to do is leave. I shift the tiniest bit and then he’s holding me at a distance of a few inches, but still very much holding me. I’m not going to stumble with his hands gripping me like that, no way.

I look up at him, probably looking about as pathetic as a drowned rat or a cat just out of the bath. “Can we get out of here?”

“I think that’s a good idea. Want me to get a cab or do you want to walk?”

“Walk. Air. Can’t—” The idea of being in a car, being jerked around in stop and go traffic because the streets around here are crammed with people—athletes who’ve finished their events, spectators—it makes me almost lose my cookies right here. Not to mention there’s always the risk of a smelly car. Nope, nope, nope.

“Okay, then let’s go.” Coach wraps an arm around my waist and leads me out of the bathroom, making sure even when I’m tripping over my own feet that I don’t fall. When we’re out of the bathroom, he asks me where my coat is and I point to the space at the bar where I’d been drinking. He props me against a high table near the door, and tells me to stay put.

Next thing I know he’s zipping me into my jacket and pulling my hat onto my head, guiding my hands into my mittens. Luckily I had enough foresight to not wear my Team USA gear out, and Coach had the same. At least we’ve got a decent shot of getting back to the village unrecognized.

We step out into the cold, and immediately I see a clump of photographers hanging out on the corner. Paranoia says they’re looking for me, and alcohol is clouding the more logical parts of my brain. So I point them out, and nudge Coach Levenson.

“Co—”

He shakes his head and puts a soft finger against my lips. “Call me Ash, okay? If they don’t know who we are, don’t want to give them any hints.”

Ash.

I knew his name, of course—it’s on all the websites and the team documents, and on the emails he sends out to the team. Asher Levenson. But now I get to call him Ash, and even though it’s because I’ve been such an incredible fuckup, it still makes me feel warm and full inside. Like I just had a perfect snack of hot cocoa and cookies straight out of the oven.

Before I collapse into a Bronwyn puddle on the less-than-clean sidewalk, Ash has got his arm around me again, supporting me with a hand clasped at my waist. It doesn’t feel scandalous, what with my big puffy coat and his own jacket between us, but it does feel warm, like my own little traveling cocoon.

He hustles us back to the village—okay, “hustles” is maybe a strong word, given that I’m not exactly moving quickly, and might get sick if I did—and we make it through the guarded gates without so much as a stray shouted question or any flashes going off, as far as I could tell. Inside the village it’s quieter, since most people haven’t finished their events yet.

SIG athletes might be rowdy as hell once we’ve got our events out of the way, but almost to a person we’re respectful when other people still have to compete. No cranking music, no drunken revelries—which is one of the reasons why, without even thinking about it, I went outside the village to drown my sorrows. Also, I can’t stand the idea of my teammates seeing me be this pathetic. They’d lose all respect for me, and I need that respect to keep the fabric of the team intact.

Once we’ve headed toward the block of buildings where Team USA is staying, Ash squeezes my side to get my attention. “You’re in Andermatt, right? Which suite?”

All the buildings in the village are named after former SIG sites, and he’s got the right one for me. How does he know? Although I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised. Ash seems to know a lot about all of us, and memorizing which building we’re staying in sounds like something he’d consider his duty in case of fire or something. Maybe I should be more surprised he doesn’t know exactly where my room is.

“312.”

There’s a small grunt but he doesn’t slow down and doesn’t say anything. When we’re almost at the front door of Andermatt, he points me in a different direction and I open my mouth to argue. “But it’s—”

“Going around back.” His words are clipped, and his tone makes worry flare in me. Has he given up on me? I don’t think I could bear it. Tonight’s humiliation was bad enough, but if Coach—Ash—thinks the trouble I’ve caused outweighs the good I do . . . it’s probably time for me to pack it in. But he doesn’t just open the door and nudge me inside, leaving me to crawl my way upstairs and into my bed. No, he stays with me up the stairs, checks the hall before we go into my suite. Lisa’s at the hotel with her family, but she might stay here before the Switzerland game in a few days. At least she’s not here to see this.

That’s when I feel it: that horrible lurching sensation that says my stomach has finally decided to eject its contents. Could I not have done this outside? At the bar? Anywhere but here? But I so don’t have a choice.

“Ash? I’m going to—” I clutch my stomach, and the way his eyes bug, he’s understood me. I don’t know how exactly, but he gets me to the bathroom, flips up the seat, and helps me lean over just in time to hurl. This is the worst day of my life.

Chapter Eight

Ash

Seeing my most solid player green around the gills and red around the eyes was not how I wanted to spend the night after the victory that got us into the semifinals. Yes, I blame Bronwyn some because she’s a grown woman and she should have some control over herself, but more so I blame Brody. What the everloving hell? I’d thought he was a selfish fuck and not worthy of her before, but I never wanted to be proved this right. That guy is a dick, and look at what he’s done to my girl.

---