Page 12 of On the Edge of Scandal

No, not mine. In no way does Bronwyn Perry belong to me. Yes, she’s on my roster, and yes, she’s part of the glue that keeps this team together—if she were older, I bet she’d be a captain. But she’s her own person and I can’t claim any kind of possession of her, as much as I’d like to, even now.

I keep her dark hair out of the way as she heaves. Though it shouldn’t register at all given the circumstances, I can’t ignore how soft and silky it is and picture how it might feel to hold between my fingers. Not like this, though.

While she’s holding on but not puking anymore, I fill a cup with water and put it next to her. It’s another minute before she picks it up and drinks, her breathing having settled, which I know because I’ve got a hand between her shoulder blades. I shouldn’t be touching her. I shouldn’t be here on the floor, because it’s killing my hip. But I can’t see my way to leaving her here or to calling someone else. I can’t imagine she’d want anyone to see her like this.

Is it weird I’m flattered she called me? She could’ve called anyone, and she called me. Maybe because what I think of her doesn’t matter as much as what other people do? But I don’t think that’s it. I catch her glancing at me during practice, during games, seeking my approval. Maybe she trusts me enough to know even seeing her like this isn’t going to change how I feel about her, or shake my faith in her.

When she’s downed the glass of water, she turns around and nearly topples over. Though it hurts like fuck when her full weight forces my back against the wall and my hip against the hard tile floor, it was an easy call to put my body between her and harm. I grit my teeth and don’t make a sound.

That’s when she starts to cry.

She clutches at my shirt through my unzipped coat and presses her face into my chest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I screwed up so badly.”

I take a second to try to make myself more comfortable, but the thing about osteoarthritis is that you’re never really comfortable, so it’s just a lessening of the pain. When I’m able to breathe again, I talk to her. Talk to her and pet her hair and hold her, because I don’t have a button to press to make this all go away.

“Hey. What are you talking about, ‘screwed up’? What’s all this? Did something happen I don’t know about?”

At first, she won’t look at me, so I find her chin with my fingers and tip her face up until our eyes meet, her cheeks damp, face red, eyes swollen, lips pinched between her teeth. Christ. It hurts me that she’s hurting so much.

“I broke up with my boyfriend on national television and now that’s the story instead of us making the semifinals. I was out past curfew. I got absolutely shitfaced and then dragged you out of bed to come rescue me. You had to practically carry me back to the village, and now I’m sitting on you after you had to hold back my hair while I puked. What about that isnotscrewing up?”

When she puts it like that . . .

I don’t respond immediately, and she wrenches her face away, burrowing back into my shoulder. At least she’s not so upset that she’s not willing to be touched. Then I’d feel really fucking helpless. As it is, I try to formulate my thoughts while she suffers through another bout of tears. When she’s calmed a bit, I tip her chin up again, since that seems to be the only way she’ll make eye contact.

“Hey. Listen to me. No one is angry with you for breaking up with Brody. If you don’t want to marry him, then don’t. Honestly, it was his own damn fault for asking you when and how he did. And I . . .” So many things I want to say. But I will keep them to myself. “I’m not mad at you. The rest of the team is not mad at you. If this is what gets more of the press interested in women’s hockey, so be it. There will just be more camera crews there when we take gold, because I know you ladies can do it. I’m glad you called me to come help you. You can call me a thousand times in the middle of the night and I will never complain if it’s a choice between me helping you or you being in a dangerous situation.”

Hell, call me in the middle of the night for whatever. I will give you whatever you want, whatever you need.

“I’m not happy about you being out after curfew, and I’m even less happy about the drinking, but you know what? I think you’re way madder at yourself than I am, so I’ll just let you take care of feeling shitty about this all on your own. You’re going to make it up to me by not letting the team know you’re hungover during practice.”

She nods, her eyes wide, drinking in my forgiveness like she’s never tasted it before. Like she’s only ever gotten yelled at, guilt-tripped, and ripped apart. Who would do that? They don’t need to. Bronwyn already has plenty of humility, you don’t need to add humiliation to the cocktail.

But maybe between Brody and Coach Baker, who has a reputation for being an unimpressible despot, she’s been fed a steady diet of just that. Fuck.

I let go of her chin so I don’t pass a thumb over her cheek, even though it’s so goddamn tempting. It’s bad enough she’s basically in my lap, and I’m cradling her with my body. She’s not a tiny girl—can’t be and dominate on the ice the way she does—but she seems fragile right now. I’ll bear the pain until she can stand on her own. Literally, in this case, but I’d be in it for figuratively as well.

“Better?”

She nods again.

“Think you can make it long enough to brush your teeth and change or do you want to go straight to bed?”

“Teeth. Change.”

Yeah, now that she’s not feeling so sick and panicky, the exhaustion’s taking over. She reaches out for a convenient towel bar and uses it to stand, only weaving a bit when she’s come to her full height. I use the same bar, and then we’re almost face to face, though she still has to look up a little because we’re standing so close.

“Okay. Then I guess it’s time for me to . . .” I gesture toward the door with my thumb, and her eyes snap wide open.

“No.”

“No?”

“I mean . . . never mind.”

“B . . .” B. This is my compromise. Since I called her baby earlier, that’s the only thing I ever want to call her again, but that would be more than wildly inappropriate. And “Bronwyn” seems too far away. Too many letters between me and her. So “B” it is. “Not ‘never mind.’ Tell me.”

She looks down and wrings her hands. When she looks back at me, there are more tears in her eyes. “Will you stay? With me? Not, I mean, like that.”

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