Page 15 of On the Edge of Scandal

Chapter Ten

Bronwyn

I can’t sleep.

That’s not unusual a couple of days before a big game, but what is unusual is that I don’t have anyone to fuck the tension out of me. For all he didn’t particularly give a shit if I came—or at least never made much of an effort to make sure that happened—Brody was always good for a first-rate pounding. He could fuck me so hard and for so long I’d sometimes wake up feeling bruised inside, but at least he could wear me out. Leave me limp and replete, so exhausted I’d have no choice but to close my eyes and let the dark take me over.

I don’t have Brody at my disposal anymore, though. Nope, made sure of that. It’s possible I could’ve found a way to say no that would’ve allowed us to stay together, at least until the SIGs were over, which is maybe not the most honorable thing to do, but everyone gets to be a little selfish now and then, right? God knows he was selfish enough with me.

But when I think about it, there was no way out of that with a pleasant outcome except to say yes. Which I suppose I could have done to save face, to not humiliate him, and then afterward told him no. When we got home—so that I could still be getting fucked within an inch of my life right now when I really need it.

As it is, I’m twitchy and jittery, tossing and turning, and really fucking tempted to go for a long-ass run in hopes of wearing myself out, which is not a good idea. I need to be on it for our game the day after tomorrow, which means no bonus workouts, especially not one where I push myself to exhaustion.

I could, I suppose, call Brody anyhow. Yeah, he’s ripshit at me, and yes, there’s a definite possibility he’s already banging someone else, but he probably wouldn’t pass up the chance for a revenge fuck.

Though I know it’s a terrible idea, I go so far as to pick up my phone, scroll to his number and open up a text message, but a sharp pang of fear hits me. Never has Brody hit me, ever. But if I’m completely honest, there were times when I thought he might. Maybe he wanted to, but he never did. And maybe now there wouldn’t be anything stopping him. Nope. No can do. I may lack enough sense of self-preservation to make a good hockey player, but I’m notthatlacking.

But what was it Coach, Ash, said? If I’d call Brody, I should call him. It makes me snort a giggle, because I am positive this is not what he had in mind. Like, really sure, even if my drunk-and-asleep brain thought it was a super idea. On the other hand, if he doesn’t know, what’s the harm?

Also, he said he could do that. Hold me. Which he looked totally mortified by, like he’d walked into the locker room when we were all running around naked still, which he never ever does. He has Gail give us ten minute warnings and round us up exactly so that won’t happen.

But if he offered . . . I’ve managed to get through over twenty-four hours without taking him up on it, which I’m now regretting because of how twitchy I am.

Maybe we could just do that? Cuddle? Maybe sleep together? Like just the actual sleeping part. Not the—oh. That’s not something I should even consider because if Ash was mortified by the offer of holding me, what would he do if I asked him to fuck me? Even if it was just for sanity reasons? You know, a utility fuck? I don’t think that would make him feel any better. Plus, I don’t know that that’s really what I’d want from him. Probably the best part of having sex with Ash would be the connection, the attentiveness, the care. I can’t ask him for a meaningless distraction of a lay.

Being wrapped up in his heat and his smell, though, I suspect would soothe me. Maybe that sounds boring. But after being in the tempest of Brody’s company for so long, it might be nice to be in the calm cove of Ash’s. I wouldn’t have to defend myself, wouldn’t have to worry he’s going to constantly criticize me or that he’s judging me against a standard that doesn’t even make sense.

Yes, he absolutely tells me how I can be better, but in a way that doesn’t make me feel like shit and actually makes sense for the game I’m playing. He has the utmost respect for what I do, to the extent that he’s made it his life’s work. So maybe curling up with Ash and letting his approval and kindness leak into me wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. The only way I’d disappoint him was if I broke the rules—which I’m never doing again—or if I didn’t give him my all—which I wouldn’t withhold from him. He’s earned it, and my teammates deserve it.

So I thumb back to my contacts, and down to Coach Levenson. Which . . . I take a second to go into the listing and edit it so when I call him I’ll be calling Ash, and not my coach. The guy who escorted me home from the club, made sure I was safe, and cuddled me on his lap, not the man who could almost be considered my teacher in a way? Because surely that will make it totally acceptable, not at all awkward.Nice try, self.It does, however, make me feel better, if not good. My heart doesn’t pound nearly as hard when I press Ash’s name as it had when I was calling Coach Levenson.

It only rings once before he picks up.

“B? Are you okay?”

B. When did he start calling me that and why? I don’t mind. It’s way better than him calling me Perry, especially given what I’m calling for. Also, I find that a smile is curling my lips. “Yes, I’m fine. I mean, mostly. I can’t sleep, and I . . .”

I’d usually call Brody. I’d usually smoke that cigarette, even though I knew it wasn’t good for me. But you’ve given me an alternative, so I’m trying that instead.

“Yeah, of course. Big game in a couple days. How can I help?”

Just like that. So frigging easy. Even with his uncomplicated offer, I’m choking on my request. He doesn’t hurry me, though, doesn’t tell me he’s got other stuff to do so I can either tell him what my deal is or he’s going to hang up. He waits a minute while I struggle, pick at my shirt that doesn’t have anything to pick at.

“B. It’s okay. This wasn’t a conditional offer. It wasn’t half-hearted. If you need something, and it’s possible for me to give it to you, I will. You don’t need to be afraid to ask for what you want, because it’s already yours. I’ve got this whole stockpile of stuff right next to me that’s labeled ‘For Bronwyn.’ You just have to let me know what you want out of the pile, okay? It’s sitting here waiting for you to take it.”

Fuck. It’s totally fine that my eyes are watering and my throat is getting tight. Yes, I’ve known he’s a generous person. He’s unstinting in caring for us, in the time he offers. Colleen plays for him at BU and said when her teammate’s dad died last year, Ash flew out to Minnesota to be at the funeral. None of her professors did that, not her advisor, but Ash was there, and that surprises me not at all. He’s good at that stuff. Why have I not fully appreciated that before?

Looking up at the flat white ceiling, and blinking through my tears, I can’t help but wonder what else is in that pile. His tender insistence that I take from him makes me want to dig through it to see what else is on offer, and perhaps in the process maybe figure out a thing or two I could do for him in return.

I hate myself a little for how small my voice is when I ask, “Can I come over?”

But his answer is unruffled. “Of course.”

Ash

I’m an idiot. Why don’t I just stitch a fucking LED heart on my sleeve that pulses red with Bronwyn’s name on it in slopey turquoise cursive? Because I think it might be a less obvious way of saying I’m in love with her.

Okay, maybe love is going too far, because I don’t honestly know if we’d actually be compatible outside of my fantasies. It’s bad enough I’ve had a great deal of respect for her as a player since the first time I saw her on the ice, which would be her sophomore year of high school.

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