Page 16 of On the Edge of Scandal

I wasn’t even there to scout her, but I was lucky to be able to give a report on the girl wewereconsidering because I could barely take my eyes off of seventeen. Even then she was phenomenal, and when we lost her to BC I felt regret, but I couldn’t be mad. It was a better choice for her. I was more mad at myself for not being able to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

Of course, I’ve seen her play a couple of times every year since that first time. Watched her get even better, but also watched how she responds to her own coach. BC’s head coach is a screamer. That works for some players, but not for Bronwyn. Just makes her cower, puts tears in those gold eyes of hers. Yeah, she’ll still do her best because it’s in her nature, but wouldn’t you rather have someone try to please you because you’ve earned their respect than because you’ve threatened them if they do otherwise? I know what my answer is.

And yes, perhaps in the time since she’s been at BC, my interest has gone from a purely professional admiration of her skills to something less . . . sportsmanlike than that. I remember when it happened, actually. Four years after I’d first seen her play, and BC had beaten us on our own rink. It wasn’t a surprise, and it was a hard, cleanly fought game, but I was still disappointed. Not mad, though.

The girls all lined up to shake hands, passing by each other in lines on the ice, coaches mincing behind them because even when you’ve been doing it for years, walking on ice is tricky. Plus, by that point, I was in a fair amount of pain all the time. Nonetheless, I made my way through the line, shaking hands, complimenting BC’s players because they’d really done a fine job.

When I got to Bronwyn, she had this big smile on her face. Her hair was pulled back in a dark braid like how most of the girls wear it—letting the plait swing out of the bottom of their helmets—and she was all pink-faced and sweaty because she’d played hard. When I saw her . . . I can’t say for sure what exactly had changed. She didn’t look all that different from the last time our teams had faced off, when I hadn’t thought anything of it besides that she was phenomenal on the ice, but this time there was something about her that punched me in the gut with wanting.

I wanted her. Fantasized that night about stripping her out of her hockey gear, getting to see the strong body underneath all that padding and the layers to keep her warm. Was utterly jealous of her goddamn hockey stick for getting to have her hands run all over it for hours upon hours every day, every week. Stupid, but it knocked all the sense from me. Those light brown eyes, a glint of red in her hair under the harsh lights of the rink, and her goddamn smile. I forgot what I was going to say to her. Had had a compliment all ready to go of a particular play, and fucking lost it when I opened my mouth because all I could think was how gorgeous and perfect she was.

So I mumbled something about how she’d had a great game as usual, and her smile got bigger, and she said thank you. Like it meant something to her, my approval, and fuck it all did that make me feel good. I wanted to hold her hand forever, but instead I ducked what I’m sure was an incredibly awkward nod, hoping I wasn’t flushing, and moved onto the next girl, Washington. My synapses started to fire again, so I could tell her that her assist on Belvedere’s goal was a thing of beauty.

It was inappropriate to have a thing for her even when she wasn’t my player, because she was the same as my girls. Exactly the same. Same age, same ability to kick ass on the ice, and I should have felt the same slightly paternalistic protectiveness for her—and I did. But I also felt like I’d like to have dinner with her, I’d like to kiss her, I’d like to watch her ass as she blew past me as we went for a run together on a Sunday morning, and then strip her sweaty clothes off before having her in the shower.

Now, because I’m truly an idiot, this woman who I should have nothing but professional respect and concern for, is coming to my suite, and I’ve told her she can have anything she wants. Which she fucking could, but please for the love of Pete just let her want some hot cocoa and cookies, maybe some tissues.

Yeah, it would hurt to watch her cry over Brody, because the guy’s a dipshit dripping in asshat juice, but it probably would not cause as much mental anguish as if she actually wanted me. Because that would set this good guy, upstanding citizen, motherfucking professional, and top-notch coach—caring-but-in-an-entirely-sexless-way Coach Levenson—on a collision course with Ash, the man who has definitely made sweet sweet love to himself with his left hand while thinking about a woman—a girl—he had no right to. Yep, fucking idiot.

It doesn’t take Bronwyn long to make her way over here—far less time than it would’ve taken me to get to her room, so I’m glad she asked to come here instead of the other way around. There’s a soft knock on my door, and since I’ve already been pacing while thinking what a dumbfuck I am—even though it pains me to do it—it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to change course and answer the door.

There she is, hands knotted in front of her, mouth wrenched to the side. All I want to do is hug her, take her mind off all this shit. No, not all of it. Just the Brody shit. The hockey shit she can keep, but only enough of it that it’s a buzz in her system, keeping her ready, keeping her primed, hungry to win. Not so much that she can’t sleep. Which is maddeningly specific, especially because everyone knows anxiety doesn’t fucking work like that.

She has a sheepish smile for me when I let her in, and the same self-deprecating roll of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t have called you, I shouldn’t—”

However difficult this might be for me, it doesn’t need to be difficult for her. “You should have, and I’m glad you did. What you shouldn’t have done is tossed and turned all night, not gotten any sleep, and been exhausted for the game. So come on in and take a seat.”

That must seem a reasonable argument to her because she comes all the way into the room, and plops on the bed against the wall—the one I’ve been sleeping in, though there are two.

“Do you want anything to drink? Eat?” I gesture to the bureau where I keep my stash. It’s not much to look at, just a coffee pot and a basket of protein bars, fruit, and snack food, but better than nothing.

“No, thanks.”

Her gaze is darting around the room and I kinda wish she would’ve said yes, because that would give me something to do. As things stand, I have no fucking clue. Standing here awkward as hell isn’t helping any, so I sit on the bed opposite her.

“So, it’s, um, late.”Way to go, Captain Obvious. “Are you tired? Do you want to talk? What would be most helpful for you?”

“I . . . I am tired, but I can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Boy do I ever. Sometimes it’s nerves before a big game, but more often it’s being in pain. Like “I’d probably have to hit myself in the head with a mallet to render myself unconscious,” mind-destroying amounts of pain. Those are the nights when nothing works. Heat, ice, movement, reasonable amounts of drugs. Sometimes it gets so bad I’m nauseated, and all I can do is ride it out. Or give in and take an unreasonable amount of medication, which isn’t a good idea. Yep, I know what it’s like to not be able to sleep, and I don’t want her to suffer. “So what can I do?”

“I . . .” She looks at me from across the gap that separates the two beds, and then drops her head into her hands, mumbles something about how she can’t, she shouldn’t.

“Hey, B. What I told you before, I meant it.”

She looks up at me, her expression like hope warring with mortification. Yeah, I know what that’s like, too. But I can wait for her, will wait. She deserves someone who will wait as long as she needs them to.

“I’m not used to sleeping by myself?” The last bit of her sentence goes up in tone like a question, but she’s not asking me. It’s more of an apology, and I want to tell her she doesn’t have to apologize. “It’s, um, distracting? Being in a bed, alone. It’s cold, and empty, and it makes me tense.”

I could suggest to her some of the ways I lull myself to sleep on the less-bad nights—music, a movie I’ve seen so many times I can repeat the thing by heart with my eyes closed, a hot shower, a cup of tea, meditation, or, jeez, really confirm my ticket to hell and offer masturbation as a good way to wear out her body and her mind. God knows, some nights jerking off is the only way I get some shuteye. Bronwyn’s a smart girl, though, and I bet she’s tried some, if not all, of those things. Though I really shouldn’t think of her doing the last thing. Nope, really shouldn’t.

“I like touch, human contact, always have. Not having that is really—” She swallows, and studies her nails, like this is a hard thing to admit. Maybe that kind of reliance on another person makes her feel weak? Maybe talking about this with me is making her feel awkward? Maybe she’s just getting choked up because she misses Brody. “It’s really hard, and I’m having a tough time. I just, Iwant.”

That’s when she swipes at her nose, and my chest squeezes around my heart. That’s usually my cue during practice that she’s tired. If she’s doing that without having been through a hard three-hour practice, she’s not kidding. She’s super stressed, and how easy is it for me to try to fix it? As easy as shifting my weight and pivoting so I’m sitting next to her instead of across from her and putting my arm across her shoulders.

“Is this okay?”

She nods, and turns her head toward me, rests her forehead on my shoulder. Her breathing is soft and even, and before I can stop myself, I’m using my thumb to stroke her trapezius that’s been bared by her shirt slipping just off her shoulder. Bronwyn doesn’t ask me to stop, doesn’t tell me it’s too much. Rather, she breathes in and out, and some of the tension that’s holding her muscles tight loosens.

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