Page 17 of On the Edge of Scandal

We sit there like that for about ten minutes before she raises her head and looks at me. Unlike when she came in, she doesn’t look like she’s buzzing with anxiety. More like sleep’s finally getting the better of her, and she’s entirely willing to let it.

“Can we lie down?”

Chapter Eleven

Bronwyn

Waking up with Ash is half terrifying and half wonderful. Terrifying because holy shit, I am in bed with my coach, and if someone finds out, he’s so getting fired. But if anyone cared to pay attention and look past the surface ofyes, we shared a bed last night,they’d see that I was under the covers, Ash was over the covers, and no funny business happened whatsoever. No, the only thing that happened was that I could sleep. Slept, in fact, like a rock. A warm and cuddly rock.

I’ve always liked sharing a bed with Brody, way back to our boarding school days when we’d sneak into each other’s dorm rooms. Yeah, we worried some about getting busted, but honestly, I was the girls’ team’s top scorer from the day I set foot on campus, and Brody was clearly headed to being the boys’. We have a rabid alumni hockey fan base, so what were they going to do, slap us on the wrists? Worth it. Come to think of it, kind of stupid that the consequences could be so much direr for two adults doing the same thing.

Ash is even nicer to sleep with because he doesn’t take up the whole damn bed and he doesn’t paw at me relentlessly. After I’d asked last night if we could lay down, he’d hesitated for a second and I thought he’d tell me to go, but no. He’d just stood up and pulled down the bed linens so I could get under them before he put them back over me and laid himself down between me and the wall. Let me cuddle into his side, although we’ve shifted in the night and now he’s spooning me.

As far as I can tell, he’s still asleep, even though we’ve got to be up in fifteen minutes or so if we want to be on time to practice. Nothing says suspicious goings-on like two people showing up late simultaneously, especially if said people are never, ever late.

I slip out from under his arm as carefully as I can and tiptoe across the cold floor to use the restroom. Ash’s bathroom is exactly like mine so I feel weirdly at home, even though it’s all his dude stuff in here and not mine. Which reminds me, I should leave time to get back to my room so I can use my own toiletries. Part of me might enjoy smelling like Ash, like comfort, all during practice, but it would be super weird to just occasionally lift my arm and take a whiff, right? So back to my room to my own deodorant I’ll go, but not before I use the toilet.

Ash’s alarm goes off as I’m washing my hands, and when I step out, it’s to see him pushing off the bed to a standing position, wincing as he does. No, wincing is not a strong enough word for how badly his face is contorted. More like a grimace and a flinch had a really ugly, incredibly painful baby. His whole face has gone pale, and his hands are curled into white-knuckled fists by his sides.

The panic that overtakes me is worse than when one of my teammates takes a rough hit on the ice. Even if that’s not expected, I at least know it’s a possibility. Hell, it happens to me on a regular basis—it’s not fun, but rarely is it serious. Besides, I know we’re mortal. We get hurt. Yes, we recover, but fundamentally, we’re breakable.

I hadn’t quite realized it until now, but apparently I think of Ash as invincible. Now he’s so pasty he’s verging on greenish-gray, looking like he might boot it as hard as I did after my night of, um, overindulgence.

Before I can think better of it, or think at all, I’m by his side, one hand at his waist and another one on his shoulder, raking him over with my gaze, trying to figure out what’s making him look like he took a stick to the stomach when all he’s actually done is get out of bed.

“Ash? Coach? Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

He mutters a few curse words under his breath and then his eyes are meeting mine, one of his hands is coming to the small of my back.

“Hey, B. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“How can I not worry about it? You look awful. Should I call someone? There are doctors at the—”

“No.” He shakes his head vigorously, and the pads of his fingers sink into the flesh of my hip. “Listen to me. I’m fine. You don’t need to call anybody, because I’m going to be fine in like five minutes. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to start the coffee pot and make the bed, I’m going to use the bathroom and when I come back, everything will be back to normal. Then you’re going to go back to your suite and get ready for practice, and neither of us is going to be late. Got it?”

I hesitate, because he looks bad. Really bad. And if he’s sick . . . Panic overtakes me again, because that would be too much. I would be losing far too much, especially now that I seem to be developing a not-entirely-platonic appreciation of the man.

My voice cracks on a sob I’m trying to hold back because clearly me turning on the waterworks is not going to help anything. “Promise?”

“Oh, hey.” He shakes his head, the smallest sad smile shapes his mouth, and his gaze shifts focus from me to the ceiling.

Next thing I know, he’s holding me. His arms are around me, and I’m pressed against him, clinging to him for all I’m worth. Maybe if I hold on tight enough, I can fix him. Because that’s how that works, right? I can just make whatever’s got him looking so incredibly ill go away by wishing and lending the not-inconsiderable strength of my body, right?

“Ash . . .” I don’t know what to say exactly so I clutch him, hoping he can offer something that will make me feel better. Which is so goddamn selfish, but really the only thing that’s going to make me feel better is if he’s truly okay, which would mean he’d be fine, and that’s not selfish.

He hushes me and doesn’t let go, not even a little bit. What I think he does, though, is kiss the top of my head, and that almost reduces me to tears. Not sniffling ones, either. Like big, round, rolling ones that would soak his shirt I’ve got my face buried in.

“Baby, I promise I’m okay. Just give me a few minutes, all right, and I will be right as rain. You’ll think seeing me like this was a bad dream. Cross my heart and swear on my Jeff Halpern jersey.”

Baby.He did. I had this vague memory of him calling me baby when I was plastered, and I wasn’t sure it was real, but now I am. It pushes at some squishy part of me, one I’ve never admitted was there. Makes me feel all gooey inside. Even in our early days when Brody was at his most adoring, he never called me anything but Winnie.

It feels like Ash isn’t just cradling me in his arms, but with his words, too. While I hate myself a little for being so affected by such a small thing, and I’ll never tell him exactly how much I like it—because then he might stop, since it’s an entirely inappropriate amount of like—I’ll give myself a few seconds to soak in it, to let his affection leach through my skin and into that stupid needy part of me that’s thirsting for warmth.

Also, his comment about his Halpern jersey makes me choke out a laugh. I’d never heard of that guy before Ash wore his jersey to practice one day, but after I googled him, he’s become a minor hero of mine, too. Did anything to keep playing hockey no matter what, sat out a pro game to observe Yom Kippur with his family, and now he coaches. He’s supposed to be a really good guy, and I think it’s fitting Ash has such a dude crush on him. Maybe wants to be him when he grows up—minus that whole having played in the NHL thing.

Whatever it is, Ash gives me another good squeeze and then leans back, moving his grip to my biceps where he chafes my bare skin with his hands. He looks less green, but still pasty, so I maybe scowl at him. It only makes his smile spread across his face, the shadow of his beard more prominent now he’s had time to sleep on it.

“So what are you going to do?”

---