Page 18 of On the Edge of Scandal

“Make the bed and put on coffee.”

Having tasks makes me feel better, less helpless, and I think he knows that. He nods, a crisp jerk of his chin without a dimming of his smile. “Then get to it.”

I let go of him reluctantly and step away, this irrational fear that without me, he may just topple over, but he doesn’t. No, he makes a shooing motion with his hand, which is what finally prods me into turning my back on him and heading for the coffee maker that’s plugged in on one of the bureaus.

Ash

Of all the excellent reasons to not have Bronwyn sleeping in my room, I forgot about this one. I make my way to the bathroom as quickly as I can without worrying that I’m going to cry out in pain, because then I’d have her looking at me like I’m the last person on earth and I’m about to die on her. I’m not, I just . . . really fucking hurt.

I make it to the bathroom without falling over or even swearing, which is not something I can say about every morning, and before I even take a leak, I down some pills. First a COX-2 inhibitor that’ll keep me going for a bunch of the day, and then an oxycodone to deal with the breakthrough pain. It was a goddamn pleasure having Bronwyn in my bed, but sleeping like that did a number on my hip, and what was I supposed to say to her?

I keep this under wraps from my players, my colleagues, and, dammit, everyone, as much as I possibly can.

Normally I’d have my first cup of coffee before hitting the shower, but I take my shower now to buy myself more time to let my meds kick in. I promised Bronwyn, and I’m not going to let her down. She’s been let down enough to last her a lifetime.

I also want to bang my head up against the tile in here, because I slipped again. Called her baby, and what the fuck was that? One of these days, she’s going to notice, and call me on it. Then everything is going to be so fucking over. Goodbye only career I’ve ever wanted, adios getting to watch my favorite player on the ice, farewell to those fleeting moments when she smiles at me like we’re just two people instead of coach and player, and a hard sayonara to me ever getting to hold her again. At least I didn’t get hard, I have that going for me.

After five minutes under the spray, the pain has dulled to a manageable roar. It doesn’t feel good, or even that less-bad state I’ve come to see as normal, but it’s good enough that I’m not going to scare Bronwyn again. I’ll take it.

Wrapping my towel around my waist, I realize I’ve got no clothes in here besides dirty pajamas, and Bronwyn is presumably done with the duties I set her to, and I’m going to have to go out there like this. Half-dressed. With only a towel between me and her, and why am I such a fucking moron?

Nothing to do about it now, though. Just have to brazen it out, act like it’s not a big deal. That’ll work, right? Because it’s not like Bronwyn is really observant or anything, and oh, shit. Better start figuring out what the hell else I can do with my master’s in sports psychology.

I take one last deep breath, steel myself as I open the door, and move as quickly as possible without bringing tears of pain to my eye or breaking into a jog—which would also bring tears to my eyes.

Of course, during my reasonably paced and not at all panicked beeline toward my clothes, Bronwyn looks at me. From what I can see out of the corner of my eye, while I’m grabbing clothes that probably don’t even match out of my drawers, it doesn’t seem to be in anoh-god-why-is-my-coach-half-naked-must-avert-my-eyes-asapkind of look. No, it’s more . . . evaluative than that.

Which makes me want to kick myself. No way could she be scoping out my hot bod, because A, I don’t have one, B, unlike some of the girls, she’s never given the slightest indication of thinking of me as anything other than her coach, and C, I’ve seen Brody shirtless. Because everyone has seen Brody shirtless. Guy is built, and I’m pretty far from that. Yeah, my playing-days body hasn’t entirely deserted me, but it’s covered by a layer of . . . let’s just go with “fluff.”

I hustle back into the bathroom, before I can get even more delusional, and attempt to get dressed without injuring myself in the small space. Also try not to have pervy thoughts about Bronwyn joining me in here. One of which I’m more successful at than the other.

When I make it out, fully clothed this time, Bronwyn’s sitting on my bed, which she’s made, and is sipping out of mySHUT YOUR FIVE-HOLEmug. It makes me stutter-step because of all the filthy things it conjures in my brain. Would it have been any better if it were myPUCK YOUmug? No, no it would not. Maybe I should’ve brought different mugs, or planned to snag a few from the dining hall like everyone else, but these are my good luck mugs, so I brought them. It’s not as though I was planning on having guests, especially not Bronwyn. For fuck’s sake.

Trying to act chill, because there’s no way I’m actually chill, I amble up to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup, shake in some sugar and one of those creamers you don’t need to refrigerate. Not ideal, but it’s what I’ve got. I could go stand in front of Bronwyn, do a little twirl to show her I’m fine, but I’ll be on my feet enough today so I plop down next to her. Not too close, like not touching, next to her, but it still feels sort of dirty since we’re sitting on a bed. A bed we shared last night.

She offers me a clink of her mug, and we sit there for a minute, sipping our respective coffees out of our respective mugs, and it feels nice. Too nice. I could do this every goddamn day: sit with Bronwyn in silence before our days get started and drink our coffee. Which can never be, and the universe sees fit to remind me of that by prompting Bronwyn to ask, “So what’s your deal anyway?”

Chapter Twelve

Bronwyn

I think at first Ash is going to weasel out of my question. Maybe pretend it was about something else or tell me it’s time for me to head back to my room and get ready for practice. Which it is, but I’ve got a few more minutes. And it’s not fair, to scare the living hell out of me like that and then shrug it off. Which isn’t what he did—I can hardly call giving me the world’s best hug, making me promises, and calling me baby blowing me off—but if he does it now, it would feel that way. Like I’m not worth sharing with. Like I’m allowed to confide in him but he doesn’t have enough faith in me to do the same. That kind ofpat-me-on-the-headdismissal would make me feel shitty and small.

He huffs a breath out of his nose while letting hisPUCK YOUmug rest in his hands between his knees. There’s a minute of silence, and he looks like he’s thinking super hard. I’ve seen him do it when he’s deciding who should take penalty shots, or making other hard calls.

“Look, B. I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to promise me you won’t say anything. Not to the girls, not to anyone. It’s not some creepy secret, I just . . . find it difficult to talk about and I don’t want to talk about it with anyone but you. Can you do that for me?”

He didn’t say not to theothergirls, and it gives me a tiny thrill. Ash likes girls, likes women. Likes the game we play, has a lot of respect for his players and everyone else in the sport. Never have I caught even a whiff of misogynistic asshattery from his direction, so I don’t get mad that he’s called my teammates girls. And to be let in on this secret, it feels precious already even though I only have the ghost of it in my hands.I’ll hold it, I swear, keep it to myself, and be selfish with it.So, “Yes, I’ll keep your secret.”

He tips his head to look at me and then takes his lips between his teeth like he’s figuring out where to start.

“I played hockey in high school. And not to be a dick about it, but I was good. Likepossibly-headed-to-the-NHLgood. At the end of my sophomore season, I had the shit luck to get a pelvic fracture.”

I wince, because those don’t come easy. His body must have taken some serious abuse for his pelvis to actually break. Hockey players have a ton of hip injuries because of repetitive movements and other factors, but I’ve never known anyone who had a break there.

“The recovery time was long and basically wiped out my chance at a junior season.”

Which also meant his college recruitment season. Sympathy burbles in my chest but he shakes his head before I can offer anything.

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