Page 19 of On the Edge of Scandal

“I thought I might be able to salvage something, maybe a D-III school even if I couldn’t hack it in D-I. Once I got back on the ice, I was fine for a while, but then it started to hurt. So bad I had to quit.”

There’s a flex of his jaw that makes me want to lean over and put my arm around him, nuzzle into the side of his neck, but I don’t think he wants that right now. Or maybe ever from me.

“There was already a manager for the guys’ team at my high school, and besides, I didn’t want to see my old team. So I started managing for the girls’ team. Their coach was this washed-up alcoholic who couldn’t coach those girls for shit. So in addition to keeping stats and dealing with the equipment, I started watching tape. Giving the players advice when I could sneak it, and we made states that year. That was also when I got diagnosed with degenerative joint disease. You know, osteoarthritis? Which makes me sound like I’m a million years old.”

I don’t know exactly what that is, but it sounds like it would hurt. And degenerative? That makes it sound like there’s no way it’s getting better. Ever.

“I wasn’t going to give up and I still wanted to be involved in hockey. Plus, after managing my high school team, I came to love the women’s game. Maybe more than the men’s. It’s faster, more elegant, more about finesse and strategy and speed than brute strength. So I went to college, managed the women’s team there and at the same time tried to keep my OA in check. Exercise, PT, I did everything right.”

That would’ve been, what, ten years ago? Ash is twenty-eight. Has been head coach at BU for four years after moving up the ranks after he graduated from there.

“It was better for a while, manageable, but that shit doesn’t go away. No matter what you do. Sometimes you can keep it steady, but sometimes, it just gets worse and there’s . . .” He sounds like he chokes, and he’s staring into his mug between his knees like it might have some answers for him. “There’s not a damn thing you can do about it. It just gets so bad you have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. You can hide it, though. For a while anyway.”

There’s a jerk of his head as he turns to look at me. His expression, which is usually pretty chill unless he’s got his game face on, is fierce.

I’ve never spent much time thinking about Ash’s looks, because he’s my coach and I had Brody. Even if I hadn’t, Ash isn’t really my type. But this is the first time I’m really noticing the color of his eyes. If you’d asked me before, I couldn’t have told you what color they are. Light? But they’re actually this startlingly clear green, like the sea glass I used to hunt on the beach when I was a kid. Unlike those precious pieces with their smooth edges, his gaze could cut. “I’m not angling for sympathy, I’m just trying to tell you what you wanted to know.”

“Yeah,” I say softly, because I don’t want him to stop, and I don’t want him to feel pitied. I don’t think he could take it. “I want to know.”

“It got so bad last year that I was popping pills in a way that wasn’t okay, and finally my ortho told me she thought it was time for surgery. Twenty-fucking-seven and she wants me to have hip replacement surgery. I finally stopped being a stubborn enough dickhead to admit that was probably a good idea, and we’d scheduled it and everything. I would’ve missed part of the season probably and wouldn’t have been able to do the super far travel, but my surgeon was optimistic about my recovery and so was I. That’s when I got the call.”

He turns to me again, and there’s a genuine smile on his face, one that lets my insides un-crumple some. A bright spot in this dark cloud of a story.

“Their top choice for coaching the SIG team dropped out and they were scrambling to find a replacement. And a hell of a lot like BU when their head coach retired unexpectedly because her husband got really sick, they took a chance on me.”

Ash has got this dreamy look on his face like he can’t frigging believe he got so lucky, and more gratitude and admiration than I’ve ever felt for anyone flood my system. If I’ve ever wanted to kiss someone so badly, I can’t think of when it was. It wouldn’t be a sympathy kiss, a pity jumping his bones, it would be a holy fucking hell, I think you’re an incredible man, and that is a turn-on like I’ve never felt before. It’s different from the pure physical attraction than I’d felt for Brody, and we’ve got as much in common as Brody and I ever had. Maybe more.

It’s disconcerting that scales I’ve never thought existed have tipped. Ash is just . . . he’s really fucking incredible is what he is, and I can’t believe I never saw it before.

“So you put off having surgery to coach us?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“No.” I’m not letting him get away with that. It might be dangerous and stupid as hell, but I set my half-full mug on the bedside table, and get to my knees on the mattress, take his face in my hands, look straight into those sea glass eyes. “Not you guess so. You did that. Made that sacrifice, for us. That’s why you looked sick this morning, because you were in that much pain. If they had any idea . . .”

His gaze goes sharp again, and I soothe it with a rub of my thumbs over the scruff of his cheeks. He didn’t shave. “I won’t tell, I promise, but I will—I will say thank you.”

Before he can tell me not to, I lean up, intending to set my mouth to where my thumb just grazed. My heart is beating hard like I’ve just been doing Z drills, and it goes into overdrive when he turns his head ever-so-slightly at the last second, so that instead of getting his scruff like sandpaper beneath my lips, I get his soft lips.

This is . . . not what I meant, but now that I have it, I can’t imagine why not. His mouth feels incredible against mine, and he smells so goddamn good, I want to lick him all over. Devour every inch of him because . . . I don’t even know, it just feels really fucking good. Like something I want to do instead of something I’m obligated to do.

Which is why it hurts so much when he pulls away.

His eyes are closed, hands are white-knuckled around his mug, and the pleasant heat that had been gathering in my chest blooms into the worst burn of embarrassment. Oh my god, I just did that. I kissed Ash. No. Coach, I kissedCoach, and that is not okay for like a thousand different reasons, and now he’s mad at me and my life is over. Yep, I can go from thrill to catastrophe faster than I can skate between blue lines.

When I look at his face, though, he doesn’t look mad. Nor does he look disgusted or mortified or any of the other bad things I’m looking so very hard for because I expect them to be there. He’s frozen to the spot, barely breathing if he is at all, and it occurs to me that maybe he’s gripping hisPUCK YOUmug until it looks like his fingers are about to break off because he doesn’t want to be holding the mug, he wants to be holdingme.

Maybe he wants this as much as I do, but he’s got more willpower than I have and is resisting because this is not a good idea. Well, you know what? I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me, I’m tired of being everyone’s pawn. Yes, even Ash’s. I fully recognize the irony of him being one of the people I’m giving the finger to as I grab him by his shirt collar and pull him into another kiss, this one entirely on my terms. Which, in this case, means an aggressive surge of my mouth against his, and fuck yes, I’d like to taste him so I slip my tongue into his willing mouth.

Ash

Fucked, fucked, fucked, I am so incredibly fucked. I am also blissfully, deliriously happy, and hard as hell. I’d turned to tell Bronwyn she didn’t have to thank me—I’m doing my job, one I love and have found satisfaction in after I’d been terrified that my life might be over.

It’s been a delight to watch her play for the past six and a half seasons, and the girls, too. Being able to make good players great? Helping their dreams come true and getting even an ounce of thanks for it? Thankyou.

But instead of being greeted with a Bronwyn who would’ve stubbornly insisted on thanking me anyhow, I got her lips. Her kissing me is like being struck by lightning, hit with a bus, and snorting coke all at once. At least I’d imagine that’s what it’s like, I have no fucking idea.

Whatever it is, despite the connection being only between our mouths and her fingertips grazing my cheeks, I feel the bond throughout my entire body. From each strand of hair on my head, through the marrow in my bones and the blood rushing through my veins, all the way down to my goddamn toenails. That’s how Bronwyn electrifies me.

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