Page 2 of On the Edge of Scandal

Arms crossed over my chest and pacing up and down the bench, I watch in awe as Bronwyn flies through the pucks that are set up for the stick-handling drill. She’s got some damn fine moves and even in this basic drill, any Tom, Dick, or Brody would be able to tell she’s the best we’ve got on the ice. Give me a team full of Bronwyns, and I’d destroy everyone else. Of course, I’d probably also be dead from blue balls. Dude can die from that, right?

Watching the girls, I try to ignore the running commentary coming from behind me. Brody has been sitting here every goddamn practice of every goddamn day since we got to Denver, and his friend Eli, too, when he hasn’t got a team obligation of his own. And they have oh-so-much to say—too much if you ask me, considering Eli made the men’s team by the skin of his teeth, and Brody not at all.

I’d like to say I felt bad about that, but I don’t. It’s not like he was deserving and got passed over. The cold, hard truth is that he’s not good enough. He and Bronwyn have dated since they were in high school, and through college. Hockey royalty if there is such a thing. I’ve never quite figured out why, though. Especially when he says the shit he says.

Right on cue: “She’s not bad for a girl, right?”

My fingers clutch my clipboard and it takes every ounce of control I have not to grab it with two hands and turn around to smack Brody in the face with it. Bronwyn could skate circles around him until he got dizzy. She’s faster than Brody and more elegant on her worst days than he is on his best; she has better technique, and a dedication like I’ve never seen.Not bad for a girl? You should be so lucky as to be as talented as your girlfriend. Maybe if you were, you’d be wearing a Team USA tracksuit right now, asshat.

Instead of physically assaulting Brody and ending up a first page news story—which is the only way Brody’s getting any coverage at the SIGs—I walk to the other end of the bench. Bronwyn’s skating to the end of the drill line, and she takes a swipe at her nose through the grill of her helmet.

Though she’s unaware of it, that’s my cue to call practice, so I step down from the bench, gritting my teeth so I don’t wince. Even with the padded floor, it’s still unpleasant. I toss my clipboard onto the bench and clap my hands a few times, loudly.

“Nice job today, ladies. Clear the ice and then let’s circle up.”

The girls do as I’ve asked, and I retrieve my clipboard from the bench because I’ve got some notes I don’t want to forget to give—Nguyen’s still not using her lower body enough on her wrist shots; Harris has got to watch her five-hole; and if Stewart doesn’t knock it off, she’s going to get called for slashing—and I have to ignore yet more smack talk from the peanut gallery.

Eli’s telling Brody, “Dude, I gotta go so I’m not late for practice. We’re over at the other arena today.”

“Yeah, of course. Have fun with the real hockey players. Check you later, man.”

Real hockey players? How about real SIG athletes?I have so much rage in my heart and I have to keep it off my face because I don’t want the girls to think I’m pissed at them. Brody is such a frigging douchebag. No, that’s an insult to douchebags everywhere.

Chapter Two

Bronwyn

We might have been here for a week, but as far as the rest of the world is concerned, the SIGs are just starting. It’s the day after the opening ceremony, and our first game day. Finally. We’ve been itching for our chance for days.

Norway is supposed to be an easy win for us. For whatever reason, though, we’re falling down on the job. Coach Levenson is frustrated, we’re all frustrated. We can’t seem to keep the puck out of our end of the rink. Which means Camryn is getting a workout. She’s doing great, but it’s not fair. She shouldn’t have to hold the whole game on her shoulders, stand on her head. Or rather, she shouldn’t have to take so many shots to her pads, her stick, and, god, that one to her facemask that made me cringe. Yeah, a puck flying toward your face isn’t unheard-of, but it jolts me every time it happens. Probably why I’m out here and she’s in front of the net.

Next time Coach swaps me out for Natalie, I sit at the edge of the bench and wrench my helmet off. I need to . . . I don’t even know. Usually I can get a handle on our opposing team and figure out their weak spots, help my teammates exploit them. But I feel like every time I look up I see a flash of red jersey. How are we supposed to get the puck into their net if we’re trying every goddamn second to keep it out of ours?

I take the water bottle on offer and guzzle some because I’m skating like a bat out of hell and I’m sweating like a—

“Winnie.”

Brody is the only person on earth allowed to call me Winnie. I don’t even like it from him—it chafes like a sweater that doesn’t quite fit—but he won’t stop, so I let it go a long time ago.

I turn around as well as I can with all my gear on, but at least he can tell I’m listening. He leans over farther, hands on top of the half-wall dividing us from the spectators. It drives Brody crazy to be on that side, which he hasn’t let me forget, but I’m glad he’s at the game anyway. Maybe he’s got some words of wisdom, because I could sure as hell use them.

“You’ve got to stop twenty-three. She’s killing you guys. The rest of them are good, but she’s the ringleader.”

I bristle, because as if I hadn’t noticed. Yes, I know she’s problem. Not the only one, because a team can’t function with one person, but sometimes if you pull just the right block, the whole tower falls down. I’m guessing twenty-three is that block, and so is Brody.

“Yeah I know, but keeping the puck away from her is a full-time job. We’re doing our best, but it takes more than one of us to neutralize her, and then the rest of them . . . they’re like a swarm of bees.”

Even as I’m sitting there, I can see her. She’s really fast, has sweet-ass stick-handling, and isn’t afraid to use her body. I’m good, my teammates are good, but they might just have us outgunned. We brought rifles, and they brought an Uzi.

Brody’s voice, urgent and demanding, sounds in my ear again. “You’re not listening to me. You have to take her out.”

I turn my head so I’m full-on looking at him now. He’s got that bloodlust in his eyes, and I know what he wants me to do. “Take her out” is not some sort of code. Brody isn’t subtle enough to employ a cipher. He literally wants me to take her out. Bust her. Play the enforcer. Which would be all well and good if I were a dude, but I’m not. That kind of shit is not part of women’s hockey. Which some people say makes it boring, but Coach Levenson says it makes us faster, more elegant, more sophisticated. I like his way better.

“Brody, I can’t—”

“Look, do you want to win or not? You girls are getting crushed out there because you’re pussy-footing around like you invited them to a fucking tea party. Unless you want this to be the end of the line, I suggest you grow a pair and take out the trash.”

His sexist ranting pisses me off, but I don’t have time to lecture him on feminism. Again.

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