Page 20 of On the Edge of Scandal

After that beat of enjoyment, though, I pull away, because there’s too much at stake here. Her future, my future. More immediately, we’ve got to get through the SIGs and how am I—are we—supposed to do that if we’re carrying on this illicit affair? Maybe that sounds like a giant leap, but from that brief kiss, I can tell. This isn’t just a kiss, it’s going to turn into a consuming . . . if not love affair, then certainly a lust-fueled sex binge.

Maybe, I think, she’ll realize what happened and will be sorry. Profusely apologize because I don’t think she meant for that to happen, and even though it’s not her fault and anger is the furthest thing from my mind, discouraging her from doing it again would be a smart move. But somehow, my brain’s sense of self-preservation has gone AWOL, and the feeling of desperate wanting, need for her, must show up on my face because that’s the only explanation for why she’s kissing me again.

Her tongue is hot, slick, and silky in my mouth. I’ve had fantasies about her before but I have underestimated the effect she would have on me, and that is saying something. What I should do is wrap my hands around hers, which are clutching my open collar, gently disentangle her fingers, and break this off. Pull back again, tell her this isn’t okay, it’s wrong, we could both get in trouble for this, it endangers the team, all of the thousand reasons why getting involved would be a genuine mistake. And yet, I don’t.

What I do instead is drop my half-empty coffee mug on the floor, thankful for the first time for the cheap faux-wood that will make it easy to wipe up, though I’ll still have to do it on my hands and knees and won’t that be a bitch. But worth it. So very, very worth it. To be able to—after years of wishing and lusting and wanting—slip my hands over her powerful shoulders, up her defined traps, and into the fall of her hair. Her dark, glossy hair, and yeah, I almost choke because it’s as soft as I’d ever thought it would be.

I can’t stop, can’t stop, and she doesn’t seem in a hurry to, either. No, she’s knelt up on the bed and the weight of her against me is such that I topple backward, thankfully toward the pillows, and then she’s on top of me. It’s only through some miracle that I don’t come in my pants—or let out a bark of pain, because as much as I enjoy this, my hip is not a fan of sudden movement.

Makes me think of those studies they’ve done on frequency of concussions. Despite not being allowed to check, women’s hockey players get more concussions than men do. And what the fuck is with that? The hypothesis is that women get hit (and do the hitting) anyway but aren’t prepared for it, so they don’t brace themselves for the hit. Not like in men’s hockey where getting checked and roughed up is a fact of life, a rule of play. It’s going to happen, so get ready.

I’m not ready for this. Maybe if I’d been prepared I would’ve been able to say no, but as things are, I’m doing my best to get the air into my lungs that the shooting pain knocked out, all while kissing my dream come true.

Bronwyn

Afterthe kiss—and yes, I will likely forever refer to it that way, in mental italics—I had to hustle back to my room and get ready for practice. I hadn’t really wanted to change my clothes, would’ve liked to smell like Ash and his room, but that’s an even better reason to change. So here I am at practice, trying not to touch my lips whenever I look at Ash, remembering what it had felt like to kiss him and wishing I could do it again as soon as humanly possible.

I managed to get through practice without killing or making a complete ass out of myself, although I don’t know how. I’m distracted by this new thing that’s taken over my brain. My newfound fascination with Ash is unfamiliar. The guys I’ve found attractive at first glance have always been big. Tall, broad, muscles for days. Like Brody. Along that scale, Ash doesn’t measure up.

It’s not like he’s in terrible shape or anything, but I can look him in the face, I might be taller than him if I ever put on heels—not likely—and he’s got a little bit of a tummy. Like all those descriptions of guys whose pants hang off their hips in this ridiculously alluring way? Ash does not have that going on.

During practice, I caught a glimpse of skin between his pants and his sweatshirt as he was waving his arms wildly about something Jennie did. It didn’t make me want to buy a ticket to board that train, but it did make me curious. What would Ash be like in bed? Would he be sweet or bossy? Would he tell me I was pretty or would he just want to roll me over and pound away? Would he make sure I came first, before he got his, or would he just take, take, take and leave me to scramble after my own pleasure? How would his furry stomach feel against my smooth one? The thought of his chest hair brushing against my nipples as he bucks into me is, well, mmph.

Not to mention I had no idea about his injury. Like, yeah, I’d wondered how he ended up coaching women’s hockey, especially not being a former pro like a lot of the top coaches are. But knowing he’s basically in constant pain . . . it pinches my heart. Not in a pity way, because I don’t think he’d like that, and he’s made it very clear that he’s not some fucking inspiration for doing what he does, but I feel for him and I want to empathize with him in a way that he’s okay with but that still tells him what I want to say.That’s shit, and I think you’re awesome.

Ash is really strong. Not in the could-bench-press-me way Brody was, but in a quieter way. I don’t think I’d be able to dedicate my life to helping people get better at something I used to love but could no longer do. How is he not bitter as fuck? I would be. I don’t even think there’d be anything wrong with that. But no, he’s really fucking good at what he does, and never does he make us feel guilty for having something he doesn’t.

This epiphany of how goddamn amazing Ash is and how smoking hot that makes him is all I can think about now, on my way back to my room, especially when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Ash.

Can we talk?

There hadn’t been much in the way of talking after the kiss, because we’d had to haul ass to practice. In some ways that had made it easier, but in some ways harder, and I’m glad he’s decided to be the mature one here and yes, we definitely need to talk.

Yes. Your place in twenty minutes?

My heart races when he texts back.

Works for me, see you soon.

Chapter Thirteen

Ash

All through practice, while trying to keep my head in the game, my eyes on the girls, all I could think of was Bronwyn. Half of it was with a not-insubstantial effort to keep from getting an erection. The other half was with a crazy amount of guilt, shame, and self-reproach.

How could I have done that? And more so, how could I have enjoyed it? Enjoyed it so very, very much.

I’m pacing my room despite it bothering my hip because I can’t sit still. If I sit still, then I’ll have to stay sitting—I’ve entered the time of day where I have to keep going. An object in motion stays in motion and all that.

I am an object in motion toward hell for doing this. In all of my years managing and coaching, I have never, ever been inappropriate with a player. Have I had crushes? Of course. They’re incredible athletes, we have this major thing in common, and there have been some that just hit that spot—you know the one that gives you butterflies? Makes your heart beat kinda funny and the stuff in your pants sit up and take notice? Yeah, that. I feel that way about Bronwyn. Have felt that way about her for a long time.

To act on it, though? That’s different. And I don’t do that. Shouldn’t do that. So when she gets here I’ll give her a speech which I spent much of practice composing in my head. “Bronwyn, you’re a beautiful girl and yes, I am attracted to you. You’re an amazing hockey player and I have a great deal of respect and admiration for you on and off the ice. If things were different, you would be the kind of woman I would want. Things being as they are, I apologize profusely, and I’m sure you understand why nothing remotely like that can happen again. Ever.”

She’s a rational person, and she’ll understand. It’ll be fine.

Except that when I open the door, my mind goes completely blank of anything but Bronwyn, what a knock-out she is, and the soft breathy way she says, “Hi.”

I am fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

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