Page 25 of On the Edge of Scandal

Bronwyn

Finished with the trainer and the team doc, I’m back in Ash’s room and have texted to let him know so he doesn’t head to mine. Ash, who I am going to murder. He is going to be a dead man. Okay, so maybe not dead, because then the sex and the fun times of the past week and all the good things in my life outside of hockey would have to stop, but god do I want to yell at him. What the fuck was he thinking?

Turns out I can ask him in just a minute, because there’s the tiniest squeak of the doorknob before he’s quickly and quietly stealing over his own threshold and closing the door shut behind him. Once he’s inside, he leans back against the door, closes his eyes, and blows a breath out his mouth, his cheeks rounding as he does. When he opens his eyes, he finds me and blinks.

“B—”

B is far preferable to Winnie, but that doesn’t make me want to murder him less. I open my mouth to start ripping into him, but he leaps over me before I can.

“I know I fucked up and I’m sorry, I just . . .”

Another breath gets blown out audibly from between his lips and I see it on his face. Petrified, heart-in-throat desperation.

“When you got hurt, I panicked. I was worried it was really bad, and I know it’s not your baggage to shoulder, but I—”

He leans against the door again and scrubs his hands over his face and into his hair, making the front of his shirt tug up until I can see his stomach. Looking up at the ceiling, he takes a swallow so hard I can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat from here. “I had this completely irrational fear that it was history repeating. That you were going to have to go through exactly the same thing I’ve been through, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it.”

His voice has risen in pitch and volume so that he’s rather loud by the time he finishes talking and bangs the back of his head up against the door. And my heart—my heart is banging up against my ribs, begging me to go to him, soothe him. Murder can wait; right now the man could really use a hug.

But I know how this goes. If I go over there right now, we’ll just end up naked and sexed out, and then I won’t be able to muster the energy to scold him, never mind do any murdering. As hard as it is, I stand in the middle of the room, ice pack strapped to my hip, and try to find a place for my hands.

“Ash.” I love the quiet sound of his name on my lips, soothing even in the saying of it. No sharp edges, it’s all breathy and carries emotion like sound carries over water. “Ash, I’m okay. See, standing and all? It hurts, but I’ll be fine for the game tomorrow. It’s not going to stop me. And the trainer checked me over, so did the team doctor. They didn’t even feel the need to send me to the SIG ER. I’m okay.”

“But—”

There it is, that flare of irritation. “No. No buts.” I scrub my hands through my own hair. “You don’t get to decide about this. I don’t need another dude thinking he knows better than I do. And not just me, but goddamn medical professionals. Do you have a medical degree? Have you been to school to be in sports medicine? Is your master’s degree in athletic injuries? Because people with all of those qualifications agree with me. I’m okay.”

Ash’s hands are clenched by his sides against the door, and despite the body language screaming otherwise, he has the good sense to plaster a chagrined look on his face. “Okay.”

The word is quiet and strained, but he’s doing his best. Also, I think back to a week ago to the first time I saw him get out of bed and how badly I freaked. I need to give the guy the benefit of the doubt about that at least, and offer him comfort in the form of showing him that I am in fact capable and not badly injured.

Before I do, I have one more legit reason to wag my finger at him, so I do. “Also, you can’t do shit like that. You wouldn’t freak out if anyone else got a little roughed up on the ice, so don’t do it to me. I know people can’t know about this, about us. When you lose your mind over me getting injured, not only does it make it fantastically obvious that you don’t care about me just as a coach, but it also makes me look weak. You’ve said it yourself. I’m one of the strongest, sturdiest players you’ve got. Don’t start treating me like some delicate flower just because you’re getting in my pants.”

He blinks at me, those long lashes absurd in his remorse, and I suddenly feel like I’m being unfair. Which is why I hasten to add, “And I’m getting in yours.”

Because it’s true, and now I’m at a loss for what to say. There’s only one thing left to do, which is what makes me cross the floor in a few quick strides that are semi-painful, and are impeded by the ice pack still on my hip, but none of that stops me from walking right up to him, pressing the length of my body to his as well as I can, and threading my fingers through his hair so I can tug him down to kiss.

Ash’s mouth is pure perfection, welcoming me in with its heat, warmth, and responsiveness, and everything is made even better by his arms coming around me, circling my waist and holding me tight. Except for the damn ice pack.

I pull back long enough to tear the wrap that’s holding it in place and throw it to the floor. Predictably when I fling myself against him again, I bump him with my injury and it sends a hiss through my teeth, but I push past it until our mouths are meeting again. Briefly, because Ash is pulling away and tsking at me. No fucking way.

“Ash.”

He shakes his head and wags a finger at me, though his other hand is still occupied at my waist. “Ah-ah. Not so fast, you demanding little thing.”

I amnotlittle. I could tackle him right now and make him very sorry, but I won’t because that would hurt him. But we both know that is a distinct possibility. Despite that, I kind of like it. If I’m the small one here, then I’m not in charge. Yes, there are some things I very much want to be in charge of—exhibit A, about fifteen minutes ago—but the pressure on me is cranked up pretty high right now, and would it really be the worst thing in the world to put myself in Ash’s hands for a little while and make us both feel better in the process? I don’t think so.

Which is what makes me settle, putting my hands on his biceps instead of clawing at him like I’d like to.

He seems shocked that actually worked, but after his eyes have bugged, a smile breaks across his face, showing his teeth. “You are hurt. I am not going to hurt you worse by how we have sex.”

My brain takes a second to process his words. He didn’t say we weren’t going to have sex, just that he wasn’t going to hurt me with the way we do. Good. Also, given what a hard time I gave him when we first started this . . . whatever it is, I can’t exactly argue. “Okay.”

He dips his head in a brief nod, looking very smug. “Good. We’re going over to my bed.”

I half-expect him to put me in a fireman’s carry and haul me over there, but that would kill him. If nothing else about that would be preventative, he at least wouldn’t want to be called a fucking hypocrite, so instead, he merely steers me over, a hand at the small of my back and controlling our pace. It does feel better than hard-charging over, but of course it does. With this kind of injury, Ash knows what he’s doing. Too well.

He directs me to lie down on my back, which I do, with only a slight scowl on my face. If he’s going to treat me like a precious object, I’m going to scream. I’d rather scream in pain, but I think he understands, which is why I’m tolerating this.

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