Page 29 of On the Edge of Scandal

That goddamn eyebrow of Carla’s cocks again. “And what about romantically? Have you ever had inappropriate feelings for any of your players? Feelings that were a long way from professional?”

Ash’s jaw flexes, and I want to reach my fingers through the screen, stroke it, soothe him, and poke frigging Carla in the eye. What the hell? He already said no, can she not leave it at that?

Most of the time, Ash is pleasant looking. Not in a bland way, but in aregular-guy-walking-down-the-streetkind of way. But every once in a while, he gets very stern. Depending on the context, I can find this stomach-clenching in a guilty, squirmy way, or in aholy-fucking-turn-onkind of way. It’s the former right now, and my throat gets tight as I wait for his answer.

“The only feelings I have ever had for any of my players have been of concern and pride. My job is to foster their talents, help them work as a team, bring their attention to bigger-picture issues they may not be able to see when they’re in the middle of a game, and to keep them happy, healthy, and primed to win. I’ll say it one more time and one more time only. I have never had inappropriate feelings for any of my players. Everything I’ve done has been for the good of the team, because that’s what professionals do. Speaking of, we’ve got a big game coming up tomorrow and I won’t do the women on my team or this country the disservice of being unprepared or exhausted for it.”

The camera pans out and Carla talks out the last minute or so of the segment while Ash sits there, kind of stiff but looking none the worse for wear. Which is good. That’s good. Right? But on the other hand, my heart’s not beating its normal rhythm, nor is it racing like it was when this ridiculous line of questioning first started. No, it’s kind of tripping along, a thuddy, uneven beat that’s making it hard to breathe.

Rational me knows there was nothing else he could possibly say, nothing else he could possibly do. At least not without putting himself at risk, and I wouldn’t want that, at all. But watching him say that so confidently and so very frankly? It makes me feel like nothing. Like all along, I’ve just been a chore he has to do, a responsibility he has, like what we’ve been doing was an obligation he had to the team, and it hurts. Worse than anything Brody’s ever said or done. Worse than a hard check into the boards.

Not only did he say it, but he looked as though he meant it. Would he have done this for anyone on the team? Does he truly have no feelings for me whatsoever beyond a professional interest in me not crashing and burning? Because I have to say, it doesn’t feel good. I thought it was more than that. I thought he might . . . love me?

But apparently that was stupid. I’m a job he has to do, and all of this has just been another duty he had to fulfill for the good of the team. And I’m the stupid, stupid girl who thought she could matter to a man more than just her skills on the rink. Idiot.Idiot.

Sitting on Ash’s bed, wearing his jersey, holding his mug suddenly all seem embarrassing. Immature and like playing dress-up. What is he thinking, as he walks off the set, removes the sound equipment, and heads back here? Is he rolling his eyes and dreading seeing me?More work to do. Better make sure Bronwyn gets her orgasms in, otherwise she’s going to be a hot mess for the game tomorrow.Checking his watch while we’re making love becauseOh my god, can this be over yet?

The idea makes my eyes water, but I try to be reasonable, rational. Not let that tendency to make small things into federal disasters take me over. I’ll wait. I’m overreacting, and surely, surely when Ash gets back, he’ll be able to make this panic go away. Be able to soothe me and hold me and tell me how he really feels and I’ll be able to believe him because he’s a good man.

Ash

That was ugly. Carla’s always been kind to me, and that . . . that was unexpected. She totally fucking blindsided me with those ugly accusations. The weird thing is, she seemed surprised, too. Like maybe she got word from her producer in the middle of the interview to poke me about having inappropriate relationships with my players, and where the fuck did her producer get that from?

I shiver, even though I’m plenty warm in my down coat on my way back to my room at the village. The only thing I want is Bronwyn. To have her in my arms, her skin against mine, her eager body pressed to me, and her bossy insistence about how exactly we’re going to have sex so I’m not in pain. That’ll reassure me that there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. Yes, perhaps the circumstances aren’t ideal, but if the circumstances were different, would we have ended up together?

I can’t be one hundred percent thrilled about being with Bronwyn because it’s fucked with my head quite a bit—I’m not the kind of guy who would take advantage of anyone, never mind someone who I was supposed to be mentoring, inspiring, and who I have some level of control over. I wouldn’t. And yet, I have. A lot. But it doesn’t feel as though I’ve been taking advantage of her. The guilt sometimes makes me want to crawl out of my skin, but then we’re together, and it seems so right. As though this is a really, really good thing.

If the trigger had never gotten pulled, if Brody had never proposed, what would we be doing? My lust for her would still be quietly simmering below the surface, and she’d still be with Brody, and then she’d graduate. Get a job somewhere. She’s got plans to try to play in the women’s professional league, but who knows if that’ll work out. Probably, though, because she’s as good a player as anyone they’ve got.

All that shit is jumbled up in my head as I hoof it across the village to my building, while the overriding impulse is to see Bronwyn, hold her, kiss her, be close to her in any way I possibly can. Bury myself in her scent, her laugh, and god yes, her body. She said she’d be waiting for me after my interview, and I can’t wait to get my shaking hands on her.

I slip the keycard in the door, and push it open, feeling some of my tension unravel just by being in this place. Safety, warmth, humor, and love. That’s what I’ve built with her in the past couple of weeks and nothing can change that.

Except maybe for the look she’s giving me when I open the door. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing my Halpern jersey, which should be sexy as hell, and kind of is, but she also looks terrified. Fuck.

She holds her hands up to shoulder-height, and doesn’t look me in the eye. “So . . . I saw your interview onHour 25,and I . . . I . . .”

Her eyes are darting around the room, and she makes a motion with her hands like she’s trying to get herself to spit the rest out. “I get why you said those things, and in some ways I’m really thankful, because I don’t want anyone to get in trouble, and I don’t want you to lose your job, but I . . .”

Bronwyn rests her hands on her shins and looks as though she’s trying to catch her breath. She closes her eyes, and I’m standing there, feeling like a shmuck for making her doubt my feelings in any way. If I’d known she was sitting here, watching . . . My insides are getting wrung out and I want nothing more than to go to her, convince her of exactly how false everything I just said was. But I’ll wait. She deserves to have her feelings heard, and I’m not going to silence her.

When she blinks her eyes open, her watery gaze meets mine and it’s like an icicle is being lanced through my gut. “It felt really bad, Ash. Like I started to believe you.”

Her fingers have tightened on her shins, her nailbeds going white from the pressure, and she’s going to have marks gouged into her skin from her short fingernails. I cross the room to make her stop, and my first thought is to fall to my knees, lay my head in her lap and ask for her forgiveness, tell her I’ll call Carla right now and set the record straight. But there are a few things wrong with that picture, so instead I sit next to her on the bed to let her do what she will with me.

I let out a huge breath of relief when she turns and wraps her arms around me and squeezes me so tight I can barely get air into my lungs. Small price to pay for alleviating her worry. I don’t talk at first, just let my own arms encircle her, my hands rubbing her shoulders, her back, her hair.

Which is of course when my phone rings. It’s in my pocket, so I can barely hear it, but it’s not “Gloria,” nor is it “Kodachrome” which would tell me my parents had seen the interview and my mother is fretting. No, it’s “Born to Run,” which is exactly the feeling I get, because Bruce means my boss is calling.

Suddenly Bronwyn doesn’t feel so much like a magnet drawing me in, but a dangerous thing that’s hot or poisonous to the touch. Which is entirely unfair. It has far more to do with Madeline Channing being on the line and my heart shooting into my throat, because this is her calling to tell me that I’m fired. After the SIGs, I should come back to campus, pack up my things, and fuck off, because she knows what I did. What I’m doing.

Thing is, I can’t even defend myself. Especially not when I’ve got Bronwyn clutching at me. Can’t do it, can’t do it. Which becomes even more apparent as I drag my phone from my pocket and answer it.

“Hi, Madeline. What can I do for you?”

Please let it be her calling to ask me to get some SIG athlete’s autograph, or pick up an extra Team USA parka while I’m here. Something, anything, other than her calling to say she’s seen the interview with Carla.

“I saw you onHour 25,and I have to say, Ash. I’ve got some concerns.”

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