Page 3 of On the Edge of Scandal

Fuck. I don’t want to lose. I can’t stand the idea of coming all this way only to lose in the first round. And Ireallycan’t stand the idea of knowing I could’ve done something about it and didn’t. But the idea of taking this girl out . . . Maybe it’s a weak thought for me to have, but she’s really fucking good. Maybe she’s earned this. I’m not going to give up—hell, I will keep skating my ass off until the last buzzer sounds—but sometimes you play someone better than you are. It sucks, but it should make you hungry, make you work harder for next time. Not plot how to get rid of the person who’s dominating you by any means necessary.

This isn’t just about me, though. Now that there’s a women’s pro league where I can keep up my skills and display them, I’ll probably get to play in the SIGs again in another four years barring injury or what-the-fuck-ever happening, but some of my teammates—this is their last hurrah, and I can see them wilting on the bench like they know it’s over.

Which leads me to the person at the very end of the bench. Coach Levenson is holding his clipboard to his chest and standing there in his suit. It’s funny. Most of the coaches wear their team track suits at the SIGs, but not Coach Levenson. He’s wearing a suit like he always does to games. His only concession to conventional SIG style a red, white, and blue–striped tie.

If I do what Brody is telling me to, Coach is going to lose his shit. We don’t play dirty, ever. I’ve seen Coach bench his best players at BU for getting too aggressive even if it meant losing. In fact, he lost to us.

I respect him like crazy for it, but it also makes me want to ditch my gloves and start a fight. I don’t want to disrespect Coach, and I don’t want to disappoint him, but . . . my team. I’d do anything for my teammates because they deserve more than this. Having all the papers saying we had a disappointing showing. Fuck that. And with Brody egging me on—not to mention that if I don’t do this and we lose? I’ll never hear the end of it from him.

I know what he’d do. He’d board that fucker so hard it’d be a yard sale out there. An even bigger one if their teammates noticed. Depending on how bad the hit was, a fight would be more than likely.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Then there’s Brody’s voice growling in my ear again: “Don’t be such a chicken-shit pussy. Man up and take the bitch out. Fucking do it, Winnie, or this loss is on your hands.”

Just then, Coach catches my eye and raises a finger. I’m back out in a second, so I take one last chug of water, stuff my helmet back on, and wince when Brody punches my shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, it’s the words that accompany the gesture that make me shudder: “Take. Her. Out.”

Ash

Bronwyn climbs over the boards to switch out with Green, and I ought to be concentrating on this shitshow of a game, but somehow my attention is drawn back to Brody. I don’t like it when anyone talks to my players during games, but especially him. I want my team to play howIwant them to play, not anyone else, and especially not him.

It’s not entirely his fault because the men’s coach at BC encourages his players to be shifty, but Brody doesn’t play honorably and doesn’t have any respect for the women’s game. It’s not the same brute force crash-fest as the men’s. It’s faster, cleaner, smarter, more refined, and he can’t even handle it. Maybe because he knows that if he had to play by those rules he’d never survive. He relies far too much on his muscle and not enough on his brain, though it’s never been clear to me there’s all that much knocking around in his skull.

He’s one of those guys who better hope to hell he makes the majors, because he doesn’t have enough smarts to do anything else. Bronwyn, on the other hand—she’d be fine if she didn’t make the women’s pro league. I see her taking books out from under the bench when she gets a break during practice, tapping on her laptop or her tablet when she gets some quiet time on the bus. She’s getting a degree in computer science, and I know she’s doing more than passing her classes. She’ll be fine.

That’s what I should be focusing on instead of goddamn Brody Hill. That guy will drive me to drink if I let him, which would be a fucking shame. Chronic pain? Yes, it sucks, and it tests me every waking minute of every single day, but so far I’ve managed. That guy, though? Can’t let him ruin my life more than my own body is trying to.

It’s nearing the end of the second period, and the girls are still mired behind our blue line. Twenty-three is killing us, and I can’t figure out a good way to stop her. I’m letting the girls down, because this is my job. To look at the big picture and help them execute a plan to win in small, actionable steps. Not leave them hanging out to dry and flail while some Amazon dominates their ice and beats up on our goalie. Harris is more than holding her own, but she’s not superhuman. Crap.

A minute before the buzzer ending the second period goes off, twenty-three’s got the puck yet again and she’s running it up the boards toward our goal, and that’s when I see it. Bronwyn squares up and charges.

Even though she’s picking up speed like a freight train, time seems to slow down. I can see the ice shave off her skate blades, the way she uses her pumping arms to get up more speed. Though I know it’s not possible because there’s far too much distance between us—not to mention the cage on her helmet—I can practically see the determined glint in her eye. It’s not unqualified, though, not like the bloodthirsty savagery I see in some of the players’ eyes—especially the guys—because there’s a hint of resolve there. It’s as if she doesn’t like this, but she’s going to goddamn do it anyway. As she gets closer, I see it happen like it’s in freeze-frame.

Brownyn gets low and compact, making herself into a human wrecking ball while not slowing down a bit. When she reaches the girl who’s been foiling us for the past thirty-nine minutes, she checks twenty-three from behind, taking her down and forcing her into the boards, head first. The sound echoes in my ears and my stomach drops, because that was one of the nastiest hits I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe Bronwyn is responsible for it.

After twenty-three crumples to the ice, all hell breaks loose, as it should. The arena erupts, the refs go nuts, and the rest of the Norwegian team (the ones who aren’t skating over to see if twenty-three is okay) look like they’re out for blood. My Bronwyn’s blood.

As much as I’d like to drag her over to the sin bin by the ear myself, because she has fucked up in a big way—and there’s no way she’s going back out on the ice even if they don’t eject her from the game—I’m still not going to let them get their fists on her. But it’s not like I can get on the ice myself. One of my defensemen, though, Wright, she’s about as tough as they get and big to boot. When she darts a glance in my direction, I give her the go-ahead tip of my chin and she vaults over the boards and onto the ice, getting in front of Bronwyn and backing her up toward the penalty box.

Luckily for everyone, twenty-three is on her feet in a minute, though she’s slow to skate off, as though she’s woozy and not solid on her feet. The whole crowd claps as she waves and comes off the ice, probably headed to their locker room so the trainer and team doc can check her out. A concussion is totally possible. I hate the tiny ping of relief in the back of my brain that says we’ve got a better shot now that twenty-three’s out of the game.

And Bronwyn . . . She’s got a major penalty that she’s goddamn lucky isn’t a match penalty. If she thinks she’s getting back on the ice after her time in the box is up, though, she is sorely mistaken. I don’t fucking care if it costs us the game, my team does not play that way and she knows it. If she needs a refresher course, which it appears that she does, she’s going to goddamn well get one when this is over.

Stupidly, I can’t help but turn around to see what Brody’s thoughts on all this are—is he pissed his girl’s in the penalty box? Is he going to be ripped that I don’t put her in for the rest of the game? But no. Guy doesn’t appear at all concerned. In fact, he’s pumping a fist in the air and yelling. That’s when I realize: this was his idea. Bronwyn would never do that of her own volition. Ever. It’s this Cheez Doodle behind me who put her up to this, and I can’t wait to have words with them both.

Chapter Three

Bronwyn

Coach barely looks at me during intermission. What he does do is deliver a very stern, stomach-clenching lecture to the whole team about how we play.

“We do not play dirty, we do not play rough. We play hard, we play smart, but we don’t play to hurt. Next person I see check one of the opposing team’s players with the intent to injure, you are out of here. And I don’t mean for the game. I mean for the duration of the SIGs, and if I have anything to say about it, I won’t see you on any of my benches in the future. You understand me?”

We all mutter “Yes, Coach,” and I’m sure I’m not the only one feeling like I’m going to hurl into my helmet. Especially because a bunch of my teammates are giving me looks. Some ticked off, some sympathetic. They all make my insides roil. The really shitty thing is that I knew this would happen, and I did it anyway.

Yes, we’ve managed to score twice since twenty-three went out, but I don’t feel good about it. I’ll regret that hit for the rest of my life.

When it’s time to head back up to the ice, we all file past Coach Levenson. I usually go last, and nearly always I get a pat to the arm and a nod with a small upturn of the corners of his mouth. I don’t know what it is about that, but it always makes me feel good. I like the way his pale eyes smile, too. But instead of offering that small encouraging gesture, he looks over my shoulder at the cinder block wall, and I want to cry. This is what I was afraid of. This is what I didn’t want. Why did I let Brody talk me into this?

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