Page 30 of On the Edge of Scandal

The concern I believe she’s talking about is wrapped around me like a vine. My stomach bottoms out, because this is just too much for my brain to handle. I can’t be cuddling Bronwyn while outright lying to BU’s Athletic Director. As much as I hate it, I disentangle Bronwyn’s fingers from where they’re grasping my shirt, and ease away from her before pushing off the bed and heading to the bathroom where I can close the door and maybe get my shit together enough to focus on the long-term, smart thing to do, which is to lie through my teeth, and not confess like every bone in my body is itching to do.

“Madeline, I assure you. You have nothing to be worried about.”

Bronwyn

He pushed me away. I told him I needed him, and he pushed me away. I was totally prepared to believe him, to give him the benefit of the doubt, that he’d put that charade on for us. To have him shake his head and laugh in relief. “Thank fuck that’s over with. I hated lying, but you understand why I had to. Right, baby?”

I would’ve said yes. And I would have understood. But now he’s disentangled himself from me—literally—and had to get away from me so he could tell his boss she has nothing to worry about. I can hear him through the thin door, telling Madeline he has no idea what Carla was talking about. Again, he’s so good I believe him. I wish he were sitting next to me, even. Maybe he’d roll his eyes while he was talking to her, or just keep, for the love of everything, holding me, and I could trust in his body even as his words made me uneasy.

Everything’s gone away now, though, and he’s telling Madeline even more strenuously than he insisted to Carla that he’s never done anything to warrant this suspicion, that he’s never had any feelings for any of his players, and that if some of his methods have been unorthodox, it’s all been in the service of his teams.

I am so sick of being jerked around by men.Be like this, show up at this opportune time, fit into this convenient mold I have for you.Well too fucking bad. I deserve more than that. I deserve to be inconvenient and imperfect and still get what I want, what I need from my partner. I get why Ash is issuing assurances to his boss, I really do, but he flat-out abandoned me when I was feeling most insecure. Could he not have let her call go to voicemail? Could he not have stayed here with me while he talked to her? I was so ready to believe him, but I need more from him. His walking away has tipped me over the edge from feeling vulnerable and bewildered to being incensed and destroyed.

I need to get the fuck out of here now. I’m tempted to do damage to this place. This room where so many things happened that I’d loved, and so many things that had blown my mind and made me melt. Made me feel precious, and like Ash really liked me. But all along I’ve just been a task, a thing to be managed. So what I’ll do is check myself off his list.

I climb off the bed, and goosebumps rise up on my skin quickly, since I’m no longer in my little Ash nest. The rest of my cocoa has gone cold, so down the drain it goes and I wash it out, hands moving slow and deliberately because if I let this shell crack, I’ll throw the damn thing across the room. No. I will take off this Jeff Halpern jersey, fold it like an employee of the Gap and put it back in the drawer. I will remove any trace of myself. I will make it look like I was never here.

I clearly didn’t make an impression on Ash in any meaningful way in our time together—not the way he’s branded himself on my heart in such a short period of time—but I don’t want his last thoughts of me to be that I cannot clean up after myself. That picking up my mess is still part of his job, just like making me feel loved has been.

Ash

Once Madeline has interrogated me to her satisfaction, I’m practically scratching at the door to be back with Bronwyn. To finish what I started and prove to her that it was lies. All fucking lies, and that the only reality exists between the two of us. This is what I’m looking very much forward to convincing her of when I finally come back into the main room of the suite—convincing her with every tool at my disposal that I love her and that I’m just trying to keep us safe. This is my plan, which I am willing and able to execute except for one thing. She’s not here.

Not in my bed, not at the little table. Even stranger is that there’s no evidence that she’s been here at all. There’s always some trace of her left behind, which at first had tweaked me when I was ready for the vice police to come knocking down my door.What if, what if, what if . . .But it had become something I looked forward to. What piece of herself had she shed this time, knowing she’d be back to claim it? A hair tie, a mug half-filled with tea or cocoa, a shirt or, hell, that time she’d left lacy underwear behind.

The lack of anything belonging to her is disquieting, and the anxiety I’d shed when I crossed the threshold is back with a vengeance. Digging my phone out of my pocket, I see I didn’t miss any calls from her. Or a text. Or anything else. No note sitting on the table to let me know she’d gone back to her place to chill, nothing.

So I do what any guy would do. I dial her. It rings, and rings, and rings but nothing. Maybe she’s somewhere she can’t pick up? Which doesn’t make sense because the earliest she could’ve left is like twenty minutes ago. Last minute tickets to an event or something? Which is the nice thing about texts.

Hey B, are we on for tonight?

I wait, pacing, feeling jittery and frozen at the same time. Stiff, hurt, and like my lungs have shrunk. It’s just an overreaction because of the stress of the interview and from talking to Madeline. That’s all it is. Bronwyn will text me back in a minute, with a “Yeah, we are” that’ll make me smile because I’ll be able to hear it in her voice and practically see her ridiculous attempt at a salacious wink.

Ten minutes later, and still nothing. This . . . this is when I start to panic. There’ve been some creepers hanging around the village and being inappropriate with female athletes. Which A, makes me shake my head, because, dudes? Do you not realize that most of them could put you through a plate glass window without breaking a sweat or shank you with a skate or a ski pole? B, had me sending warning emails to my team to walk in pairs at least and to be on the lookout; and now, C, has me fretting because what if Bronwyn got attacked? She could totally take down one moron, but more than one?

Or what if her injury started bothering her again? Wouldn’t she text or leave me a note, though, if she’d gone to see the trainer or to the village ER if it were really bad? Although maybe she wouldn’t want to worry me? Fucking worry me a little, because this is unbearable.

My last thought is Brody. He was pretty fucking angry, and we haven’t heard a peep from him. Why is that? It’s not like patience is a virtue of his. If she was heading back to her room, and he did something to her, I swear to god . . .

That’s the thought that gets me to take up my coat and hat and mittens, shove them all back on after I’ve just gotten thawed, although honestly I’m buzzing so hard from the anxiety that I’ll hardly notice the temperature when I go outside.

It’s not a long walk from my building to Bronwyn’s, but fuck those stairs are killer. At the end of them, though, maybe she’s just naked in the bath tub and put her phone on mute so she could actually relax. Yes. That’s what I tell myself as I take step after painful step to make it up to her room so I can bang on her door. She’ll answer in a towel and after checking the hall to make sure we don’t have any witnesses, she’ll drag me inside and make everything okay.

And me? I’ll tell her about the interview and my call with Madeline, and we’ll share a moment of panic about it, but laugh it off because it’s over now and we don’t have to worry about it. Maybe it’ll even lead to talk of what’s going to happen once we go home. Back to Boston, back to real life.

We’d have to keep it under wraps still because even if she’s not my player, I’m sure our relationship would still be frowned upon. But she could come out to Carlisle sometimes, we could go away for a weekend to someplace no one gives a shit about hockey. Charleston, New Orleans. After I have my surgery and then I’ll be able to show her a good time. Dance with her. Dancing with Bronwyn would be . . . The idea makes a little of my brain ooze out my ears. I mean, the closeness would be like foreplay unto itself, but it would also mean I’d have my mobility back. It’s like all the good things I’d wish for all in one.

And it wouldn’t be such a godawful pain for me to climb up some fucking steps. By the time I reach the top, my hip is on fire and I’m so going to pay for this with stiffness and soreness tomorrow morning. But knowing Bronwyn’s okay and has just been kicking back and watching a movie on her laptop or is in the bath to take the edge off? Worth every twinge, every pang, every stab of pain.

At her door, I catch my breath and try to wipe the exertion from my face. Not that I’m winded from walking up a few flights of stairs, but my face is probably drained of color and in some ridiculously attractive death mask. That’s what fighting against constant pain will do to a man. A smarter, less desperate person might’ve figured out another way, but I’m just me, and while I admire my girls for their ability to play smartly, elegantly, with frigging poetry, my impulse is still to bust on through things that are in my way. Perhaps I should take notes.

The other thing I should do is knock on the door because I don’t need people seeing me here and asking questions.

So, doing my best to school my features so Bronwyn won’t freak when she sees me, I rap on the door. A few shuffles later, and there’s the welcome clack of the door unlatching, and I’m so glad, I nearly push in without waiting for her to open the door fully. But holy crap am I glad I didn’t, because it’s not Bronwyn standing in front of me, but Nguyen. Lisa Nguyen? What’s she doing here? And in her . . . yeah, she’s totally wearing pajamas.

She looks as confused to see me as I am her, her head cocked to the side, and a frown tugging down the corners of her mouth. “Coach?”

“Yes.” I never, ever, have claimed to be smooth under pressure. At least nowhere outside a rink.

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