Page 32 of On the Edge of Scandal

It is a long goddamn night without Ash holding me, without him touching me, without having our bodies interact in any way. I hadn’t been lying when I told him one of the things I missed about Brody was his physical presence. I think maybe some people who aren’t athletes wouldn’t understand, but when most of your life is wrapped up in your muscles and sinews and bones, physical contact—touch—is one of the things you value most in the world. It’s the language you speak.

And I’m the idiot who’s stopped talking to Ash in the way that would comfort us both the most.

He’s texted me and emailed me. I couldn’t read the treatise he sent, because my heart hurts too much to concentrate. I’ve sent him away and don’t have the pluck to seek him out. Take off his shoes, sit at his feet, and ask him why.

The thing is, I know why. There was no way he could’ve copped to us on TV. But did he have to look so certain about it? Did he have to state it so unequivocally thatIbelieved him? The worst thing is that it makes so much more sense. I have friends who play for BU, and he’s always been completely professional with them. Always.

Yes, I’m a good hockey player. Actually, bump that up to great, because I’m not ashamed of being awesome, nor am I going to be falsely modest, because I don’t want to be with anyone who would want me to be. But he knows a lot of excellent hockey players, spends oodles of time with them, so if he had some kind of hockey player fetish, he could’ve indulged it long ago.

He’s dedicated to his sport and to his teams, to the extent that he’s allowed himself to be in serious pain for months longer than he had to just to be here for us. Why would he possibly throw all that away for me? The answer is he wouldn’t. Like, yes, maybe he was doing a service by delaying the meltdown I’ll probably have from breaking up with Brody—not so much because I loved him, but because he’s been a part of my life for so long and the whole TV thing was less than ideal—but it wasn’t for keeps. It was for now. For the team. For victory and glory and legacy and all that shit.

There were a lot of moments in my relationship with Brody when I felt bad and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. I finally figured out that it was because I felt used. Brody didn’t like me, per se, but he liked what I could do for him, liked being associated with me, liked what that said about him.

If you had asked me two weeks ago if Ash would ever be capable of using a person the same way, I would’ve said no. Because it’s not possible. He’s generous and selfless. And yet, I feel more used by Ash than I ever did by Brody. I’m just part of his clockworks, and when a gear broke, he applied a quick fix. Something that would last through the competition, and then I’d be someone else’s problem.

It’s enough to drive tears to my eyes, and they leak out through the corners, down my temples and into my hair. Fuck. Fuck. Brody had never made me cry, and here I’ve only been with Ash for a little over a week, and he’s made me so weak for him I’m actually crying. I hate that, a lot.

That’s when my alarm goes off, and Lisa rolls over. I have to scrub the tears from my eyes, pretending it’s sleep, and try to keep my voice steady when I say, “Heyo, Leese. Are you ready for the biggest day of our lives?”

To which she responds with a pillow to my face. Thanks goodness, because I don’t want her to see me all red and puffy, even in the low light of morning.

Ash

This should be one of the greatest moments of my life. Being in Denver as the youngest SIG hockey coach ever—men’s or women’s teams—and leading my team to the gold medal round. It should feel fucking phenomenal. What it actually feels like is wearing magnetic boots and walking on a floor made out of steel. Regret is what’s making me feel so heavy, even as I have to fake enthusiasm for the girls.

They deserve a coach who is thrilled, who isn’t letting an ill-advised choice to fuck one of his players, and then the inevitable shitstorm that follows, ruin a big fucking day. The biggest of a lot of their lives, and what could very possibly be the biggest of mine. The guilt is not providing any levity. Nor is looking at Bronwyn.

The woman whose heart I’ve broken, the woman who deserves so much more than a man who can’t even admit in the SIG snow globe, never mind out in the real world, exactly how hard he’s fallen for her. The reality of Bronwyn is even better than the fantasies I’d tried to shove from my head for years. And now her shine’s been dulled. I hate that it’s my doing, and I hate even worse that at the moment, there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.

She’s refused my calls, probably hasn’t read my texts or my emails, and there’s no other way I can communicate with her right now. Can’t, especially after the interview last night, take her aside and have a chat, even if I thought she’d come with me, which she likely wouldn’t.

All I can do is stare at her and beat myself up over the way she won’t meet my gaze, how her eyes look swollen and she doesn’t even look happy. She should be elated, and I hate myself for taking that joy from her.

As much as I’d like for her to be, though, Bronwyn isn’t my only responsibility right now. If she were, I know what I would do. But I’ve got twenty girls who are counting on my leadership, who are relying on me to set the tone for today, who I owe my attention and time and effort to, maybe doubly so since I’ve ruined one of the other pillars of the team. Taken Bronwyn from them and left a pale, tight-lipped imitation.

I also hate that she’ll be more hurt by the act I’m about to put on. She’s going to fucking believe that I’m fine, because I need the girls to believe that.Move along, nothing to see here.Maybe at some point, I’ll be able to speak with her and explain, but by that point it will be too late. Hopefully Bronwyn’s performance will be as good as it ever is, and she’ll be a shoo-in for the pro league when she gets back. I know that’s something she wants badly, and if I ruin that for her, too . . .

Asher Levenson, you are literally the worst.

Chapter Eighteen

Bronwyn

Getting out on the ice is hard. The buzz of adrenaline is fighting the sadness in my brain, and it’s making me sloppy. Plus, despite my assurances to everyone to the contrary, I’m not at 100 percent, physically. Maybe like 90 percent, but that’s not what you want for the gold medal game of the SIGs. For that, you should be 110 percent. At least.

But my hip pads are rubbing the bruise that’s bloomed the wrong way, and my skates feel off. Everything just . . . chafes. Especially the way Ash is looking at me. Or rather isn’t. He’s treating me precisely the way he always has, pre-sexing.

It hurts, and undermines my confidence. But it also makes me angry, and anger I can use. It’s heading toward the end of the second period, and we’re tied. Three to three, and the Canadians show no sign of letting up or giving in. They’re skating just as hard as they were at the start, and I have the ridiculous thought that none of them have just ended a relationship. Or rather, have had a relationship ended.

The bench is hard under my butt, and however awkward I feel out on the ice, I feel a hundred times more awkward off it. At least on it, I have to devote every ounce of myself to paying attention or we’re toast, and I’m not going to do that to my team. I’m grateful when I hear Ash’s voice, even though it pains me at the same time. “Perry, get ready to go in for Green.”

I nod so he knows I heard him and wait for the play to settle down so we can swap out. The puck is a whiz of black on the ice, the players a jumble of a little blue and a lot of white and red. Our shots are split pretty evenly, and everyone’s been fairly aggressive about trying to fire one into the goal. Not a whole lot of finesse, and I can predict what Ash—Coach—is going to say when we’re in the locker room at the end of this period.Slow it down, think it through. Yes, take the shots, but set them up, don’t just fire wildly. There’s no way you can make up in volume for lack of planning and execution.It’s annoyingly true.

Canada’s Bouchard gets a penalty for slashing, which she so deserves because she’s done it a few times already and this is the first time she’s gotten called on it. That’s my cue to swap out with Natalie, so I hop the half-wall dividing our bench from the ice, and she skates in.

With Bouchard in the sin bin, we’ve got a power play going on, and my fingers are itching in my gloves. I want that puck. Want to cradle it with my stick and then slap it right into their net. Put us ahead and keep us there by getting in the opposing team’s faces like whoa.

We’re in Canada’s end, playing keep-away with the puck, retrieving it bad shot after bad shot. Finally their goalie snatches a shot out of the air and we have to clear back toward our goal. It’s maddening that we’re not taking advantage of having the advantage of a player, but we can’t seem to get the damn puck in the net. When the buzzer for the period finally goes, I’m sweaty and frustrated, but I’ve finally found my rhythm. I am back in the game with my whole self, everything else melting away.

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