Page 33 of On the Edge of Scandal

Ash

The girls are looking better. After the talk we had in the locker room, they’ve done as I’ve asked and slowed down. Managed to put the puck in the goal again. Canada’s coach seems to have given her team the same chat, and they also manage to score. The tie is making me crazy, because we’re only a few seconds out from overtime.

I have faith they can handle it, but would I ever rather have this over with. It’s doubling down on the stress and the adrenaline, and I’ve seen Bronwyn swipe at her nose a couple of times. She’s tired. And probably hurt. Which showed in the first period, but she got herself together and has been kicking some royal ass since then. Which I’m grateful for; if she hadn’t stepped up out of whatever mire I left her in, I would’ve blamed myself for the rest of my life. I already blame myself for making this crazy hard thing even harder on her, when I was supposed to be making it easier.

The buzzer goes and causes my heart to momentarily seize. Fuck. We’ve got an overtime, which is a whole other period play under gold medal round rules. Twenty goddamn minutes of trying our damnedest to keep Canada from scoring, because if they do, it’s all over. On the other hand, if we can score, it’s all over and the gold is ours. But I’m risk averse. Always have been, and while women’s hockey is faster, it also encourages caution in a way that the demolition derby of the men’s games doesn’t.

I don’t like it, but I think the strategy here is to do everything possible to keep them out of our net, only taking a shot when it’s almost guaranteed. Best case scenario, we score and win. Worst case scenario, they score and win.Less-than-ideal-but-still-not-the-worstscenario is no goals being scored during overtime, and going to a five-round shootout.

If we make it that far, I have a few girls in mind to take the shots. I don’t know whether to hope for that or not. Crapshoot. That’s what all this is. A goddamn crapshoot.

We’re evenly matched, and I can’t honestly say there’d be a wrong winner. Of course that doesn’t stop me from wanting that medal—for myself, for my girls, for my sport, for my country, for Bronwyn. The consolation’s not bad, either, but I don’t want second best. It’s time to make the case to the girls that I know how best to help them get it. Hopefully I’ve earned their trust and their faith and they’ll be willing to listen. Even Bronwyn, to whom I owe far more than good advice.

As I follow the girls down to the locker room, I put together my pep talk in my head, and try not to notice the way Bronwyn swipes a forearm across her nose.

Bronwyn

It’s the end of the overtime period, and I have been skating my ass off. I am so fucking tired, and sore, and though the high stakes are adding a float of fervor on top of my tall glass of exhaustion, it’s almost gone. Coach had told us to keep the puck out of our goal at all costs, and we’ve done that, but we’re all playing gingerly. I know why, but it’s frustrating.

If Brody were here, I know what he’d say. He’d say to storm the goal, take every shot possible, because they won’t see it coming. Not after so many minutes of playing it safe, but that’s not what Ash wants. He trusts us to get it done in a shootout. That sends a whole new level of anxiety pinging around my chest, though. Will he pick me? Do I want him to? When? And god, what would I do if I missed?

That’s when the buzzer sounds and my heart drops through my stomach onto the ice. Shit.

The team hustles up and surrounds Ash at the bench. It could be my imagination, because everything’s started looking too sharp and too bright, more intense than it does in real life, but Ash looks pale. Without my permission, my mind seeks a reason why. He’s been pacing a lot, both on the floor and on the second row of the bench—jumping down must’ve jarred his hip and it’s gotta hurt like a bitch. I suppose that’s not my concern anymore so I try to ignore the tugs at my heartstrings when I see him wince.

“All right, ladies. First, I want to say that I couldn’t be prouder of each and every single one of you. You’ve played hard, and you’ve played fairly, and come together as a team to do this absolutely phenomenal thing. I want you all to remember no matter what happens in the next few minutes, you’ve accomplished amazing things and your hearts should be full. Mine is.”

He looks around at us, our sweat-glistening faces, our hair that has got some serious frizzing going on, our eyes that are bright with competition, and yeah, some of us look downright bloodthirsty. It’s all plastered over months and years and lifetimes of work. Countless hours spent in freezing cold rinks, on early morning drives because our ice times were for shit or to competitions in other states.

Yes, we absolutely deserve to be satisfied, but I suspect he knows there are some of us who never will be. Which is part of what makes us such damn fine athletes. Always pushing, always aiming for better. Never settling, because there isn’t such a thing as good enough. He walks a delicate balance as a coach, trying to tell us both of those things are true. Like,Yes, you’ve reached the moon and that’s incredible, but can you see those stars? Kinda think you could reach those, too. Just a thought. But if the moon is what you have in you, I’m thrilled.

“Even though the women taking the shots will be doing so by themselves, you will not be alone. The wisdom and work of your entire team is behind you. Plus your teams back home, and all those little kids who come to your games, wear your jerseys, cheer your names, ask you to sign their sticks. You’ve all earned that, no matter who’s making these shots, because we all stand on the shoulders of greatness.”

They’re pretty words, and with his open earnest face, and those clear green eyes, I believe him. Want to hand him everything on a platter. Want to go home with him at the end of the night, take off his shoes and lie with him. Not going to happen. I’ve had enough of an emotional roller coaster to last a lifetime during the SIGs.

Then Ash is making eye contact with every single one of us, and I know when he gets to the end, he’s going to announce the players to take the shots. We might not even get through all five, but he’s going to pick them anyway. And then we’ll do our best to strategize given what we know about the strengths and weaknesses of Canada’s goalie, and the strengths and weaknesses of our own players.

“First shot, Stewart.” Her face splits in a broad grin, but she can’t be surprised. She’s scored two of our goals this game and seems to have a decent handle on what makes their goalie tick, and how she can get around her clockworks.

People hug and punch her, jostle her with affection and chant her name before Ash hushes us all. “Second shot, Martinez.”

Third and fourth pass and they’re good choices. I might’ve switched out Julie for Lisa, but maybe she’s his fifth. There’s always a method to Ash’s madness, but before I understand what it is it can sometimes look an awful lot like psychosis. I should know better.

Before he names the person to take the fifth shot, he looks at us all again and the air is thick with tension. Not just for our team facing this shootout, but also as individuals because that’s a lot of weight on one person’s shoulders. Who’s it going to fall on, possibly crush until she chokes? “We can do this, ladies. You can do this. And Perry, you’re taking the fifth shot.”

A combination of curses and celebratory words explode in my head like one of those confetti poppers. If I thought the world looked sharp before, even the dull edges of the goals look as though they could slice a person in half if they just skated toward one hard enough.

Me. He picked me. He believes in me. Even if he’s not interested in a romantic relationship, he thinks that as a player, I can handle this. It’s a fabulous but confusing compliment. Apparently I’m good enough to hand this to, but not good enough for his bed. That’s okay. I’m not here for sex, I’m here for a gold medal, and goddamn do I want it.

Ash

It’s agonizing. The tension, the pressure in the arena is like nothing I’ve ever felt before in my life, and I’m a hockey coach in Boston so that’s saying something. It’s not helping that I have a player on the other side. Luckily, St. Gelais isn’t going to be involved in the shootout at all. I don’t think I’d be able to contain my joy if she did something awesome, and the press doesn’t like it when you root for another team, even if you’ve got a damn good reason.

The place is downright electric, and that’s before anyone’s taken a single shot. Everything is buzzy and sharp and the strain is unbearable. How the girls are dealing with it, I don’t know. Especially our goalie and the players I picked to handle the shootout. As much as it’s a compliment, a vote of confidence in their abilities, it’s also a burden. Don’t think that didn’t factor in my decision along with the technical skills they have.

We’ve got the advantage of being the second team to shoot, and when Harris lets the first shot through, equal parts joy and ruin pulse through the arena. Same when Stewart gets her shot for us by with a triple deke. God that was pretty, and our bench goes nuts.

Then our apprehension sits like lead in our bellies as the second Canadian squares up to the goal and just makes a flat out slap shot that goes in right above Harris’s shoulder on her stick side. Shit.

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