Page 34 of On the Edge of Scandal

There are drums pounding inside my skull, aside from the foot-stomping that’s happening throughout the place. I can’t help but sneak a peek at Bronwyn. She’s standing still at the end of the bench, stick clutched in her hand, and every ounce of her attention riveted, studying. She does well under pressure and has got a sweet understanding of how a shootout can differ from scoring in a regular game. It’s a different set of skills when it’s just you against the goalie. Easier in some ways, because you don’t have a bunch of other players to be looking out for, but if you’ve reached that point, there are a lot of eyes on you, the weight of expectations, and I trust her to handle it.

Martinez kills it, sending her shot right between the Canadian goalie’s pads, and then we’re back to where we started. Tension and strain and pressure are wrapping around my ribcage until I can barely breathe, getting tighter and tighter with each shot. Round three, the Canadian misses, but so does Lam. Fuck, maybe I should’ve put in Nguyen, she was my other choice. Too late now.

The sound in the arena is deafening, the lights blinding, and I want so badly to be shoring up Bronwyn with intimate and gentle encouragement, but I can’t. I leave the reassurance to her teammates who are talking to her, offering observations and suggestions to her and French in equal measure, which is what I should be doing. They’re both my players, they’re both my go-to’s under pressure. I believe in their ability to succeed equally. Wouldn’t have picked them if I didn’t.

After the fourth Canadian skater is holding her arms aloft in victory and the place goes crazy, the team smacks French on her helmet, on her pads, tells her she’s going to be golden. Golden. That’s what we could be if this works out in our favor. Gold medals for all. Even if I’ve fucked up with Bronwyn, I could at least have a hand in giving her that.

French skates out onto the ice, picks up the puck at the center line, and takes it toward the Canadian goal. I swear to god our entire bench holds our collective breath on her approach. The girl nails it with a backhand and we all go wild. Except Harris, who looks like she’s about to lose her lunch all over the ice. I don’t envy her, but she’s doing a fantastic job, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have defending our net.

The last Canadian player lines up, skates toward Harris at speed but then comes to an almost complete stop, does some fancy footwork to try to get her to move, but Harris isn’t falling for it, and catches up the shot with her glove. That’s fine, it’s fine, everything is fine.

If Bronwyn misses, we just do this again. No bigs. I can recycle some players for the shootout or maybe give Nguyen a shot, but I’m not going to start my contingency planning until I’ve given B my full and unadulterated support, because I believe in her. She can do this.

Much as they had with French, her teammates smack her around a little with their gloves, and it’s their way of saying they’ve got her, they think she’s tough enough to handle this, and go fucking get hers. What I wouldn’t give to hold her. But even if she weren’t angry at me, we couldn’t do that. I’d still have to stand here, sending psychic messages that I hope will make it into her head.You can do this. You are good enough, tough enough, intuitive enough, and if I had any player in the world, I would still choose you. Not because we’ve been sleeping together, but because you’ve earned it, you deserve it, and there is no one I have more faith in.

She slips over the boards and skates out to our side of the ice. Takes a second to collect herself, take a breath, and then she’s skating toward center ice where the puck is just waiting for her.

Come on, B. You can get it done, I know you can.

Approaching Canada’s goal, she takes her sweet-ass time, and I use the last bit of air in my lungs to huff a little laugh as I shake my head. Of course she does. No one’s going to hurry Bronwyn if she doesn’t want to be hurried. She makes use of every bit of her stick handling skills, passing the puck from side to side, making the goalie follow it like she’s watching a tennis match.

Not breathing, I feel like time is practically standing still. The air’s all been sucked out of the arena, and everyone’s got their eyes glued to my girl. Can’t blame them, she looks amazing. She’s not showing off, she’s trying to get this done in the best way she knows how. She’s not the strongest, she’s not the fastest, but the way she plays with that puck makes my heart beat hard. Damn, that is sexy.

She’s heading toward the left side of the net, and the goalie’s following her, taking her bait, as I watch, helpless. No, I’m helpless only in this second. I’ve helped her become a better player, gave her a warm body when she needed one, and encouraged her to take what she wants, what she needs.

Bronwyn’s getting awfully damn close, and a thrill of panic runs through me that she’s too late. She’s dribbling the puck and it’s so pretty, but this isn’t figure skating, where the artistry matters. Getting the puck in the net is what counts here. Which is when she lures the goalie even farther to the left, and then . . .

Holy fuck.

Of all the things she could’ve done, I did not see this coming, and neither does the goalie. The goalie’s on her knees, her pads spread to block the shot she knows is coming, that should be coming, because that’s what physics says. That’s what every game she’s ever played in, every opponent she’s ever played against, has taught her. But Bronwyn’s not just anyone.

Taking advantage of the goalie being stuck on the left side of the net, Bronwyn passes the puck between her skates, extends her arm to catch the puck with her stick as it zooms to the right, and then with a sweet little sweep puts the puck over the line and into the net, making it look so fucking easy.

She did it, she fucking did it, and it feels like every person in the arena goes ballistic. The noise, the vibration of people stomping in the stands, the flashing of the lights, and the feel of my team throwing themselves onto the ice like a herd of skate-wearing elephants. I love it, and take the high-fives and the handshakes without knowing who they’re from, and when I get a second of freedom, raise my hands in the air and then despite the pain that’ll ravage me tomorrow, get down almost on one knee and do an epic fist pump.

She did it. We did it. My girls are made of gold, and so is the woman I love.

Chapter Nineteen

Bronwyn

It’s cold out here. Which you would think for someone who spends a good deal of her time in a giant freezer would not be a big deal. But that’s different. I have all my equipment on, I’m getting a workout so I’ll sweat. I get downright toasty. Out here, it’s just me in my stupid tracksuit that looks just like everyone else’s tracksuit, and hat and mittens that look just like everyone else’s. You’d think they’d make them warmer, since they know we have to stand outside for hours in just this, but apparently no one at the USA Snow and Ice Games committee thought of that.

Okay, that’s not entirely fair, because there are tons of bright lights, there’s a huge crowd in relatively close quarters, and there’s enough adrenaline and sexual tension in here to make stew. But still, I’m cold, and I’m not sure when I’ll shake this chill.

I’ve managed to avoid Ash for the past few days. Yes, we’ve had to do press, but I’ve made sure to keep Tara or Lisa near me, studiously avoided any times when we might end up alone or even standing close. Not that that’s stopped me from keeping an eye on him, and seeing that he’s completely fucking fine. Acts like nothing ever happened and that he’s not dying inside.

My hopes that maybe he’d been faking it for the sake of the team haven’t borne out. He’d be done with that by now if he were, but instead, he’s standing in his own stupid tracksuit at the other side of where our team has gathered, and is chatting, laughing, and smiling with Ximena, Colleen, and Gail. Like nothing has happened, like everything is fine. Like his heart is perfectly intact and not lying in ribbons like delicate fabric shredded by newly sharpened skates.

If I’m very lucky, I won’t have to see Ash again. Ever. If I’m unlucky, though . . . the last couple of games of the regular season are still coming up, and the playoffs. It’s not impossible that we’ll be playing BU in the post-season and I can’t stomach the idea of having him there, having to shake his hand after the game, as he smiles at me like he used to. I don’t think I could handle his thoughtful compliments, knowing I used to kneel for this man, take his shoes off, that I know what his skin tastes like, and how he feels inside of me.

Hey, that was a fabulous assist to Quinto,is not going to cut it anymore. But he’ll be the same as he ever was, because he got what he wanted out of me, and that’s all that mattered. At least it’s only a few more games? I can tolerate that, right? I’ve come back from injuries, I’ve worked my ass off, I’ve kept my grades up while I was on a goddamn SIG team. I played one of the best games of my career with a heart that was barely beating, so surely I’ll be able to make it through a few more brush-ups against Ash? God, I hope so.

Tara nudges me. “It’s our turn. Can you hear that? All of that’s for us.”

The roar of the crowd is incredible. If I were in a different state of mind, I’d be able to appreciate it more, and it would make me feel full instead of it all pouring into the hole in my heart and dying there. Doesn’t matter. The medal around my neck is nice, and I’m proud of it, and I’ll relish it later, but right now it’s covered in a layer of grimy heartbreak. But I walk next to Tara nonetheless, waving as the overflowing stands of the stadium come into view, plastering a smile on my face, because this matters to the people back home and they don’t give a shit that I’m crushed, as long as I put the puck in the net, which I goddamn did. Again and again.

Ash

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