Page 36 of On the Edge of Scandal

Oh. All the competitions are over, and I’ve heard that the village will basically turn into one huge drunken orgy. Which is cool, but I’ve never been the orgy type. And honestly, while I’ll be able to socialize with my teammates any time, I don’t know the next chance I’ll get to spend alone time with Ash. After we go home, the regular season’s not out yet, and then hopefully there’s the playoffs, and then it’s the downslope to graduation.

“Hey, B. Go out with your friends if that’s what you’d rather do right now. You should do whatever you want. I’m not in a rush, we can talk later when things have calmed down.”

It’s sweet of him to say, but it only makes me want to be with him even worse.

“I don’t. Want to go out, that is. I want to be with you.”

He nods, looking a bit stunned. As though he’s surprised I picked him, when in fact I’m the one who should be surprised that he’s picked me. He keeps it secret, Ash does, about exactly how fantastic he is. If the girls really knew . . .

“Okay. Cool. I’ll see you at my place in about an hour? It’s going to take a while to get through this crush.”

“Yeah, see you then.”

We split up, and I rejoin my teammates for what feels like a parade back to the village, with everyone rowdy and full of energy. Some people will be drinking and fucking to celebrate, others are going to be drinking and fucking to wallow. Either way, there’s going to be a shit ton of both going on tonight, and Ash and I still have some of our quota to get through.

Ash

Back at the village, it’s quite the scene. The bacchanal has already started, and I get the feeling it’s not going to stop until . . . well, probably until the last flight out. I’ve seen several people running by naked already, because athletes, and people walking around with open containers like this is New Orleans and not Denver. There’s also the pungent-sweet tang of weed in the air, but who the fuck cares? It’s legal here after all. Even if it weren’t, there’s practically a lawless zone thrown up around the village for the next twenty-four hours. As long as no one’s getting hurt, it’s all good.

As I hike out to my building, my hip is killing me. Maybe I can take something before Bronwyn gets there, because she gets overly concerned when she can tell I’m in pain. I appreciate the concern, I really do, but I don’t think she realizes how constant my pain is, and I don’t want her to. Let her think about something else because as soon as possible, I’m going to do something about this. Right after the season is over. I type a reminder in my phone for the day after we get back from Denver to call my surgeon and schedule the procedure. Again.

I’m about to head into the building when I hear something behind me that cuts through the rest of the vague din of the village. Voices that are familiar, but ping entirely different parts of my brain. When I turn around, I’m not entirely surprised to see Brody, who’s got his big hand wrapped around Bronwyn’s arm just above her elbow.

“Let go of me, Brody.”

How the hell did he even get in here? He doesn’t have an ID badge, but maybe they’re a bit lax on the last official night. After all, some of the athletes are probably sleeping with people who aren’t coaches or athletes and won’t have passes to get into the village. Or maybe he managed to sneak in with the men’s team. However he got in, the important thing is that he’s here and he’s handling Bronwyn in a way she doesn’t like and, if I’m a judge of these things, hurting her.

My feet start to take me toward them, damn the consequences.

“I want you back, Bronwyn. We can start over, pretend that whole thing never happened. And if you don’t give us another chance, I can make you sorry. Put you in a real awkward position. Just like your asshole coach is in hot water right now. Never liked that guy, and he turned you against me.”

Brody grabs Bronwyn’s other arm and shakes her. From the slip-sliding of his words, it sounds like he’s been drinking. While Bronwyn assured me he’d never hit her, she also said she wasn’t sure he never would. Hell if I’m going to let that happen to her, even if it costs me my job, my entire career. I already want to set Brody on fire for being rough with her, and if hehitsher—my brain becomes a ball of molten lava.

I’m usually an even-tempered guy. Not that I don’t get worked up, but it’s all proportionate. There is no proportion here. It’s time for the nuclear option, because he’s goddamn well hurt her enough and he’s not going to harm her anymore.

It occurs to me on my way over—jogging even though it feels like a steel pole is being shoved through my hip with every step—that he’s probably the one to blame for those awkward questions during my interview. Clearly he didn’t have any hard evidence, because it could’ve been a lot worse, but whatever story he told Carla was convincing enough that she still asked me. A wave of relief goes through me that it was some shit Bronwyn’s jealous ex made up and not information from a source who’d actually seen or heard something. But my relief doesn’t last long, because he’s still manhandling her.

Bronwyn’s struggling against him, and I hope she’s not going to have bruises. Hopefully he won’t be able to mark her through her coat because I can’t stand the idea of her having to look at the evidence of him accosting her for days, maybe weeks. It will be bad enough she’ll have the memories, but physical evidence of him having power over her just seems like adding insult to injury, and I hate it. She shouldn’t suffer at all, but definitely not more than she has to. Which is what makes me call out to him. Maybe I can distract him long enough that she can get free and run. Even if I have to take a beating, because Brody looks as though he’s spoiling for a fight.

I’ve been happy to be in a relatively quiet corner of the village, but now I’m regretting it—I wish there were other people here to help me do something about this. I want to save her, but I can’t. I’ll do my best. “Brody! Get your fucking hands off her.”

His block head swivels on his neck, trying to locate whoever yelled at him, and he gets this look on his face like a bull about to charge. Here it comes. I can take the pain—more pain—and I can take whatever consequences might come along with this, if only I can keep Bronwyn safe.

But before Brody can throw a punch, or ram me in the gut with a shoulder, Bronwyn breaks her left arm free of his grip, and while I wish she’d run, she doesn’t.

She punches Brody. Right in his stupid face.

The angle’s not great because his head was turned, but it’s good enough for him to bellow in pain. And when he’s a big enough moron to turn to Bronwyn to yell at her, she punches him again, hard enough that he drops to his knees. That’s my girl.

I’ve reached them and Bronwyn’s cradling her wrist in her opposite hand. Fuck, I hope it’s not broken. But she seems undeterred by what’s clearly a lot of pain. Instead of tears rushing down her face, she’s got a rage mask on.

“Don’t you ever touch me or anyone else like that ever again. You want to be rough on the ice, go ahead, but this isn’t a game. Keep your hands to yourself unless you’ve been given express permission to do otherwise. I know it was you, Brody. I know it was you who fed that story toHour 25.And if I’d had even the smallest inkling of taking you back, that would’ve burned it all down. You don’t fuck with an innocent guy’s career because you’re jealous and your girlfriend refused your proposal. Coach Levenson had nothing to do with me saying no. It was all your fault. You’re a coward, and a bully, and if you do anything like that again, you know I’ve kept some secrets I’m sure BC would be super interested in knowing. Like about how you passed your research methods course?”

Brody’s staggered to his feet, his hands curled into fists, and I want to step between them, but somehow I don’t think that would be welcome. Bronwyn can take care of herself, and I need to let her know I believe that. Let her handle it even though everything I have is screaming at me to intervene.

Brody lurches toward her and I clench my jaw, but he doesn’t touch her. “You wouldn’t.”

“Are you really willing to take the chance you’re wrong?” Bronwyn’s expression gives me the chills. It’s as sharp as the blades she uses to make her way around the rink, and her voice is cold as ice. I, personally, would not fuck with that girl, and apparently Brody decides that would be the wisest course of action as well.

---