“Okay. Then I guess it’s time for me to . . .” I gesture toward the door with my thumb, and her eyes snap wide open.
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean . . . never mind.”
“B . . .” B. This is my compromise. Since I called her baby earlier, that’s the only thing I ever want to call her again, but that would be more than wildly inappropriate. And “Bronwyn” seems too far away. Too many letters between me and her. So “B” it is. “Not ‘never mind.’ Tell me.”
She looks down and wrings her hands. When she looks back at me, there are more tears in her eyes. “Will you stay? With me? Not, I mean, like that.”
That’s cool. I totally do not have an image in my mind of the two of us in bed, Bronwyn’s head on my chest, her hair falling over my shoulder in soft waves, her hand on my ribcage and her knee hitched up on my thigh as I bend to kiss the top of her head. Nope. No naked Bronwyn and Ash in my brain at all.
“But could you sleep here?”
Could I? Technically, yes, it is physically possible for me to do so, and I’d like nothing better. Should I? Absolutely not. Will I? Palm, meet forehead. Repeatedly.
If this were a different time, a different place, I might be able to give in and still look myself in the mirror in the morning, but as things are . . .
I take a hard swallow because I feel like a dickwad for disappointing her, but this really is for the best. “Let me ask you something.”
“Okay?”
“What would happen if one of your teammates busted in here in the early hours and saw me here? What would happen if the press somehow got wind of this and rumors ended up splashed all over the gossip blogs?”
She goes even paler, and I hate myself. Should’ve just said yes, and fuck the consequences. Then you’d be tucking her into bed instead of making her look like she’s going to burst into tears again. But something must click in her head because she nods, slowly. “You’re right. I’m sorry I asked you. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I reach out and rub her arm, enjoying the contact too much. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to be alone. If you need me, call. I’m in the next building over. But I don’t think it would be good for either of us if there was talk.”
If she hadn’t just broken up with Brody, I’d worry about it less, but he’s a sleazebucket. An immature, selfish sleazebucket who no doubt has a vendetta against Bronwyn for humiliating him. If he got wind of this, he’d do his best to blow it up into a huge scandal, and I don’t want that for either of us. So I’ll go back to my own room and try not to worry too much about Bronwyn and if she’s okay. Good luck with that, Levenson.
Chapter Nine
Bronwyn
I’ve only gotten a concussion once in my entire hockey career, and that was in high school. Some girl who’d been playing on a boys’ team until she got to prep school checked me really fucking hard, and her shoulder slammed my head up against the boards. Yeah, I had a helmet on, but I’d felt sick, and dizzy, and I can’t swear I hadn’t lost consciousness for a few seconds. It was ugly. If anyone had told me that a massive hangover would feel exactly like that, I never would’ve gotten shitfaced at Icing last night.
As I sit up and smack my phone until the alarm shuts off, the whole thing comes flooding back. The shots. More shots. Still more shots—Jesus, I’m lucky I don’t have alcohol poisoning. And then the puking in the bar bathroom and then calling—oh, shit. I called Ash. No, I can’t call him Ash anymore. Coach. Calling him Ash was just for keeping up a pretense in case anyone saw us. Just another good guy helping a drunk girl back to her hotel room after a night of hard partying at the SIGs. Then I puked right in front of him. I’d like to say at least I didn’t get any on him, but I can’t even say that for sure. I’m the worst. The absolute worst.
And then did I—? Oh my god. I drop my head into my hands and groan. I did, didn’t I? I asked my coach to sleep over after I puked on him. Even if he doesn’t kick me off the team, he’s never going to look me in the face again.
I struggle off my bed and make my way to the bathroom. Inside, there’s no evidence of any vomiting, so either I got it all in the toilet or—fuck me—he cleaned it up. I’m not sure which is upsetting my stomach more, the leftover alcohol or the humiliation. Noxious cocktail right there.
The funny thing, though, is that getting fucked up is the only thing I regret. I don’t regret telling Brody no, and I don’t wish I could take back how it happened. It’s not how I would’ve liked things to have gone down, but it’s also not like he gave me a choice in the matter. It was his choice to ask me in public, his choice to invite a fucking camera crew. If he’d, I don’t know, asked me, I could’ve saved him some trouble.
No, the only thing I’m sorry about besides my ill-advised number of shots is that I involved Ash—Coach—and risked getting him in trouble. I can’t imagine gossip wouldn’t have started if anyone saw him basically carrying me out of the bar. But also, I have a vague sensation of remorse for not having broken up with Brody sooner.
Yes, Brody has been a huge part of my life for a really long time and it’s weird not to have him around . . . Okay, more than weird. It’s downright disturbing. Although when I’d been with Ash last night, I hadn’t felt disturbed. I’d felt safe, cared for. A warm, glowy sensation—which is what had made me ask him to stay.
I like him all the better for saying no. Although I maybe had some dreams about if he had stayed, and they got pretty inappropriate. Which is weird, because I’ve never really thought of Ash like that. Although, yes, fine, now I can see how some of my teammates could have a crush on him. If he’d played hero to one of them, they probably would’ve swooned. And if they knew how good it felt to be held by him . . .
The HVAC in my room has been pretty good, but maybe they cranked up the heat this morning? Because it’s feeling a little warm in here. Maybe I should call facilities about it. For now, though, I need to get a move on, so I crank the water in the shower, making it cooler than I normally would because the cold will snap me out of some of this stupor. I gasp as I step in, and goosebumps immediately spring up all over my body.
In a moment I remember very clearly, Ash—Coach, dammit—said I could make this up to him by not letting the team know I’m hungover. I sure as hell have my work cut out for me. A cold shower is a good first step, brushing my teeth like whoa, and dammit, eating a good hearty breakfast to soak up whatever’s pitching around in my stomach will get me headed in the right direction. In this one thing, I’m not going to let him down. It’s the least I can do after he saved my drunk ass last night and said all the right things and made good decisions when I was in no position to. So yes, for Coach. Let’s do this.
Ash
I’m not going to lie. I’ve had my eye on the entrance to the rink, waiting for her. Crossing my fingers that she’ll be here and that I didn’t make a huge mistake by leaving her alone last night.
As soon as I left, I started thinking of all the bad things that could happen. All those horrible things you read about as cautionary tales when you first get to college, like people choking on their own vomit or deciding to go back out because they feel totally fine and falling down the stairs and breaking their necks. Don’t let any of those things have happened to Bronwyn. I’d never forgive myself.
Lucky for me and the breath I haven’t been able to fully let out, leaving my chest tight with apprehension, she arrives ahead of schedule. While she looks worse for wear, it’s not anything that can’t be excused by the emotional turmoil of last night. Anyone would look harried after that.
I catch her eye and raise my eyebrows in a silent question I hope she’ll understand: Okay?
She flushes, rolls her eyes, and jerks her chin down in a nod. I don’t know quite what to make of that, but we’ll call it all right with a touch of hungover and a sprinkling of embarrassment. Which is perfectly reasonable. I’d be surprised if she waltzed in here all shameless, especially because th
at would be totally out of character for her. I can do my part and not make this the very hardest kind of practice.
I suspect she’s cracked my code—along with Cunningham and Martinez, who play for me at BU and have had longer to figure it out—so to reassure her she’s not going to be leaving her breakfast all over the ice, I put on my early aughts hip-hop playlist. When she hears the first beats of 50 Cent’s “In Da Club,” her shoulders visibly relax. I can’t help the curl of the corner of my mouth as I look down at my clipboard before I make my voice loud to tell the girls to circle up, because we’ve got some work to do.
We get through practice, and Bronwyn keeps her word. She’s maybe not as badass as she is on her best days, but she’s still damn good, and you’d certainly never guess how blitzed she was last night if you didn’t know.
Afterward, the team disperses because they’ve got a while before our team tape-watching session, but Bronwyn dawdles until it’s just the two of us.
“Coach?” Call me Ash. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I look around, but there’s no one here to overhear whatever it is she has to say. Her lips purse, pink and full, and she has a hard time looking me in the eye. Finally, though, she does.
“I wanted to apologize about last night. My actions were not acceptable, and I am so, so sorry.” Her voice is shaky, and her face is red, and I—all I want to do is hug her. But that’s a no-go. So instead I fold my arms over my clipboard and hold it to my chest, trying not to be too despondent it isn’t her.
“Apology accepted, although unnecessary. Not that I want to do that every night, or you know, ever again, but we’re cool. Don’t worry about it.”
I reach out and give her a bro punch on the arm that makes her smile a little. But under the curve of her generous lips, there’s still sadness. The weight of grief. Part of me wants to shout at her. Why? Brody Hill is dickhead who doesn’t deserve to lick the blades of your skates. He’s not very smart, he’s a somewhat better-than-average hockey player, but he has no real love for you. Talks smack about your incredible skills out of jealousy, and makes your body public property by using your sex life for locker room fodder. Why, for the love of my Jeff Halpern jersey, would you feel bad about the loss of that Neanderthal, especially after the way he took advantage of your success to get attention for himself, and when things didn’t go his way had a nuclear meltdown?
But Bronwyn’s not a stupid girl, and I’m not going to be the condescending asshole who asks her to validate her choices. Instead, I remind myself they’ve been together since she was fourteen. Started dating when they were both first-years in prep school, and have stayed together through college. That’s almost eight years of being a couple, which is far longer than I’ve ever dated anyone. She’s had Brody by her side for almost half her life, for better or for worse.
As I think about it, it becomes more obvious to me what she’s lost. Maybe it’s not even Brody himself, but just this massive piece of her life that’s no longer there. Which I get, only too well. My hip throbs as if to prove a point. No, I can’t play hockey anymore, but I’ve found another way. Bronwyn doesn’t have Brody anymore, but maybe she can also find another way. In her case, I hope a better way.
In the meantime, I’ll do what I can to make this easier on her, because not only is she one of my best players and a role model for the rest of the team, but she’s also a person in pain, one whom I care about—probably more deeply than I should—and I want to ease her suffering. It’s easy to accept her apology and try to buck her up, even a little.
“Look, B. I get it. You and Brody were together for a long time, and even if you’re not sorry about refusing his proposal and the fallout from it, he was still a massive part of your life for a long time. It must be unsettling to have your life change so much in the blink of an eye, especially when you’re already under a lot of pressure. So here’s what. I’m going to make you an offer, and you can do with it what you will.”
A spark of interest lights her eyes, and I have to hold myself back from stepping in close and wrapping an arm around her waist, touching my nose to hers and breathing in the hard-working smell of her. Instead, my knuckles whiten around my clipboard. “I’ll be your anchor. I’ll fill the gaps. If you feel like calling Brody, call me instead. If you usually eat lunch with him, I’ll meet up with you. There must be a hundred things you do every day that make you think of him. Don’t think of him, think of . . .”
Me. Think of me. “Uh, hockey.”
She smiles at me, a funny twisted-up thing that makes me think she’s trying not to laugh. Which is fine. She could totally laugh at me and I wouldn’t care. “So, you’re going to be the nicotine gum to my Brody cigarette?”
Whatever you do, do not think of being in her mouth. For fuck’s sake, I may have to move this clipboard lower if I get any more filthy ideas. But yeah, she’s got the gist. “Yep. Sure am.”
That fucker certainly is a cancer, and I’m glad she’s going to kick the habit, even if it means she’s going to chew me up and spit me out. But I know her; she wouldn’t mean to. It’s just . . . what’ll happen, because nothing else can.
While we’re standing here in this empty hallway leading off the rink that smells of new construction and fresh paint, and she’s still got all her gear on and I’m still in my Coach role, I can at least get the details on what this might mean. For the both of us.
It might’ve been a stupid offer, but I can’t take it back, and fuck, don’t even want to. Before I can change my mind, I spill. “So, tell me. What do you miss about Brody?”
Please don’t get all starry-eyed and say, Everything. He was the love of my life, my soulmate. The peanut butter to my jelly, the burger to my fries, the milk to my cookies. I think I’d die. Also, there’s no way Bronwyn would say something so cheesy. But this is all my brain can come up with. I was never much for English class.
She blinks up at me, her golden eyes surrounded by that dark fringe of lashes, and her sable hair falling over her shoulder from her ponytail that’s come loose during practice. Why could it not have been one of my players to whom I have zero attraction having relationship trouble? Why did it have to be her—the one who makes me want to break all the rules?
“This is going to sound terrible—” That’s fine. There’s no love lost between me and Brody. “—but sometimes he was just a warm body, you know? Human contact? I really like to be . . . held.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. This snapshot of me and Bronwyn huddled up under a blanket in front of my flat-screen over the fireplace at my little house in Carlisle flashes in my brain. We’d watch the Bruins and throw popcorn at the screen. When the game was over, maybe we wouldn’t make it all the way to the bedroom before we were tangled up in each other’s limbs, ready to get naked.
No, nononono. My brain is well aware this is a terrible idea and I should stay far the fuck away from anything remotely like touching Bronwyn in an intimate way. My mouth, on the other hand . . . well, my mouth has different plans. “I could—I could do that?”
Shit. Mouth, if you’re going to make a dickface out of me, could you at least be more assertive about it? But I can’t spend too much time beating myself up, because Bronwyn’s looking at me, her round eyes rounder than usual. “Hold me?”
Jeez. If there are things I want more than to be close to Bronwyn, even if it’s only for body heat, I can’t think of what they might be.
Since I’ve already opened this can of worms, might as well tip it into my mouth and chug. Yes, I could. But now my mouth seems to have gotten a better grip on reality and I’m left standing there, gaping at her. Can’t say it, won’t say it. Then she’ll be able to tell . . . how I feel about her. What I want from her. And that is a no-go.
Luckily, Bronwyn hasn’t had the same breakdown between her mouth and her brain. “Isn’t that . . .”
She’s blushing. I didn’t think she could get any prettier, but this isn’t the red of ice-bur
ned cheeks or the spots of cold-plus-exertion. It’s the pink flush of embarrassment and it’s gorgeous. I am so screwed.
“ . . . Isn’t that inappropriate?”
“Wildly,” I concede, and she laughs. A short, startled noise, and it makes me smile back, one corner of my mouth tugging up helplessly, because now the urge to have her in my arms is this tangible thing. I thirst for her, want to drink her all up. “If anyone found out, I’d probably get fired. But they’re not going to do that in the middle of the SIGs, especially since we’ve reached the semifinals. And if it helps you through this, and gets you ladies home with medals around your necks, it will have been worth it.”
Chapter Ten
Bronwyn
I can’t sleep.
That’s not unusual a couple of days before a big game, but what is unusual is that I don’t have anyone to fuck the tension out of me. For all he didn’t particularly give a shit if I came—or at least never made much of an effort to make sure that happened—Brody was always good for a first-rate pounding. He could fuck me so hard and for so long I’d sometimes wake up feeling bruised inside, but at least he could wear me out. Leave me limp and replete, so exhausted I’d have no choice but to close my eyes and let the dark take me over.
I don’t have Brody at my disposal anymore, though. Nope, made sure of that. It’s possible I could’ve found a way to say no that would’ve allowed us to stay together, at least until the SIGs were over, which is maybe not the most honorable thing to do, but everyone gets to be a little selfish now and then, right? God knows he was selfish enough with me.
But when I think about it, there was no way out of that with a pleasant outcome except to say yes. Which I suppose I could have done to save face, to not humiliate him, and then afterward told him no. When we got home—so that I could still be getting fucked within an inch of my life right now when I really need it.
On the Edge of Scandal Page 6
