On the Edge of Scandal

by Tamsen Parker

  I slip out from under his arm as carefully as I can and tiptoe across the cold floor to use the restroom. Ash’s bathroom is exactly like mine so I feel weirdly at home, even though it’s all his dude stuff in here and not mine. Which reminds me, I should leave time to get back to my room so I can use my own toiletries. Part of me might enjoy smelling like Ash, like comfort, all during practice, but it would be super weird to just occasionally lift my arm and take a whiff, right? So back to my room to my own deodorant I’ll go, but not before I use the toilet.

  Ash’s alarm goes off as I’m washing my hands, and when I step out, it’s to see him pushing off the bed to a standing position, wincing as he does. No, wincing is not a strong enough word for how badly his face is contorted. More like a grimace and a flinch had a really ugly, incredibly painful baby. His whole face has gone pale, and his hands are curled into white-knuckled fists by his sides.

  The panic that overtakes me is worse than when one of my teammates takes a rough hit on the ice. Even if that’s not expected, I at least know it’s a possibility. Hell, it happens to me on a regular basis—it’s not fun, but rarely is it serious. Besides, I know we’re mortal. We get hurt. Yes, we recover, but fundamentally, we’re breakable.

  I hadn’t quite realized it until now, but apparently I think of Ash as invincible. Now he’s so pasty he’s verging on greenish-gray, looking like he might boot it as hard as I did after my night of, um, overindulgence.

  Before I can think better of it, or think at all, I’m by his side, one hand at his waist and another one on his shoulder, raking him over with my gaze, trying to figure out what’s making him look like he took a stick to the stomach when all he’s actually done is get out of bed.

  “Ash? Coach? Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

  He mutters a few curse words under his breath and then his eyes are meeting mine, one of his hands is coming to the small of my back.

  “Hey, B. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  “How can I not worry about it? You look awful. Should I call someone? There are doctors at the—”

  “No.” He shakes his head vigorously, and the pads of his fingers sink into the flesh of my hip. “Listen to me. I’m fine. You don’t need to call anybody, because I’m going to be fine in like five minutes. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to start the coffee pot and make the bed, I’m going to use the bathroom and when I come back, everything will be back to normal. Then you’re going to go back to your suite and get ready for practice, and neither of us is going to be late. Got it?”

  I hesitate, because he looks bad. Really bad. And if he’s sick . . . Panic overtakes me again, because that would be too much. I would be losing far too much, especially now that I seem to be developing a not-entirely-platonic appreciation of the man.

  My voice cracks on a sob I’m trying to hold back because clearly me turning on the waterworks is not going to help anything. “Promise?”

  “Oh, hey.” He shakes his head, the smallest sad smile shapes his mouth, and his gaze shifts focus from me to the ceiling.

  Next thing I know, he’s holding me. His arms are around me, and I’m pressed against him, clinging to him for all I’m worth. Maybe if I hold on tight enough, I can fix him. Because that’s how that works, right? I can just make whatever’s got him looking so incredibly ill go away by wishing and lending the not-inconsiderable strength of my body, right?

  “Ash . . .” I don’t know what to say exactly so I clutch him, hoping he can offer something that will make me feel better. Which is so goddamn selfish, but really the only thing that’s going to make me feel better is if he’s truly okay, which would mean he’d be fine, and that’s not selfish.

  He hushes me and doesn’t let go, not even a little bit. What I think he does, though, is kiss the top of my head, and that almost reduces me to tears. Not sniffling ones, either. Like big, round, rolling ones that would soak his shirt I’ve got my face buried in.

  “Baby, I promise I’m okay. Just give me a few minutes, all right, and I will be right as rain. You’ll think seeing me like this was a bad dream. Cross my heart and swear on my Jeff Halpern jersey.”

  Baby. He did. I had this vague memory of him calling me baby when I was plastered, and I wasn’t sure it was real, but now I am. It pushes at some squishy part of me, one I’ve never admitted was there. Makes me feel all gooey inside. Even in our early days when Brody was at his most adoring, he never called me anything but Winnie.

  It feels like Ash isn’t just cradling me in his arms, but with his words, too. While I hate myself a little for being so affected by such a small thing, and I’ll never tell him exactly how much I like it—because then he might stop, since it’s an entirely inappropriate amount of like—I’ll give myself a few seconds to soak in it, to let his affection leach through my skin and into that stupid needy part of me that’s thirsting for warmth.

  Also, his comment about his Halpern jersey makes me choke out a laugh. I’d never heard of that guy before Ash wore his jersey to practice one day, but after I googled him, he’s become a minor hero of mine, too. Did anything to keep playing hockey no matter what, sat out a pro game to observe Yom Kippur with his family, and now he coaches. He’s supposed to be a really good guy, and I think it’s fitting Ash has such a dude crush on him. Maybe wants to be him when he grows up—minus that whole having played in the NHL thing.

  Whatever it is, Ash gives me another good squeeze and then leans back, moving his grip to my biceps where he chafes my bare skin with his hands. He looks less green, but still pasty, so I maybe scowl at him. It only makes his smile spread across his face, the shadow of his beard more prominent now he’s had time to sleep on it.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Make the bed and put on coffee.”

  Having tasks makes me feel better, less helpless, and I think he knows that. He nods, a crisp jerk of his chin without a dimming of his smile. “Then get to it.”

  I let go of him reluctantly and step away, this irrational fear that without me, he may just topple over, but he doesn’t. No, he makes a shooing motion with his hand, which is what finally prods me into turning my back on him and heading for the coffee maker that’s plugged in on one of the bureaus.

  Ash

  Of all the excellent reasons to not have Bronwyn sleeping in my room, I forgot about this one. I make my way to the bathroom as quickly as I can without worrying that I’m going to cry out in pain, because then I’d have her looking at me like I’m the last person on earth and I’m about to die on her. I’m not, I just . . . really fucking hurt.

  I make it to the bathroom without falling over or even swearing, which is not something I can say about every morning, and before I even take a leak, I down some pills. First a COX-2 inhibitor that’ll keep me going for a bunch of the day, and then an oxycodone to deal with the breakthrough pain. It was a goddamn pleasure having Bronwyn in my bed, but sleeping like that did a number on my hip, and what was I supposed to say to her?

  I keep this under wraps from my players, my colleagues, and, dammit, everyone, as much as I possibly can.

  Normally I’d have my first cup of coffee before hitting the shower, but I take my shower now to buy myself more time to let my meds kick in. I promised Bronwyn, and I’m not going to let her down. She’s been let down enough to last her a lifetime.

  I also want to bang my head up against the tile in here, because I slipped again. Called her baby, and what the fuck was that? One of these days, she’s going to notice, and call me on it. Then everything is going to be so fucking over. Goodbye only career I’ve ever wanted, adios getting to watch my favorite player on the ice, farewell to those fleeting moments when she smiles at me like we’re just two people instead of coach and player, and a hard sayonara to me ever getting to hold her again. At least I didn’t get hard, I have that going for me.

  After five minutes under the spray, the pain has dulled to a manageable roar. It doesn’t feel good, or even that less-bad st
ate I’ve come to see as normal, but it’s good enough that I’m not going to scare Bronwyn again. I’ll take it.

  Wrapping my towel around my waist, I realize I’ve got no clothes in here besides dirty pajamas, and Bronwyn is presumably done with the duties I set her to, and I’m going to have to go out there like this. Half-dressed. With only a towel between me and her, and why am I such a fucking moron?

  Nothing to do about it now, though. Just have to brazen it out, act like it’s not a big deal. That’ll work, right? Because it’s not like Bronwyn is really observant or anything, and oh, shit. Better start figuring out what the hell else I can do with my master’s in sports psychology.

  I take one last deep breath, steel myself as I open the door, and move as quickly as possible without bringing tears of pain to my eye or breaking into a jog—which would also bring tears to my eyes.

  Of course, during my reasonably paced and not at all panicked beeline toward my clothes, Bronwyn looks at me. From what I can see out of the corner of my eye, while I’m grabbing clothes that probably don’t even match out of my drawers, it doesn’t seem to be in an oh - god - why - is - my - coach - half - naked - must - avert - my - eyes - asap kind of look. No, it’s more . . . evaluative than that.

  Which makes me want to kick myself. No way could she be scoping out my hot bod, because A, I don’t have one, B, unlike some of the girls, she’s never given the slightest indication of thinking of me as anything other than her coach, and C, I’ve seen Brody shirtless. Because everyone has seen Brody shirtless. Guy is built, and I’m pretty far from that. Yeah, my playing-days body hasn’t entirely deserted me, but it’s covered by a layer of . . . let’s just go with “fluff.”

  I hustle back into the bathroom, before I can get even more delusional, and attempt to get dressed without injuring myself in the small space. Also try not to have pervy thoughts about Bronwyn joining me in here. One of which I’m more successful at than the other.

  When I make it out, fully clothed this time, Bronwyn’s sitting on my bed, which she’s made, and is sipping out of my SHUT YOUR FIVE-HOLE mug. It makes me stutter-step because of all the filthy things it conjures in my brain. Would it have been any better if it were my PUCK YOU mug? No, no it would not. Maybe I should’ve brought different mugs, or planned to snag a few from the dining hall like everyone else, but these are my good luck mugs, so I brought them. It’s not as though I was planning on having guests, especially not Bronwyn. For fuck’s sake.

  Trying to act chill, because there’s no way I’m actually chill, I amble up to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup, shake in some sugar and one of those creamers you don’t need to refrigerate. Not ideal, but it’s what I’ve got. I could go stand in front of Bronwyn, do a little twirl to show her I’m fine, but I’ll be on my feet enough today so I plop down next to her. Not too close, like not touching, next to her, but it still feels sort of dirty since we’re sitting on a bed. A bed we shared last night.

  She offers me a clink of her mug, and we sit there for a minute, sipping our respective coffees out of our respective mugs, and it feels nice. Too nice. I could do this every goddamn day: sit with Bronwyn in silence before our days get started and drink our coffee. Which can never be, and the universe sees fit to remind me of that by prompting Bronwyn to ask, “So what’s your deal anyway?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bronwyn

  I think at first Ash is going to weasel out of my question. Maybe pretend it was about something else or tell me it’s time for me to head back to my room and get ready for practice. Which it is, but I’ve got a few more minutes. And it’s not fair, to scare the living hell out of me like that and then shrug it off. Which isn’t what he did—I can hardly call giving me the world’s best hug, making me promises, and calling me baby blowing me off—but if he does it now, it would feel that way. Like I’m not worth sharing with. Like I’m allowed to confide in him but he doesn’t have enough faith in me to do the same. That kind of pat - me - on - the - head dismissal would make me feel shitty and small.

  He huffs a breath out of his nose while letting his PUCK YOU mug rest in his hands between his knees. There’s a minute of silence, and he looks like he’s thinking super hard. I’ve seen him do it when he’s deciding who should take penalty shots, or making other hard calls.

  “Look, B. I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to promise me you won’t say anything. Not to the girls, not to anyone. It’s not some creepy secret, I just . . . find it difficult to talk about and I don’t want to talk about it with anyone but you. Can you do that for me?”

  He didn’t say not to the other girls, and it gives me a tiny thrill. Ash likes girls, likes women. Likes the game we play, has a lot of respect for his players and everyone else in the sport. Never have I caught even a whiff of misogynistic asshattery from his direction, so I don’t get mad that he’s called my teammates girls. And to be let in on this secret, it feels precious already even though I only have the ghost of it in my hands. I’ll hold it, I swear, keep it to myself, and be selfish with it. So, “Yes, I’ll keep your secret.”

  He tips his head to look at me and then takes his lips between his teeth like he’s figuring out where to start.

  “I played hockey in high school. And not to be a dick about it, but I was good. Like possibly - headed - to - the - NHL good. At the end of my sophomore season, I had the shit luck to get a pelvic fracture.”

  I wince, because those don’t come easy. His body must have taken some serious abuse for his pelvis to actually break. Hockey players have a ton of hip injuries because of repetitive movements and other factors, but I’ve never known anyone who had a break there.

  “The recovery time was long and basically wiped out my chance at a junior season.”

  Which also meant his college recruitment season. Sympathy burbles in my chest but he shakes his head before I can offer anything.

  “I thought I might be able to salvage something, maybe a D-III school even if I couldn’t hack it in D-I. Once I got back on the ice, I was fine for a while, but then it started to hurt. So bad I had to quit.”

  There’s a flex of his jaw that makes me want to lean over and put my arm around him, nuzzle into the side of his neck, but I don’t think he wants that right now. Or maybe ever from me.

  “There was already a manager for the guys’ team at my high school, and besides, I didn’t want to see my old team. So I started managing for the girls’ team. Their coach was this washed-up alcoholic who couldn’t coach those girls for shit. So in addition to keeping stats and dealing with the equipment, I started watching tape. Giving the players advice when I could sneak it, and we made states that year. That was also when I got diagnosed with degenerative joint disease. You know, osteoarthritis? Which makes me sound like I’m a million years old.”

  I don’t know exactly what that is, but it sounds like it would hurt. And degenerative? That makes it sound like there’s no way it’s getting better. Ever.

  “I wasn’t going to give up and I still wanted to be involved in hockey. Plus, after managing my high school team, I came to love the women’s game. Maybe more than the men’s. It’s faster, more elegant, more about finesse and strategy and speed than brute strength. So I went to college, managed the women’s team there and at the same time tried to keep my OA in check. Exercise, PT, I did everything right.”

  That would’ve been, what, ten years ago? Ash is twenty-eight. Has been head coach at BU for four years after moving up the ranks after he graduated from there.

  “It was better for a while, manageable, but that shit doesn’t go away. No matter what you do. Sometimes you can keep it steady, but sometimes, it just gets worse and there’s . . .” He sounds like he chokes, and he’s staring into his mug between his knees like it might have some answers for him. “There’s not a damn thing you can do about it. It just gets so bad you have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. You can hide it, though. For a while anyway.”

  There’s a jerk of his head as he turns t
o look at me. His expression, which is usually pretty chill unless he’s got his game face on, is fierce.

  I’ve never spent much time thinking about Ash’s looks, because he’s my coach and I had Brody. Even if I hadn’t, Ash isn’t really my type. But this is the first time I’m really noticing the color of his eyes. If you’d asked me before, I couldn’t have told you what color they are. Light? But they’re actually this startlingly clear green, like the sea glass I used to hunt on the beach when I was a kid. Unlike those precious pieces with their smooth edges, his gaze could cut. “I’m not angling for sympathy, I’m just trying to tell you what you wanted to know.”

  “Yeah,” I say softly, because I don’t want him to stop, and I don’t want him to feel pitied. I don’t think he could take it. “I want to know.”

  “It got so bad last year that I was popping pills in a way that wasn’t okay, and finally my ortho told me she thought it was time for surgery. Twenty-fucking-seven and she wants me to have hip replacement surgery. I finally stopped being a stubborn enough dickhead to admit that was probably a good idea, and we’d scheduled it and everything. I would’ve missed part of the season probably and wouldn’t have been able to do the super far travel, but my surgeon was optimistic about my recovery and so was I. That’s when I got the call.”

  He turns to me again, and there’s a genuine smile on his face, one that lets my insides un-crumple some. A bright spot in this dark cloud of a story.

  “Their top choice for coaching the SIG team dropped out and they were scrambling to find a replacement. And a hell of a lot like BU when their head coach retired unexpectedly because her husband got really sick, they took a chance on me.”

  Ash has got this dreamy look on his face like he can’t frigging believe he got so lucky, and more gratitude and admiration than I’ve ever felt for anyone flood my system. If I’ve ever wanted to kiss someone so badly, I can’t think of when it was. It wouldn’t be a sympathy kiss, a pity jumping his bones, it would be a holy fucking hell, I think you’re an incredible man, and that is a turn-on like I’ve never felt before. It’s different from the pure physical attraction than I’d felt for Brody, and we’ve got as much in common as Brody and I ever had. Maybe more.