It’s disconcerting that scales I’ve never thought existed have tipped. Ash is just . . . he’s really fucking incredible is what he is, and I can’t believe I never saw it before.
“So you put off having surgery to coach us?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“No.” I’m not letting him get away with that. It might be dangerous and stupid as hell, but I set my half-full mug on the bedside table, and get to my knees on the mattress, take his face in my hands, look straight into those sea glass eyes. “Not you guess so. You did that. Made that sacrifice, for us. That’s why you looked sick this morning, because you were in that much pain. If they had any idea . . .”
His gaze goes sharp again, and I soothe it with a rub of my thumbs over the scruff of his cheeks. He didn’t shave. “I won’t tell, I promise, but I will—I will say thank you.”
Before he can tell me not to, I lean up, intending to set my mouth to where my thumb just grazed. My heart is beating hard like I’ve just been doing Z drills, and it goes into overdrive when he turns his head ever-so-slightly at the last second, so that instead of getting his scruff like sandpaper beneath my lips, I get his soft lips.
This is . . . not what I meant, but now that I have it, I can’t imagine why not. His mouth feels incredible against mine, and he smells so goddamn good, I want to lick him all over. Devour every inch of him because . . . I don’t even know, it just feels really fucking good. Like something I want to do instead of something I’m obligated to do.
Which is why it hurts so much when he pulls away.
His eyes are closed, hands are white-knuckled around his mug, and the pleasant heat that had been gathering in my chest blooms into the worst burn of embarrassment. Oh my god, I just did that. I kissed Ash. No. Coach, I kissed Coach, and that is not okay for like a thousand different reasons, and now he’s mad at me and my life is over. Yep, I can go from thrill to catastrophe faster than I can skate between blue lines.
When I look at his face, though, he doesn’t look mad. Nor does he look disgusted or mortified or any of the other bad things I’m looking so very hard for because I expect them to be there. He’s frozen to the spot, barely breathing if he is at all, and it occurs to me that maybe he’s gripping his PUCK YOU mug until it looks like his fingers are about to break off because he doesn’t want to be holding the mug, he wants to be holding me.
Maybe he wants this as much as I do, but he’s got more willpower than I have and is resisting because this is not a good idea. Well, you know what? I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me, I’m tired of being everyone’s pawn. Yes, even Ash’s. I fully recognize the irony of him being one of the people I’m giving the finger to as I grab him by his shirt collar and pull him into another kiss, this one entirely on my terms. Which, in this case, means an aggressive surge of my mouth against his, and fuck yes, I’d like to taste him so I slip my tongue into his willing mouth.
Ash
Fucked, fucked, fucked, I am so incredibly fucked. I am also blissfully, deliriously happy, and hard as hell. I’d turned to tell Bronwyn she didn’t have to thank me—I’m doing my job, one I love and have found satisfaction in after I’d been terrified that my life might be over.
It’s been a delight to watch her play for the past six and a half seasons, and the girls, too. Being able to make good players great? Helping their dreams come true and getting even an ounce of thanks for it? Thank you.
But instead of being greeted with a Bronwyn who would’ve stubbornly insisted on thanking me anyhow, I got her lips. Her kissing me is like being struck by lightning, hit with a bus, and snorting coke all at once. At least I’d imagine that’s what it’s like, I have no fucking idea.
Whatever it is, despite the connection being only between our mouths and her fingertips grazing my cheeks, I feel the bond throughout my entire body. From each strand of hair on my head, through the marrow in my bones and the blood rushing through my veins, all the way down to my goddamn toenails. That’s how Bronwyn electrifies me.
After that beat of enjoyment, though, I pull away, because there’s too much at stake here. Her future, my future. More immediately, we’ve got to get through the SIGs and how am I—are we—supposed to do that if we’re carrying on this illicit affair? Maybe that sounds like a giant leap, but from that brief kiss, I can tell. This isn’t just a kiss, it’s going to turn into a consuming . . . if not love affair, then certainly a lust-fueled sex binge.
Maybe, I think, she’ll realize what happened and will be sorry. Profusely apologize because I don’t think she meant for that to happen, and even though it’s not her fault and anger is the furthest thing from my mind, discouraging her from doing it again would be a smart move. But somehow, my brain’s sense of self-preservation has gone AWOL, and the feeling of desperate wanting, need for her, must show up on my face because that’s the only explanation for why she’s kissing me again.
Her tongue is hot, slick, and silky in my mouth. I’ve had fantasies about her before but I have underestimated the effect she would have on me, and that is saying something. What I should do is wrap my hands around hers, which are clutching my open collar, gently disentangle her fingers, and break this off. Pull back again, tell her this isn’t okay, it’s wrong, we could both get in trouble for this, it endangers the team, all of the thousand reasons why getting involved would be a genuine mistake. And yet, I don’t.
What I do instead is drop my half-empty coffee mug on the floor, thankful for the first time for the cheap faux-wood that will make it easy to wipe up, though I’ll still have to do it on my hands and knees and won’t that be a bitch. But worth it. So very, very worth it. To be able to—after years of wishing and lusting and wanting—slip my hands over her powerful shoulders, up her defined traps, and into the fall of her hair. Her dark, glossy hair, and yeah, I almost choke because it’s as soft as I’d ever thought it would be.
I can’t stop, can’t stop, and she doesn’t seem in a hurry to, either. No, she’s knelt up on the bed and the weight of her against me is such that I topple backward, thankfully toward the pillows, and then she’s on top of me. It’s only through some miracle that I don’t come in my pants—or let out a bark of pain, because as much as I enjoy this, my hip is not a fan of sudden movement.
Makes me think of those studies they’ve done on frequency of concussions. Despite not being allowed to check, women’s hockey players get more concussions than men do. And what the fuck is with that? The hypothesis is that women get hit (and do the hitting) anyway but aren’t prepared for it, so they don’t brace themselves for the hit. Not like in men’s hockey where getting checked and roughed up is a fact of life, a rule of play. It’s going to happen, so get ready.
I’m not ready for this. Maybe if I’d been prepared I would’ve been able to say no, but as things are, I’m doing my best to get the air into my lungs that the shooting pain knocked out, all while kissing my dream come true.
Bronwyn
After the kiss—and yes, I will likely forever refer to it that way, in mental italics—I had to hustle back to my room and get ready for practice. I hadn’t really wanted to change my clothes, would’ve liked to smell like Ash and his room, but that’s an even better reason to change. So here I am at practice, trying not to touch my lips whenever I look at Ash, remembering what it had felt like to kiss him and wishing I could do it again as soon as humanly possible.
I managed to get through practice without killing or making a complete ass out of myself, although I don’t know how. I’m distracted by this new thing that’s taken over my brain. My newfound fascination with Ash is unfamiliar. The guys I’ve found attractive at first glance have always been big. Tall, broad, muscles for days. Like Brody. Along that scale, Ash doesn’t measure up.
It’s not like he’s in terrible shape or anything, but I can look him in the face, I might be taller than him if I ever put on heels—not likely—and he’s got a little bit of a tummy. Like all those descriptions of guys whose pants hang off their
hips in this ridiculously alluring way? Ash does not have that going on.
During practice, I caught a glimpse of skin between his pants and his sweatshirt as he was waving his arms wildly about something Jennie did. It didn’t make me want to buy a ticket to board that train, but it did make me curious. What would Ash be like in bed? Would he be sweet or bossy? Would he tell me I was pretty or would he just want to roll me over and pound away? Would he make sure I came first, before he got his, or would he just take, take, take and leave me to scramble after my own pleasure? How would his furry stomach feel against my smooth one? The thought of his chest hair brushing against my nipples as he bucks into me is, well, mmph.
Not to mention I had no idea about his injury. Like, yeah, I’d wondered how he ended up coaching women’s hockey, especially not being a former pro like a lot of the top coaches are. But knowing he’s basically in constant pain . . . it pinches my heart. Not in a pity way, because I don’t think he’d like that, and he’s made it very clear that he’s not some fucking inspiration for doing what he does, but I feel for him and I want to empathize with him in a way that he’s okay with but that still tells him what I want to say. That’s shit, and I think you’re awesome.
Ash is really strong. Not in the could-bench-press-me way Brody was, but in a quieter way. I don’t think I’d be able to dedicate my life to helping people get better at something I used to love but could no longer do. How is he not bitter as fuck? I would be. I don’t even think there’d be anything wrong with that. But no, he’s really fucking good at what he does, and never does he make us feel guilty for having something he doesn’t.
This epiphany of how goddamn amazing Ash is and how smoking hot that makes him is all I can think about now, on my way back to my room, especially when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Ash.
Can we talk?
There hadn’t been much in the way of talking after the kiss, because we’d had to haul ass to practice. In some ways that had made it easier, but in some ways harder, and I’m glad he’s decided to be the mature one here and yes, we definitely need to talk.
Yes. Your place in twenty minutes?
My heart races when he texts back.
Works for me, see you soon.
Chapter Thirteen
Ash
All through practice, while trying to keep my head in the game, my eyes on the girls, all I could think of was Bronwyn. Half of it was with a not-insubstantial effort to keep from getting an erection. The other half was with a crazy amount of guilt, shame, and self-reproach.
How could I have done that? And more so, how could I have enjoyed it? Enjoyed it so very, very much.
I’m pacing my room despite it bothering my hip because I can’t sit still. If I sit still, then I’ll have to stay sitting—I’ve entered the time of day where I have to keep going. An object in motion stays in motion and all that.
I am an object in motion toward hell for doing this. In all of my years managing and coaching, I have never, ever been inappropriate with a player. Have I had crushes? Of course. They’re incredible athletes, we have this major thing in common, and there have been some that just hit that spot—you know the one that gives you butterflies? Makes your heart beat kinda funny and the stuff in your pants sit up and take notice? Yeah, that. I feel that way about Bronwyn. Have felt that way about her for a long time.
To act on it, though? That’s different. And I don’t do that. Shouldn’t do that. So when she gets here I’ll give her a speech which I spent much of practice composing in my head. “Bronwyn, you’re a beautiful girl and yes, I am attracted to you. You’re an amazing hockey player and I have a great deal of respect and admiration for you on and off the ice. If things were different, you would be the kind of woman I would want. Things being as they are, I apologize profusely, and I’m sure you understand why nothing remotely like that can happen again. Ever.”
She’s a rational person, and she’ll understand. It’ll be fine.
Except that when I open the door, my mind goes completely blank of anything but Bronwyn, what a knock-out she is, and the soft breathy way she says, “Hi.”
I am fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.
Bronwyn
The first second Ash opens the door, he’s standing there looking all resolute and unwavering. But he barely gets his mouth open before he . . . wavers. Me? I say something really fricking brilliant. “Hi.”
“Hey, come on in.”
He ushers me inside and I don’t miss him peeking into the hallway to make sure no one saw me come in. Once I’m inside, I plop on the bed where we slept last night and kick off my shoes so I can sit cross-legged, even though as soon as I do, I realize it must seem like an invitation. Or a demand, which it isn’t. I just wanted to sit, and this is where I feel the most comfortable. Ash clearly does not, because he paces and it’s freaking me out.
“Could you . . . could you sit? You’re making me nervous.”
Ash blanches—is it really that bad? Asking for him to sit down so I don’t have to follow him around the room and so he doesn’t make himself dizzy? But ultimately, he doesn’t protest, just lowers himself gingerly next to me, which is when I realize.
“Oh, fuck, Ash, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . .”
He waves me off even as he’s grimacing, gritting his teeth. “It’s fine. I can sit.”
Although judging by the way he mutters, “I can fucking well sit, goddammit,” he can’t, actually. When he’s lowered himself all the way down, he’s white as a sheet and breathing hard. Whatever he’s dealing with, it’s not one of those exaggerated injuries like those men’s futbollers trying to get a card pulled for someone nudging them. This is killing him. How can I help?
“This, is, um, maybe too much, but I’m . . . I’m already tensing up about our game tomorrow—” Switzerland. They’re a bit of a surprise to have made the semis, but I still think we can take them. It’s just a matter of keeping our heads in the game. And my head is more on Ash. “Could we lie down for a bit and just . . . cuddle?”
A brief wave of relief crosses his face and then he’s cringing again. “Yeah, sure. Just let me—”
He leans forward to untie his shoes and there is yet more swearing. Jeez. In trying to get us lying down where he’d be more comfortable, I’ve inevitably made him less comfortable.
“No,” I say, sliding off the bed and onto my knees at his feet, grabbing for his laces, and there’s a sharp inhale of his breath as I look up to see what the big deal is. No, it’s not a regular thing for me to get on my knees for men, and I wouldn’t have made a habit of it with Brody—just for the occasional blow jobs—but Ash isn’t going to see this as demeaning. Sexy, maybe, but not something that makes me less even as I untie his shoes and slip each one off his feet in turn. It’s a service, sure, but also caring. I like it.
“B, you don’t have to do that. I can’t have you doing that.”
I look up at him from my place at his feet, and I cock my head. “You didn’t ask me to do this, I volunteered. If I thought you’d be a dick about it, I wouldn’t be here right now and I sure as hell wouldn’t be doing this. I’m not trying to make you feel less-than, either. I’m trying to help a person who I care about, who’s in pain, be in less pain. Would you do this for me if our positions were reversed?”
He’s looking at me with that intense gaze of his, and he croaks out an answer. “I would, in a heartbeat.”
“Then I don’t really see the problem.” And honestly, for reasons I can’t explain, I’m comfortable down here. Especially when he reaches out a hand and strokes my hair. I probably shouldn’t be getting so much pleasure out of this, but it’s nice, comfortable, and some of the feeling like I’ve got the weight of the world on me has melted into the floor. Because I like it, I shift from my knees to sitting mermaid style and set my head on his knee, wrap my arms loosely around his calf and ankle.
I sit for a while, enjoying the quiet, trusting Ash to not read too much into this or
to take advantage, just give this to me because I need it right now. After about fifteen minutes, I feel like Bronwyn jelly and I’d really like to take a nap, rest up for the remainder of our team obligations for the day. They’re not physically strenuous, but it takes a lot of mental energy to study up on our next opponent. Also, it’ll be fun to watch the men’s game, but we’ll have to be on because no doubt the cameras will be on us some.
Getting my bones in order, I crawl up to join Ash on the bed and flop down on the wall side trying not to jostle him as he lies back slowly, cautiously and then gathers me to him with an arm around my shoulders.
It’s oddly comfortable after just a day; he feels and smells like home to me, and I can breathe here. I don’t want to ruin it, but this isn’t technically what I came here for. “So, you wanted to talk?”
He inhales, his chest rising under my cheek, and I let my hand creep further up his ribcage, which makes his breath hitch.
“Yes. I did. I think we should. Right?”
“I suppose.”
“So, uh, about the whole, uh . . .”
“Kissing?” It’s both frustrating and fun that I can’t see his face. I can imagine it, especially when I walk my fingers over to a button on his shirt and toy with it.
“Yeah, that.” His voice is scratchy with strain, and I’m taking entirely too much pleasure from being able to make him sound like that just from the small movement. “That, uh, it wasn’t a good idea. I’m your coach, and I shouldn’t be taking advantage of you like that, and I—”
On the Edge of Scandal Page 9
