On the Edge of Scandal

by Tamsen Parker

  “What’s the matter? Are you okay? You look—”

  “I’m fine.”

  That’s a fat fucking lie if I’ve ever heard one. “You’re really not. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  Her jaw flexes and she swallows as she holds her body tight, arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing pajamas, too. “It’s not anything of a professional nature.”

  Fuck. She must have heard my conversation with Madeline, which, yes, I get, but . . . My mind’s gone flaily, trying all at once to soothe her, defend myself, seek comfort, and make this into a secret we can share, that might bring us closer. But she can’t be upset about this. “What was I supposed to say? Would you have me—”

  Her eyes are hard and cold as the ice that makes up half our lives as she raises her voice. “Yeah, my hip’s fine. I’ve been following the trainer’s instructions, don’t worry about it. I’ll be tip-top for the game tomorrow. Thanks for checking, though, Coach.”

  With that last verbal stab to my heart, she shuts the door in my face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bronwyn

  It is a long goddamn night without Ash holding me, without him touching me, without having our bodies interact in any way. I hadn’t been lying when I told him one of the things I missed about Brody was his physical presence. I think maybe some people who aren’t athletes wouldn’t understand, but when most of your life is wrapped up in your muscles and sinews and bones, physical contact—touch—is one of the things you value most in the world. It’s the language you speak.

  And I’m the idiot who’s stopped talking to Ash in the way that would comfort us both the most.

  He’s texted me and emailed me. I couldn’t read the treatise he sent, because my heart hurts too much to concentrate. I’ve sent him away and don’t have the pluck to seek him out. Take off his shoes, sit at his feet, and ask him why.

  The thing is, I know why. There was no way he could’ve copped to us on TV. But did he have to look so certain about it? Did he have to state it so unequivocally that I believed him? The worst thing is that it makes so much more sense. I have friends who play for BU, and he’s always been completely professional with them. Always.

  Yes, I’m a good hockey player. Actually, bump that up to great, because I’m not ashamed of being awesome, nor am I going to be falsely modest, because I don’t want to be with anyone who would want me to be. But he knows a lot of excellent hockey players, spends oodles of time with them, so if he had some kind of hockey player fetish, he could’ve indulged it long ago.

  He’s dedicated to his sport and to his teams, to the extent that he’s allowed himself to be in serious pain for months longer than he had to just to be here for us. Why would he possibly throw all that away for me? The answer is he wouldn’t. Like, yes, maybe he was doing a service by delaying the meltdown I’ll probably have from breaking up with Brody—not so much because I loved him, but because he’s been a part of my life for so long and the whole TV thing was less than ideal—but it wasn’t for keeps. It was for now. For the team. For victory and glory and legacy and all that shit.

  There were a lot of moments in my relationship with Brody when I felt bad and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. I finally figured out that it was because I felt used. Brody didn’t like me, per se, but he liked what I could do for him, liked being associated with me, liked what that said about him.

  If you had asked me two weeks ago if Ash would ever be capable of using a person the same way, I would’ve said no. Because it’s not possible. He’s generous and selfless. And yet, I feel more used by Ash than I ever did by Brody. I’m just part of his clockworks, and when a gear broke, he applied a quick fix. Something that would last through the competition, and then I’d be someone else’s problem.

  It’s enough to drive tears to my eyes, and they leak out through the corners, down my temples and into my hair. Fuck. Fuck. Brody had never made me cry, and here I’ve only been with Ash for a little over a week, and he’s made me so weak for him I’m actually crying. I hate that, a lot.

  That’s when my alarm goes off, and Lisa rolls over. I have to scrub the tears from my eyes, pretending it’s sleep, and try to keep my voice steady when I say, “Heyo, Leese. Are you ready for the biggest day of our lives?”

  To which she responds with a pillow to my face. Thanks goodness, because I don’t want her to see me all red and puffy, even in the low light of morning.

  Ash

  This should be one of the greatest moments of my life. Being in Denver as the youngest SIG hockey coach ever—men’s or women’s teams—and leading my team to the gold medal round. It should feel fucking phenomenal. What it actually feels like is wearing magnetic boots and walking on a floor made out of steel. Regret is what’s making me feel so heavy, even as I have to fake enthusiasm for the girls.

  They deserve a coach who is thrilled, who isn’t letting an ill-advised choice to fuck one of his players, and then the inevitable shitstorm that follows, ruin a big fucking day. The biggest of a lot of their lives, and what could very possibly be the biggest of mine. The guilt is not providing any levity. Nor is looking at Bronwyn.

  The woman whose heart I’ve broken, the woman who deserves so much more than a man who can’t even admit in the SIG snow globe, never mind out in the real world, exactly how hard he’s fallen for her. The reality of Bronwyn is even better than the fantasies I’d tried to shove from my head for years. And now her shine’s been dulled. I hate that it’s my doing, and I hate even worse that at the moment, there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.

  She’s refused my calls, probably hasn’t read my texts or my emails, and there’s no other way I can communicate with her right now. Can’t, especially after the interview last night, take her aside and have a chat, even if I thought she’d come with me, which she likely wouldn’t.

  All I can do is stare at her and beat myself up over the way she won’t meet my gaze, how her eyes look swollen and she doesn’t even look happy. She should be elated, and I hate myself for taking that joy from her.

  As much as I’d like for her to be, though, Bronwyn isn’t my only responsibility right now. If she were, I know what I would do. But I’ve got twenty girls who are counting on my leadership, who are relying on me to set the tone for today, who I owe my attention and time and effort to, maybe doubly so since I’ve ruined one of the other pillars of the team. Taken Bronwyn from them and left a pale, tight-lipped imitation.

  I also hate that she’ll be more hurt by the act I’m about to put on. She’s going to fucking believe that I’m fine, because I need the girls to believe that. Move along, nothing to see here. Maybe at some point, I’ll be able to speak with her and explain, but by that point it will be too late. Hopefully Bronwyn’s performance will be as good as it ever is, and she’ll be a shoo-in for the pro league when she gets back. I know that’s something she wants badly, and if I ruin that for her, too . . .

  Asher Levenson, you are literally the worst.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bronwyn

  Getting out on the ice is hard. The buzz of adrenaline is fighting the sadness in my brain, and it’s making me sloppy. Plus, despite my assurances to everyone to the contrary, I’m not at 100 percent, physically. Maybe like 90 percent, but that’s not what you want for the gold medal game of the SIGs. For that, you should be 110 percent. At least.

  But my hip pads are rubbing the bruise that’s bloomed the wrong way, and my skates feel off. Everything just . . . chafes. Especially the way Ash is looking at me. Or rather isn’t. He’s treating me precisely the way he always has, pre-sexing.

  It hurts, and undermines my confidence. But it also makes me angry, and anger I can use. It’s heading toward the end of the second period, and we’re tied. Three to three, and the Canadians show no sign of letting up or giving in. They’re skating just as hard as they were at the start, and I have the ridiculous thought that none of them have just ended a relationship. Or rather, have had a relat
ionship ended.

  The bench is hard under my butt, and however awkward I feel out on the ice, I feel a hundred times more awkward off it. At least on it, I have to devote every ounce of myself to paying attention or we’re toast, and I’m not going to do that to my team. I’m grateful when I hear Ash’s voice, even though it pains me at the same time. “Perry, get ready to go in for Green.”

  I nod so he knows I heard him and wait for the play to settle down so we can swap out. The puck is a whiz of black on the ice, the players a jumble of a little blue and a lot of white and red. Our shots are split pretty evenly, and everyone’s been fairly aggressive about trying to fire one into the goal. Not a whole lot of finesse, and I can predict what Ash—Coach—is going to say when we’re in the locker room at the end of this period. Slow it down, think it through. Yes, take the shots, but set them up, don’t just fire wildly. There’s no way you can make up in volume for lack of planning and execution. It’s annoyingly true.

  Canada’s Bouchard gets a penalty for slashing, which she so deserves because she’s done it a few times already and this is the first time she’s gotten called on it. That’s my cue to swap out with Natalie, so I hop the half-wall dividing our bench from the ice, and she skates in.

  With Bouchard in the sin bin, we’ve got a power play going on, and my fingers are itching in my gloves. I want that puck. Want to cradle it with my stick and then slap it right into their net. Put us ahead and keep us there by getting in the opposing team’s faces like whoa.

  We’re in Canada’s end, playing keep-away with the puck, retrieving it bad shot after bad shot. Finally their goalie snatches a shot out of the air and we have to clear back toward our goal. It’s maddening that we’re not taking advantage of having the advantage of a player, but we can’t seem to get the damn puck in the net. When the buzzer for the period finally goes, I’m sweaty and frustrated, but I’ve finally found my rhythm. I am back in the game with my whole self, everything else melting away.

  Ash

  The girls are looking better. After the talk we had in the locker room, they’ve done as I’ve asked and slowed down. Managed to put the puck in the goal again. Canada’s coach seems to have given her team the same chat, and they also manage to score. The tie is making me crazy, because we’re only a few seconds out from overtime.

  I have faith they can handle it, but would I ever rather have this over with. It’s doubling down on the stress and the adrenaline, and I’ve seen Bronwyn swipe at her nose a couple of times. She’s tired. And probably hurt. Which showed in the first period, but she got herself together and has been kicking some royal ass since then. Which I’m grateful for; if she hadn’t stepped up out of whatever mire I left her in, I would’ve blamed myself for the rest of my life. I already blame myself for making this crazy hard thing even harder on her, when I was supposed to be making it easier.

  The buzzer goes and causes my heart to momentarily seize. Fuck. We’ve got an overtime, which is a whole other period play under gold medal round rules. Twenty goddamn minutes of trying our damnedest to keep Canada from scoring, because if they do, it’s all over. On the other hand, if we can score, it’s all over and the gold is ours. But I’m risk averse. Always have been, and while women’s hockey is faster, it also encourages caution in a way that the demolition derby of the men’s games doesn’t.

  I don’t like it, but I think the strategy here is to do everything possible to keep them out of our net, only taking a shot when it’s almost guaranteed. Best case scenario, we score and win. Worst case scenario, they score and win. Less - than - ideal - but - still - not - the - worst scenario is no goals being scored during overtime, and going to a five-round shootout.

  If we make it that far, I have a few girls in mind to take the shots. I don’t know whether to hope for that or not. Crapshoot. That’s what all this is. A goddamn crapshoot.

  We’re evenly matched, and I can’t honestly say there’d be a wrong winner. Of course that doesn’t stop me from wanting that medal—for myself, for my girls, for my sport, for my country, for Bronwyn. The consolation’s not bad, either, but I don’t want second best. It’s time to make the case to the girls that I know how best to help them get it. Hopefully I’ve earned their trust and their faith and they’ll be willing to listen. Even Bronwyn, to whom I owe far more than good advice.

  As I follow the girls down to the locker room, I put together my pep talk in my head, and try not to notice the way Bronwyn swipes a forearm across her nose.

  Bronwyn

  It’s the end of the overtime period, and I have been skating my ass off. I am so fucking tired, and sore, and though the high stakes are adding a float of fervor on top of my tall glass of exhaustion, it’s almost gone. Coach had told us to keep the puck out of our goal at all costs, and we’ve done that, but we’re all playing gingerly. I know why, but it’s frustrating.

  If Brody were here, I know what he’d say. He’d say to storm the goal, take every shot possible, because they won’t see it coming. Not after so many minutes of playing it safe, but that’s not what Ash wants. He trusts us to get it done in a shootout. That sends a whole new level of anxiety pinging around my chest, though. Will he pick me? Do I want him to? When? And god, what would I do if I missed?

  That’s when the buzzer sounds and my heart drops through my stomach onto the ice. Shit.

  The team hustles up and surrounds Ash at the bench. It could be my imagination, because everything’s started looking too sharp and too bright, more intense than it does in real life, but Ash looks pale. Without my permission, my mind seeks a reason why. He’s been pacing a lot, both on the floor and on the second row of the bench—jumping down must’ve jarred his hip and it’s gotta hurt like a bitch. I suppose that’s not my concern anymore so I try to ignore the tugs at my heartstrings when I see him wince.

  “All right, ladies. First, I want to say that I couldn’t be prouder of each and every single one of you. You’ve played hard, and you’ve played fairly, and come together as a team to do this absolutely phenomenal thing. I want you all to remember no matter what happens in the next few minutes, you’ve accomplished amazing things and your hearts should be full. Mine is.”

  He looks around at us, our sweat-glistening faces, our hair that has got some serious frizzing going on, our eyes that are bright with competition, and yeah, some of us look downright bloodthirsty. It’s all plastered over months and years and lifetimes of work. Countless hours spent in freezing cold rinks, on early morning drives because our ice times were for shit or to competitions in other states.

  Yes, we absolutely deserve to be satisfied, but I suspect he knows there are some of us who never will be. Which is part of what makes us such damn fine athletes. Always pushing, always aiming for better. Never settling, because there isn’t such a thing as good enough. He walks a delicate balance as a coach, trying to tell us both of those things are true. Like, Yes, you’ve reached the moon and that’s incredible, but can you see those stars? Kinda think you could reach those, too. Just a thought. But if the moon is what you have in you, I’m thrilled.

  “Even though the women taking the shots will be doing so by themselves, you will not be alone. The wisdom and work of your entire team is behind you. Plus your teams back home, and all those little kids who come to your games, wear your jerseys, cheer your names, ask you to sign their sticks. You’ve all earned that, no matter who’s making these shots, because we all stand on the shoulders of greatness.”

  They’re pretty words, and with his open earnest face, and those clear green eyes, I believe him. Want to hand him everything on a platter. Want to go home with him at the end of the night, take off his shoes and lie with him. Not going to happen. I’ve had enough of an emotional roller coaster to last a lifetime during the SIGs.

  Then Ash is making eye contact with every single one of us, and I know when he gets to the end, he’s going to announce the players to take the shots. We might not even get through all five, but he’s going to pick them anyway.
And then we’ll do our best to strategize given what we know about the strengths and weaknesses of Canada’s goalie, and the strengths and weaknesses of our own players.

  “First shot, Stewart.” Her face splits in a broad grin, but she can’t be surprised. She’s scored two of our goals this game and seems to have a decent handle on what makes their goalie tick, and how she can get around her clockworks.

  People hug and punch her, jostle her with affection and chant her name before Ash hushes us all. “Second shot, Martinez.”

  Third and fourth pass and they’re good choices. I might’ve switched out Julie for Lisa, but maybe she’s his fifth. There’s always a method to Ash’s madness, but before I understand what it is it can sometimes look an awful lot like psychosis. I should know better.

  Before he names the person to take the fifth shot, he looks at us all again and the air is thick with tension. Not just for our team facing this shootout, but also as individuals because that’s a lot of weight on one person’s shoulders. Who’s it going to fall on, possibly crush until she chokes? “We can do this, ladies. You can do this. And Perry, you’re taking the fifth shot.”

  A combination of curses and celebratory words explode in my head like one of those confetti poppers. If I thought the world looked sharp before, even the dull edges of the goals look as though they could slice a person in half if they just skated toward one hard enough.

  Me. He picked me. He believes in me. Even if he’s not interested in a romantic relationship, he thinks that as a player, I can handle this. It’s a fabulous but confusing compliment. Apparently I’m good enough to hand this to, but not good enough for his bed. That’s okay. I’m not here for sex, I’m here for a gold medal, and goddamn do I want it.

  Ash

  It’s agonizing. The tension, the pressure in the arena is like nothing I’ve ever felt before in my life, and I’m a hockey coach in Boston so that’s saying something. It’s not helping that I have a player on the other side. Luckily, St. Gelais isn’t going to be involved in the shootout at all. I don’t think I’d be able to contain my joy if she did something awesome, and the press doesn’t like it when you root for another team, even if you’ve got a damn good reason.