The place is downright electric, and that’s before anyone’s taken a single shot. Everything is buzzy and sharp and the strain is unbearable. How the girls are dealing with it, I don’t know. Especially our goalie and the players I picked to handle the shootout. As much as it’s a compliment, a vote of confidence in their abilities, it’s also a burden. Don’t think that didn’t factor in my decision along with the technical skills they have.
We’ve got the advantage of being the second team to shoot, and when Harris lets the first shot through, equal parts joy and ruin pulse through the arena. Same when Stewart gets her shot for us by with a triple deke. God that was pretty, and our bench goes nuts.
Then our apprehension sits like lead in our bellies as the second Canadian squares up to the goal and just makes a flat out slap shot that goes in right above Harris’s shoulder on her stick side. Shit.
There are drums pounding inside my skull, aside from the foot-stomping that’s happening throughout the place. I can’t help but sneak a peek at Bronwyn. She’s standing still at the end of the bench, stick clutched in her hand, and every ounce of her attention riveted, studying. She does well under pressure and has got a sweet understanding of how a shootout can differ from scoring in a regular game. It’s a different set of skills when it’s just you against the goalie. Easier in some ways, because you don’t have a bunch of other players to be looking out for, but if you’ve reached that point, there are a lot of eyes on you, the weight of expectations, and I trust her to handle it.
Martinez kills it, sending her shot right between the Canadian goalie’s pads, and then we’re back to where we started. Tension and strain and pressure are wrapping around my ribcage until I can barely breathe, getting tighter and tighter with each shot. Round three, the Canadian misses, but so does Lam. Fuck, maybe I should’ve put in Nguyen, she was my other choice. Too late now.
The sound in the arena is deafening, the lights blinding, and I want so badly to be shoring up Bronwyn with intimate and gentle encouragement, but I can’t. I leave the reassurance to her teammates who are talking to her, offering observations and suggestions to her and French in equal measure, which is what I should be doing. They’re both my players, they’re both my go-to’s under pressure. I believe in their ability to succeed equally. Wouldn’t have picked them if I didn’t.
After the fourth Canadian skater is holding her arms aloft in victory and the place goes crazy, the team smacks French on her helmet, on her pads, tells her she’s going to be golden. Golden. That’s what we could be if this works out in our favor. Gold medals for all. Even if I’ve fucked up with Bronwyn, I could at least have a hand in giving her that.
French skates out onto the ice, picks up the puck at the center line, and takes it toward the Canadian goal. I swear to god our entire bench holds our collective breath on her approach. The girl nails it with a backhand and we all go wild. Except Harris, who looks like she’s about to lose her lunch all over the ice. I don’t envy her, but she’s doing a fantastic job, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have defending our net.
The last Canadian player lines up, skates toward Harris at speed but then comes to an almost complete stop, does some fancy footwork to try to get her to move, but Harris isn’t falling for it, and catches up the shot with her glove. That’s fine, it’s fine, everything is fine.
If Bronwyn misses, we just do this again. No bigs. I can recycle some players for the shootout or maybe give Nguyen a shot, but I’m not going to start my contingency planning until I’ve given B my full and unadulterated support, because I believe in her. She can do this.
Much as they had with French, her teammates smack her around a little with their gloves, and it’s their way of saying they’ve got her, they think she’s tough enough to handle this, and go fucking get hers. What I wouldn’t give to hold her. But even if she weren’t angry at me, we couldn’t do that. I’d still have to stand here, sending psychic messages that I hope will make it into her head. You can do this. You are good enough, tough enough, intuitive enough, and if I had any player in the world, I would still choose you. Not because we’ve been sleeping together, but because you’ve earned it, you deserve it, and there is no one I have more faith in.
She slips over the boards and skates out to our side of the ice. Takes a second to collect herself, take a breath, and then she’s skating toward center ice where the puck is just waiting for her.
Come on, B. You can get it done, I know you can.
Approaching Canada’s goal, she takes her sweet-ass time, and I use the last bit of air in my lungs to huff a little laugh as I shake my head. Of course she does. No one’s going to hurry Bronwyn if she doesn’t want to be hurried. She makes use of every bit of her stick handling skills, passing the puck from side to side, making the goalie follow it like she’s watching a tennis match.
Not breathing, I feel like time is practically standing still. The air’s all been sucked out of the arena, and everyone’s got their eyes glued to my girl. Can’t blame them, she looks amazing. She’s not showing off, she’s trying to get this done in the best way she knows how. She’s not the strongest, she’s not the fastest, but the way she plays with that puck makes my heart beat hard. Damn, that is sexy.
She’s heading toward the left side of the net, and the goalie’s following her, taking her bait, as I watch, helpless. No, I’m helpless only in this second. I’ve helped her become a better player, gave her a warm body when she needed one, and encouraged her to take what she wants, what she needs.
Bronwyn’s getting awfully damn close, and a thrill of panic runs through me that she’s too late. She’s dribbling the puck and it’s so pretty, but this isn’t figure skating, where the artistry matters. Getting the puck in the net is what counts here. Which is when she lures the goalie even farther to the left, and then . . .
Holy fuck.
Of all the things she could’ve done, I did not see this coming, and neither does the goalie. The goalie’s on her knees, her pads spread to block the shot she knows is coming, that should be coming, because that’s what physics says. That’s what every game she’s ever played in, every opponent she’s ever played against, has taught her. But Bronwyn’s not just anyone.
Taking advantage of the goalie being stuck on the left side of the net, Bronwyn passes the puck between her skates, extends her arm to catch the puck with her stick as it zooms to the right, and then with a sweet little sweep puts the puck over the line and into the net, making it look so fucking easy.
She did it, she fucking did it, and it feels like every person in the arena goes ballistic. The noise, the vibration of people stomping in the stands, the flashing of the lights, and the feel of my team throwing themselves onto the ice like a herd of skate-wearing elephants. I love it, and take the high-fives and the handshakes without knowing who they’re from, and when I get a second of freedom, raise my hands in the air and then despite the pain that’ll ravage me tomorrow, get down almost on one knee and do an epic fist pump.
She did it. We did it. My girls are made of gold, and so is the woman I love.
Chapter Nineteen
Bronwyn
It’s cold out here. Which you would think for someone who spends a good deal of her time in a giant freezer would not be a big deal. But that’s different. I have all my equipment on, I’m getting a workout so I’ll sweat. I get downright toasty. Out here, it’s just me in my stupid tracksuit that looks just like everyone else’s tracksuit, and hat and mittens that look just like everyone else’s. You’d think they’d make them warmer, since they know we have to stand outside for hours in just this, but apparently no one at the USA Snow and Ice Games committee thought of that.
Okay, that’s not entirely fair, because there are tons of bright lights, there’s a huge crowd in relatively close quarters, and there’s enough adrenaline and sexual tension in here to make stew. But still, I’m cold, and I’m not sure when I’ll shake this chill.
I’ve managed to avoid Ash for the pas
t few days. Yes, we’ve had to do press, but I’ve made sure to keep Tara or Lisa near me, studiously avoided any times when we might end up alone or even standing close. Not that that’s stopped me from keeping an eye on him, and seeing that he’s completely fucking fine. Acts like nothing ever happened and that he’s not dying inside.
My hopes that maybe he’d been faking it for the sake of the team haven’t borne out. He’d be done with that by now if he were, but instead, he’s standing in his own stupid tracksuit at the other side of where our team has gathered, and is chatting, laughing, and smiling with Ximena, Colleen, and Gail. Like nothing has happened, like everything is fine. Like his heart is perfectly intact and not lying in ribbons like delicate fabric shredded by newly sharpened skates.
If I’m very lucky, I won’t have to see Ash again. Ever. If I’m unlucky, though . . . the last couple of games of the regular season are still coming up, and the playoffs. It’s not impossible that we’ll be playing BU in the post-season and I can’t stomach the idea of having him there, having to shake his hand after the game, as he smiles at me like he used to. I don’t think I could handle his thoughtful compliments, knowing I used to kneel for this man, take his shoes off, that I know what his skin tastes like, and how he feels inside of me.
Hey, that was a fabulous assist to Quinto, is not going to cut it anymore. But he’ll be the same as he ever was, because he got what he wanted out of me, and that’s all that mattered. At least it’s only a few more games? I can tolerate that, right? I’ve come back from injuries, I’ve worked my ass off, I’ve kept my grades up while I was on a goddamn SIG team. I played one of the best games of my career with a heart that was barely beating, so surely I’ll be able to make it through a few more brush-ups against Ash? God, I hope so.
Tara nudges me. “It’s our turn. Can you hear that? All of that’s for us.”
The roar of the crowd is incredible. If I were in a different state of mind, I’d be able to appreciate it more, and it would make me feel full instead of it all pouring into the hole in my heart and dying there. Doesn’t matter. The medal around my neck is nice, and I’m proud of it, and I’ll relish it later, but right now it’s covered in a layer of grimy heartbreak. But I walk next to Tara nonetheless, waving as the overflowing stands of the stadium come into view, plastering a smile on my face, because this matters to the people back home and they don’t give a shit that I’m crushed, as long as I put the puck in the net, which I goddamn did. Again and again.
Ash
I could wait. I should wait. I shouldn’t be looking over my shoulder at her, shouldn’t be admiring the way her hair falls in front of her shoulders, how she smiles and waves. I hope she’s having fun, and I don’t want to ruin it, but god, I’d like to make this better, and maybe give her an even better experience. Maybe take a risk, to show her what I’d give up for her.
I’m not going to wait.
I drop back and to the side a bit until I’m behind Bronwyn and Wright, and then I come up right beside them. Next to Wright just in case this goes badly.
“Hey, Wright, could I talk to Perry for a minute?” Perry sounds so wrong, and I can see the roll of her eyes. She hates it, too.
Wright looks to Bronwyn, who shrugs and mutters something like “whatever,” and then she’s looking back at me, giving me a gaze that’s heavy on suspicion. “Sure. I’ll be back in a few.”
Then she’s walking off, joining up with Nguyen, Stewart, and Lam. Bronwyn still has that fake smile plastered on her face, and even though I know it’s not for real, she’s still pretty. I take a step closer into her until we’re side-by-side and her arm occasionally brushes against mine. It’s a relief, that brief contact, even if her face is made of stone.
“Bronwyn.” I say it softly, so softly, letting my lips smooth over the sounds and she looks as though her rocky façade might crack even though she’s not looking at me, even though she gives no indication at all that she’s listening. “Bronwyn, I am so, so sorry.”
For a second, she rolls her lips between her teeth and presses. It’s the only sign what I’ve said has had any effect on her, and it’s gone in a flash, back to that smile stretched across her face in a way that looks painful. I want to beg her to stop, heft her in my arms and no matter how painful it would be—and it would be excruciating—carry her someplace safe and quiet where I could apologize for hours, hold her close until she believed me, come up with a plan we could both agree on that would prevent either or both of us from losing our livelihoods. Not an option.
So I do what I can, and continue my near-silent pleas. “You have to know during that interview, I was lying through my teeth. Same goes for my conversation with Madeline. The words coming out of my mouth were the biggest fabrications I’ve ever told in my life. I lied, and tried to do it convincingly, for the both of us. The consequences for me would be . . .” Devastating. Catastrophic. Ruinous.
I shake my head, and swallow the words. “I can’t lose my job. I’ve never wanted to do anything else and if people found out, BU would fire me, I’d never get another shot at coaching the SIG team, and no one would ever touch me again. Ever. I’d hope no one would blame you for what happened at all, that it would all get heaped on me because I’m the older, wiser, more influential person here, with more power and allegedly better judgment, but the world can be a shitty place. I didn’t want people speculating that you’d gotten preferential treatment because we were sleeping together, that it was us sleeping together and not that you’re the best I have that got me to give you that last shot. I don’t want anything to get in the way of you going pro.”
Bronwyn is still looking out at the crowd, the tens of thousands of flashes reflecting in her eyes and off her glossy hair until she looks like she’s made of sequins.
“I had to look dead serious. I had to swear my life on it, because I’d never forgive myself if I ruined anything for you. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk about what we would do if anyone got wind of it, because we were so caught up in . . . each other. We should’ve come up with a plan, should’ve talked about it, and I understand how it could’ve felt like a slap to the face to see me deny my feelings for you on national television. And I regret leaving you to take that phone call. If I had it to do over again, I would’ve let it go to voicemail and called her back after we’d finished talking. I don’t have much of an excuse except that I panicked. But I swear to you, it was lies. All fucking lies.”
She blinks, waves some more, and smiles big, her jaw flexing because she’s grinding her teeth. It hurts me, and it makes me desperate. Desperate enough to tell her a truth I’m not sure she’s ready for. Under normal circumstances, I’d wait, but this—all the cheering, all the cameras, all the people unwittingly witness to my groveling—this is not normal.
“I love you. I want to be with you. I also want to do that in a way that won’t get either of us in hot water, because I want us to be happy, to not have any resentment between us. If I lost my job, my career, what possible good could I be to you in the long run? Because that’s what I’ve been thinking about. I know we’ve only been together for less than two weeks, but I want it to be for a lot longer than that. I love you and I want to be with you when we get home. I want us to figure out how to do that together.”
At first, she doesn’t say anything, just looks like her eyes might brim over with tears. It’s too late. She doesn’t believe me. I’m going to have to back off, and maybe after we get back to Boston, maybe in a few weeks when the furor over the SIGs has died down, hell, maybe even after she’s graduated, I’ll be able to make a gesture she believes.
I’m about to walk off, leave her to enjoy the closing ceremony in peace, and tell Wright to go back and walk with Bronwyn so she won’t be so godawfully alone, but then there’s a surprising sensation. We’re both wearing gloves, but instead of the incidental brush of her arm against my sleeve, there’s a purposeful press of her mitten against mine, and what feels like a squeeze. Like she’s trying to hold
my hand through our mittens, and it about breaks my heart. In a happy way. In a confetti and glitter busting out of it kind of way. Lets me breathe again.
It’s over as soon as it’s begun, but I think I understand what she’s trying to say. It’s okay. I understand. I won’t jeopardize things for either of us either. I was listening, I believe you, and we’ll figure something out.
My lids sink over my eyes where I let them rest for a second, but in this crowd, closing your eyes for any longer than a blink isn’t okay. Which is made readily apparent when I bump into someone’s back, and realize I’ve stepped on the back of French’s shoe, making her heel come out.
“Sorry, sorry.”
Smoothest man in the land, right here. And that was probably caught on camera for all the world to see. Tremendous. But French just shakes her head, shoves her foot back in her shoe and walks a little faster.
What I’d like to do is walk next to Bronwyn for the rest of the tour around the arena, but that’s probably not wise. I let myself indulge in her being next to me for a bit, but after a couple of minutes, I brush her hand much as she had mine, and raise my chin. She looks at me, and in her face, I can see that I still have some repair work to do, but there’s a shade of hope that hadn’t been there before. I’m going to hold onto that and make it grow. Coax it as surely as I would a player with promise who just needed some cultivation, encouragement, nurturing.
Then she’s putting a skip in her step to catch up with Wright, Nguyen, Stewart, and Lam, putting her arms around their shoulders, and they laugh. I can barely hear it for all the noise in the arena, but I can feel it, and that’s all that matters. I’m going to make Bronwyn mine, and I will do everything in my power to make her happy.
On the Edge of Scandal Page 15
