On the Edge of Scandal Read online

  Before I can let anything fly, though, Bronwyn’s voice silences me. “Coach.”

  Right, yes, Coach, that’s me.

  “Coach,” she repeats, and when I meet her eyes, her meaning is clear. You are Coach right now, not Ash. You are acting like Ash, and that’s not okay. Knock it off. “I’m okay. I think it’s just a bruise. The hit hurt and I got the wind knocked out of me, but I’m okay.”

  She’s using her gaze to plead with me for understanding, to play this game with her, and though my heart is rebelling with every beat, my head is smarter. She’s right. I need to chill. I need to pretend this is someone else. Don’t see her dark hair splashed all over the ice like a pool of blood, don’t see the corners of her mouth tight with strain, don’t see her golden eyes wide, and her skin pale.

  I get up, wincing, and force myself not to pace while the medic interrogates her, by crossing my arms and trying to breathe. After a few minutes, the medic seems to be done with her questions, and she helps Bronwyn to sit, and then stand. I get light-headed with relief when she’s on her skates, pushing the reminder of my own freakish journey from my head, because there’s no way that would happen to Bronwyn, too. No way would I be punished like that by not only bearing it myself but having to bear it happening to someone I . . .

  What would Bronwyn say if I told her I loved her? Probably shake her head, blush, and tell me my brain was getting cloudy in the SIG snow globe. It happens, to be sure, but I don’t think that’s what this is.

  I grit my teeth as I watch Bronwyn clench her jaw against the pain, but she’s moving without help, plus she’s shooting me eye-daggers of death again, and it’s not a good idea to mess with her when she’s doing that. I swear to god one day I’m going to get her to make actual factual laser beams. Until then, I will keep my face shut and watch her like a hawk as she skates off the ice.

  “Uh, Coach?”

  I turn, and the rest of my team is standing around, helmets off, staring at me.

  “Coach?” Ah, French, yes. Of course she’d be the one to break the silence.

  “Yeah, French?”

  “Should we finish out our scrimmage? Hit the showers? Time’s up, but . . .”

  Fuck, yes, right, practice. That is the thing I should have been focusing on instead of worrying single-mindedly about Bronwyn. It doesn’t help that it looks like the entire team has got some questions about why precisely I am so very concerned. Not that I’m not concerned when any one of them gets injured, because part of my job is keeping these girls healthy, but this is above and beyond my usual professional attentiveness. Shit. No wonder Bronwyn was glaring at me.

  “Let’s go over notes form the scrimmage. I’ve got some, and I know Coach Wegner and Coach Jackson have some as well.”

  The girls make their way in dribs and drabs over to the bench to review our observations from the last few minutes of play, while I try to use my own eye lasers to burn a hole through the walls between here and the trainers’ office where I’m sure the medic has escorted Bronwyn.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bronwyn

  Finished with the trainer and the team doc, I’m back in Ash’s room and have texted to let him know so he doesn’t head to mine. Ash, who I am going to murder. He is going to be a dead man. Okay, so maybe not dead, because then the sex and the fun times of the past week and all the good things in my life outside of hockey would have to stop, but god do I want to yell at him. What the fuck was he thinking?

  Turns out I can ask him in just a minute, because there’s the tiniest squeak of the doorknob before he’s quickly and quietly stealing over his own threshold and closing the door shut behind him. Once he’s inside, he leans back against the door, closes his eyes, and blows a breath out his mouth, his cheeks rounding as he does. When he opens his eyes, he finds me and blinks.

  “B—”

  B is far preferable to Winnie, but that doesn’t make me want to murder him less. I open my mouth to start ripping into him, but he leaps over me before I can.

  “I know I fucked up and I’m sorry, I just . . .”

  Another breath gets blown out audibly from between his lips and I see it on his face. Petrified, heart-in-throat desperation.

  “When you got hurt, I panicked. I was worried it was really bad, and I know it’s not your baggage to shoulder, but I—”

  He leans against the door again and scrubs his hands over his face and into his hair, making the front of his shirt tug up until I can see his stomach. Looking up at the ceiling, he takes a swallow so hard I can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat from here. “I had this completely irrational fear that it was history repeating. That you were going to have to go through exactly the same thing I’ve been through, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it.”

  His voice has risen in pitch and volume so that he’s rather loud by the time he finishes talking and bangs the back of his head up against the door. And my heart—my heart is banging up against my ribs, begging me to go to him, soothe him. Murder can wait; right now the man could really use a hug.

  But I know how this goes. If I go over there right now, we’ll just end up naked and sexed out, and then I won’t be able to muster the energy to scold him, never mind do any murdering. As hard as it is, I stand in the middle of the room, ice pack strapped to my hip, and try to find a place for my hands.

  “Ash.” I love the quiet sound of his name on my lips, soothing even in the saying of it. No sharp edges, it’s all breathy and carries emotion like sound carries over water. “Ash, I’m okay. See, standing and all? It hurts, but I’ll be fine for the game tomorrow. It’s not going to stop me. And the trainer checked me over, so did the team doctor. They didn’t even feel the need to send me to the SIG ER. I’m okay.”

  “But—”

  There it is, that flare of irritation. “No. No buts.” I scrub my hands through my own hair. “You don’t get to decide about this. I don’t need another dude thinking he knows better than I do. And not just me, but goddamn medical professionals. Do you have a medical degree? Have you been to school to be in sports medicine? Is your master’s degree in athletic injuries? Because people with all of those qualifications agree with me. I’m okay.”

  Ash’s hands are clenched by his sides against the door, and despite the body language screaming otherwise, he has the good sense to plaster a chagrined look on his face. “Okay.”

  The word is quiet and strained, but he’s doing his best. Also, I think back to a week ago to the first time I saw him get out of bed and how badly I freaked. I need to give the guy the benefit of the doubt about that at least, and offer him comfort in the form of showing him that I am in fact capable and not badly injured.

  Before I do, I have one more legit reason to wag my finger at him, so I do. “Also, you can’t do shit like that. You wouldn’t freak out if anyone else got a little roughed up on the ice, so don’t do it to me. I know people can’t know about this, about us. When you lose your mind over me getting injured, not only does it make it fantastically obvious that you don’t care about me just as a coach, but it also makes me look weak. You’ve said it yourself. I’m one of the strongest, sturdiest players you’ve got. Don’t start treating me like some delicate flower just because you’re getting in my pants.”

  He blinks at me, those long lashes absurd in his remorse, and I suddenly feel like I’m being unfair. Which is why I hasten to add, “And I’m getting in yours.”

  Because it’s true, and now I’m at a loss for what to say. There’s only one thing left to do, which is what makes me cross the floor in a few quick strides that are semi-painful, and are impeded by the ice pack still on my hip, but none of that stops me from walking right up to him, pressing the length of my body to his as well as I can, and threading my fingers through his hair so I can tug him down to kiss.

  Ash’s mouth is pure perfection, welcoming me in with its heat, warmth, and responsiveness, and everything is made even better by his arms coming around me, circling my waist
and holding me tight. Except for the damn ice pack.

  I pull back long enough to tear the wrap that’s holding it in place and throw it to the floor. Predictably when I fling myself against him again, I bump him with my injury and it sends a hiss through my teeth, but I push past it until our mouths are meeting again. Briefly, because Ash is pulling away and tsking at me. No fucking way.

  “Ash.”

  He shakes his head and wags a finger at me, though his other hand is still occupied at my waist. “Ah-ah. Not so fast, you demanding little thing.”

  I am not little. I could tackle him right now and make him very sorry, but I won’t because that would hurt him. But we both know that is a distinct possibility. Despite that, I kind of like it. If I’m the small one here, then I’m not in charge. Yes, there are some things I very much want to be in charge of—exhibit A, about fifteen minutes ago—but the pressure on me is cranked up pretty high right now, and would it really be the worst thing in the world to put myself in Ash’s hands for a little while and make us both feel better in the process? I don’t think so.

  Which is what makes me settle, putting my hands on his biceps instead of clawing at him like I’d like to.

  He seems shocked that actually worked, but after his eyes have bugged, a smile breaks across his face, showing his teeth. “You are hurt. I am not going to hurt you worse by how we have sex.”

  My brain takes a second to process his words. He didn’t say we weren’t going to have sex, just that he wasn’t going to hurt me with the way we do. Good. Also, given what a hard time I gave him when we first started this . . . whatever it is, I can’t exactly argue. “Okay.”

  He dips his head in a brief nod, looking very smug. “Good. We’re going over to my bed.”

  I half-expect him to put me in a fireman’s carry and haul me over there, but that would kill him. If nothing else about that would be preventative, he at least wouldn’t want to be called a fucking hypocrite, so instead, he merely steers me over, a hand at the small of my back and controlling our pace. It does feel better than hard-charging over, but of course it does. With this kind of injury, Ash knows what he’s doing. Too well.

  He directs me to lie down on my back, which I do, with only a slight scowl on my face. If he’s going to treat me like a precious object, I’m going to scream. I’d rather scream in pain, but I think he understands, which is why I’m tolerating this.

  I’m lying there impatiently, and instead of setting on me, he goes over and takes up the bag of ice I threw to the ground, considers it. If he tries to make me lay here with that on while we watch tape on his phone, I swear—

  But something stops me from voicing my complaint. Maybe it’s the devious look he’s got on his face.

  Ash sits on the side of the bed and I cross my arms while glaring at him. Can we get this show on the road please? I have sleep to get tonight.

  He reaches over to the other bed and tugs the pillows off it. I start to sit up, but he tuts at me, puts a hand to the center of my chest and presses. “Not for your head. For your hips. Lift them up.”

  Ugh, fine. I do as I’m told, and once he’s slipped the pillows underneath me, I feel silly but also . . . lewd? It’s hard to keep my legs closed in this position so I ease them open, feeling the tenderness in my joint as I do. When I’m finally there, it’s not so bad. Little stretch, little ache, but in a way that’s not unpleasant, per se.

  While my thoughts are on my pelvis, thrusting up into the air as it is, Ash’s thoughts are also very much there, as is his gaze, so intense my leggings might combust. He climbs up on the bed, making himself comfortable between my spread thighs, and that word comes back in my head: lewd. Forward. Carnal. Pay attention here—that’s what my position seems to say, and Ash looks inclined to agree.

  He grasps the waistband of my leggings, and, careful to pull the fabric away from the hip I’ve injured, works them down and off me, not even leaving my underwear. Yep, that’s me right on display.

  On the whole, athletes are not modest people. Can’t be, for one thing, because our bodies are a constant source of comment, and we spend a hell of a lot of time around other people’s naked bodies. Locker rooms, shared hotel rooms when you’re on teams that travel. Also, we tend to not be so shy.

  It doesn’t make sense in that context, then, why this has me getting all squirmy. Like, yes, this is a very private area of my body, but just being laid out and on display shouldn’t have this effect on a person, especially not me, but here I am, wriggling like a worm on a hook. And Ash, he looks like he wants to devour me, regardless of whether he’s going to get snagged.

  I’d forgotten about the bag of ice, but Ash reminds me by shaking out my leggings, laying part of them over my hip, and setting the frigid bag on top of it. I suck air through my teeth at the shock, but it doesn’t hurt. Feels good.

  “That takes care of ice and elevation. I’m not going to worry about compression right now because the swelling doesn’t seem bad . . .” Ash puts his hands on my knees, and gets this cocky smile on his face. “Rest, though, you’re not so good with. You’re looking a little edgy. Maybe I can help with that.”

  It’s difficult to be sassy when you’re flat on your back and your legs are splayed open, but I give it my best. “And how do you plan to—Oh.”

  Ash has used his thumbs to spread me out even further and dipped his head in one quick, smooth movement. Then his mouth is on me, and oh, my. If my head weren’t already cradled by pillows, I’d drop it back. As things are, I curl my fingers into the comforter.

  Hot and slick, his tongue goes to work on my clit, stroking it, teasing it, and then, delightfully, he uses his lips and sucks. Christ. He thought this would help me rest how? Then he’s broadening his attentions, tasting the most intimate parts of me.

  The tension winds and curls in my belly, making me feel hot and primed for my release.

  “Ash . . .” His name is a gasp on my lips, and everything tightens, ready, so freaking ready to let loose. Before I can, though, he’s gone. His mouth, his ridiculously amazing mouth, is gone, and I’m bereft.

  “Wha—”

  “Patience,” he admonishes from where he’s sat back on his heels, his shoulders bracketing my shins, keeping me precisely where I am. If I weren’t in such an awkward position, I’d grab his hair and force his face down to finish what he started. Patience? I don’t fucking think so.

  “Please.” I don’t know where this is coming from. I learned a long time ago asking nicely gets me approximately jack shit. If I were with Brody, I’d reach down and finish myself off, because odds are he would’ve tired of trying to get me off by now. But Ash . . . I think he wants to give this to me. He likes to. But also . . . he values my pleasure. It’s important to him as a thing unto itself. He wants to make me happy, and yes, relaxed.

  “Think about it, baby.” He’s stroking that sensitive skin between labia and thigh, and it’s maddening. Enough to pique, not enough to do anything other than that. I want to kick him, but can’t. “If you get off now, it’ll be good, but it’s not going to tire you out, is it?”

  Fuck it all, I actually whimper.

  “Is it?”

  His prompting makes me scowl, but I answer. “No.”

  “But if I toy with you, get you all wound up, when you come it’s going to be incredible and you’ll actually be able to relax. Not able to,” he amends. “You’ll have to because your mind will just be . . . blown.”

  My god. I want that, but outside of hockey, I’ve never been super good with delayed gratification. The whole one cookie now or two cookies later? I will take one fucking cookie. But goddamn Ash is holding the cookie jar, and really what choice do I have? So I roll my lips between my teeth to set them and then nod. “Okay, but you better make this worth my while.”

  He laughs, one of his dark brows going up as if to say this girl, but then he’s nodding. “I will do my very best, you have my word.”

  Good enough for me.

  Ash
r />   Having Bronwyn spread out in front of me like an offering is heady. As is the smell, the heat rolling off her. I did that to her. This incredible woman has been reduced to pleading, squirming, and, if I’m not mistaken, a little bit of quivering because of me. Because of my mouth. If this whole hockey coach thing doesn’t work out because I’m screwing one of my players, maybe I can convince her to keep me.

  I’ve got to up my game, though, because just working her up to the edge and then backing off isn’t going to be enough to send her into orbit. My baby is tough, her feet rooted into the ground, and if I want her to be loose, relaxed, to be able to, yes, rest, then I need to bring it. I like the idea of having to work within a certain set of constraints, too. Yeah, that whole thinking outside the box is well and good, but sometimes having to think inside a box forces you to be more flexible. Which Bronwyn is not at the moment, and I never am.

  That’s when I notice cold water seeping into my sleeve from where it’s leaked out from the ice pack resting on her hip. Hmm. That has potential.

  I’m used to thinking of ice as a work surface. A thing that helps me get things done. A platform for the thing I love. It’s not so much a tool as a stage. But now? It’s not a whole rink, it’s just some small pieces, and Bronwyn and I both have a healthy respect for what ice can do to a person.

  I reach over and tear the bag carefully. The hole’s not big, but big enough to fish out a piece of ice from the frigid water. Bonus, I also get to use that as part of our little game. “You need to be still so you don’t get the bed all wet. No more squirming.”

  She flushes at my admonition, and I can see her abs tighten. Beautiful.

  The ice is cold on my fingers, too cold, so I do what anyone with a deliciously naked woman in front of them would do. I pop it into my mouth and before it can melt entirely, I start kissing and licking her hipbone that’s not covered with the ice pack.