On the Edge of Scandal Read online

  Chapter Twenty

  Bronwyn

  The closing ceremony was incredible, but now that it’s over, the only thing I can think of, the only thing I want, is to find Ash. I want to tell him in words what I tried to tell him with one stupid squeeze of a hand, because I don’t want his nightmares to come true. Hearing him say he lied through his teeth? I’m not proud that our relationship forced him to lie, because that must make him feel just about as twisted up inside as he’d felt when we first went down this path, but that he was so concerned about the effect it coming out would have on the both of us? I could swoon right now, and I’m not the swooning type. Or haven’t been, until Ash came along.

  Brody had always just assumed we’d be together, took me for granted. Was so goddamn cocksure when he asked me to marry him. Never had he actually asked me if that was something I wanted—which it wasn’t. But here comes Ash, telling me that he’s all thinking about a future with me. Like that could be a thing that happens, that it’s a thing he’s thought about, and it’s something he wants.

  I want to be with him now and I’m getting twitchy because I’m not. With everyone filing out of the arena, there’s about a snowball’s chance in hell of me finding him, but lucky for me, this isn’t hell. It’s the SIGs, and a snowball’s got a damn good shot.

  That’s when I see him, walking with the men’s coach. The guys took bronze, which was a bit of an upset, and I swear that’s gotten more coverage than our gold, but whatever. That’s to be ticked off about later. Now’s the time to celebrate and to tell Ash I love him, too, and that I’m sorry for doubting him when he’s never given me a reason to.

  We make eye contact across the churning sea of people, and I let the corners of my mouth twitch up. A goofy grin splits his face, and I will take that as the hugest kind of compliment. It’s only a split second before he smothers it, but my disappointment is eased by him excusing himself from Coach Howe. But finally he’s walking up to me, and tips his head so I can hear his quiet words above the crowd.

  “Are you going out or heading back to the village?”

  Oh. All the competitions are over, and I’ve heard that the village will basically turn into one huge drunken orgy. Which is cool, but I’ve never been the orgy type. And honestly, while I’ll be able to socialize with my teammates any time, I don’t know the next chance I’ll get to spend alone time with Ash. After we go home, the regular season’s not out yet, and then hopefully there’s the playoffs, and then it’s the downslope to graduation.

  “Hey, B. Go out with your friends if that’s what you’d rather do right now. You should do whatever you want. I’m not in a rush, we can talk later when things have calmed down.”

  It’s sweet of him to say, but it only makes me want to be with him even worse.

  “I don’t. Want to go out, that is. I want to be with you.”

  He nods, looking a bit stunned. As though he’s surprised I picked him, when in fact I’m the one who should be surprised that he’s picked me. He keeps it secret, Ash does, about exactly how fantastic he is. If the girls really knew . . .

  “Okay. Cool. I’ll see you at my place in about an hour? It’s going to take a while to get through this crush.”

  “Yeah, see you then.”

  We split up, and I rejoin my teammates for what feels like a parade back to the village, with everyone rowdy and full of energy. Some people will be drinking and fucking to celebrate, others are going to be drinking and fucking to wallow. Either way, there’s going to be a shit ton of both going on tonight, and Ash and I still have some of our quota to get through.

  Ash

  Back at the village, it’s quite the scene. The bacchanal has already started, and I get the feeling it’s not going to stop until . . . well, probably until the last flight out. I’ve seen several people running by naked already, because athletes, and people walking around with open containers like this is New Orleans and not Denver. There’s also the pungent-sweet tang of weed in the air, but who the fuck cares? It’s legal here after all. Even if it weren’t, there’s practically a lawless zone thrown up around the village for the next twenty-four hours. As long as no one’s getting hurt, it’s all good.

  As I hike out to my building, my hip is killing me. Maybe I can take something before Bronwyn gets there, because she gets overly concerned when she can tell I’m in pain. I appreciate the concern, I really do, but I don’t think she realizes how constant my pain is, and I don’t want her to. Let her think about something else because as soon as possible, I’m going to do something about this. Right after the season is over. I type a reminder in my phone for the day after we get back from Denver to call my surgeon and schedule the procedure. Again.

  I’m about to head into the building when I hear something behind me that cuts through the rest of the vague din of the village. Voices that are familiar, but ping entirely different parts of my brain. When I turn around, I’m not entirely surprised to see Brody, who’s got his big hand wrapped around Bronwyn’s arm just above her elbow.

  “Let go of me, Brody.”

  How the hell did he even get in here? He doesn’t have an ID badge, but maybe they’re a bit lax on the last official night. After all, some of the athletes are probably sleeping with people who aren’t coaches or athletes and won’t have passes to get into the village. Or maybe he managed to sneak in with the men’s team. However he got in, the important thing is that he’s here and he’s handling Bronwyn in a way she doesn’t like and, if I’m a judge of these things, hurting her.

  My feet start to take me toward them, damn the consequences.

  “I want you back, Bronwyn. We can start over, pretend that whole thing never happened. And if you don’t give us another chance, I can make you sorry. Put you in a real awkward position. Just like your asshole coach is in hot water right now. Never liked that guy, and he turned you against me.”

  Brody grabs Bronwyn’s other arm and shakes her. From the slip-sliding of his words, it sounds like he’s been drinking. While Bronwyn assured me he’d never hit her, she also said she wasn’t sure he never would. Hell if I’m going to let that happen to her, even if it costs me my job, my entire career. I already want to set Brody on fire for being rough with her, and if he hits her—my brain becomes a ball of molten lava.

  I’m usually an even-tempered guy. Not that I don’t get worked up, but it’s all proportionate. There is no proportion here. It’s time for the nuclear option, because he’s goddamn well hurt her enough and he’s not going to harm her anymore.

  It occurs to me on my way over—jogging even though it feels like a steel pole is being shoved through my hip with every step—that he’s probably the one to blame for those awkward questions during my interview. Clearly he didn’t have any hard evidence, because it could’ve been a lot worse, but whatever story he told Carla was convincing enough that she still asked me. A wave of relief goes through me that it was some shit Bronwyn’s jealous ex made up and not information from a source who’d actually seen or heard something. But my relief doesn’t last long, because he’s still manhandling her.

  Bronwyn’s struggling against him, and I hope she’s not going to have bruises. Hopefully he won’t be able to mark her through her coat because I can’t stand the idea of her having to look at the evidence of him accosting her for days, maybe weeks. It will be bad enough she’ll have the memories, but physical evidence of him having power over her just seems like adding insult to injury, and I hate it. She shouldn’t suffer at all, but definitely not more than she has to. Which is what makes me call out to him. Maybe I can distract him long enough that she can get free and run. Even if I have to take a beating, because Brody looks as though he’s spoiling for a fight.

  I’ve been happy to be in a relatively quiet corner of the village, but now I’m regretting it—I wish there were other people here to help me do something about this. I want to save her, but I can’t. I’ll do my best. “Brody! Get your fucking hands off her.”

  His block he
ad swivels on his neck, trying to locate whoever yelled at him, and he gets this look on his face like a bull about to charge. Here it comes. I can take the pain—more pain—and I can take whatever consequences might come along with this, if only I can keep Bronwyn safe.

  But before Brody can throw a punch, or ram me in the gut with a shoulder, Bronwyn breaks her left arm free of his grip, and while I wish she’d run, she doesn’t.

  She punches Brody. Right in his stupid face.

  The angle’s not great because his head was turned, but it’s good enough for him to bellow in pain. And when he’s a big enough moron to turn to Bronwyn to yell at her, she punches him again, hard enough that he drops to his knees. That’s my girl.

  I’ve reached them and Bronwyn’s cradling her wrist in her opposite hand. Fuck, I hope it’s not broken. But she seems undeterred by what’s clearly a lot of pain. Instead of tears rushing down her face, she’s got a rage mask on.

  “Don’t you ever touch me or anyone else like that ever again. You want to be rough on the ice, go ahead, but this isn’t a game. Keep your hands to yourself unless you’ve been given express permission to do otherwise. I know it was you, Brody. I know it was you who fed that story to Hour 25. And if I’d had even the smallest inkling of taking you back, that would’ve burned it all down. You don’t fuck with an innocent guy’s career because you’re jealous and your girlfriend refused your proposal. Coach Levenson had nothing to do with me saying no. It was all your fault. You’re a coward, and a bully, and if you do anything like that again, you know I’ve kept some secrets I’m sure BC would be super interested in knowing. Like about how you passed your research methods course?”

  Brody’s staggered to his feet, his hands curled into fists, and I want to step between them, but somehow I don’t think that would be welcome. Bronwyn can take care of herself, and I need to let her know I believe that. Let her handle it even though everything I have is screaming at me to intervene.

  Brody lurches toward her and I clench my jaw, but he doesn’t touch her. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Are you really willing to take the chance you’re wrong?” Bronwyn’s expression gives me the chills. It’s as sharp as the blades she uses to make her way around the rink, and her voice is cold as ice. I, personally, would not fuck with that girl, and apparently Brody decides that would be the wisest course of action as well.

  He shouts a few ugly slurs at her, but he’s backing away as he says it, and bumps into a group of Finns. Where were you guys when there was about to be a fight, huh? It doesn’t matter, though, not anymore. Brody’s weaving through them with a hand to his cheek, and Bronwyn’s standing right in front of me, looking pale and shaken.

  I go to her, but don’t touch her no matter how bad I want to. “Baby, what do you need? Can I touch you?”

  She stares at me unblinking for a few seconds. She might be in shock, because that would be pretty damn traumatic for anyone. That’s when her face crumples and she starts to cry. Crying and nodding at the same time. “Ash, please.”

  No one with half a heart could say not to that, so I take her in my arms, hold her tight, rub her back, stroke her hair. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone. You took care of him. You were so crazy strong and badass. Seeing you punch that guy might be better than a gold medal.”

  Some of the Finns come over and ask in their perfect English if there’s anything they can do to help. I look to Bronwyn, and she shakes her head, so I thank them and they’re on their way.

  “We should go to the clinic, okay? Make sure your hand is just going to be bruised and isn’t broken, because that guy must have a skull like granite.”

  She sniffles a laugh, and I put my arm around her to head over to the village ER. We’ve got a perfectly reasonable excuse to be affectionate in public right now, and I’m going to take advantage to comfort the most incredible woman I know.

  Epilogue

  Three Months Later

  Bronwyn

  Graduation was yesterday and I dropped my parents off at the airport on the way here. Well, not on the way, because driving from Chestnut Hill to Logan to Carlisle is more like a boomerang shape. But now, here I am, pulling into the driveway of Ash’s home.

  It’s a house that has become pleasantly familiar, that lets me breathe easier as soon as it comes into sight. Small and modest and brown to blend into the woods, I’m sure no one else would find it an enchanting place, but I do. This house and the ice rink are probably my favorite places on earth.

  I park my car next to Ash’s and grab my bag out of the trunk, swing it over my shoulder. Not that I need a lot since I already keep a substantial amount of stuff at Ash’s, but still.

  The front door is open, which is a cute thing he always does, and funny since I have a key anyway, but I like that he does it? Like it’s a way he tells me he’s paying attention, he knows I’m coming, and he doesn’t even want to have to wait for me to dig my key out of my bag to unlock the door before he can see me. Silly, maybe, but it makes me smile every time.

  I drop my stuff by the door and then go in search of him, finding him in the kitchen. With a cake of all things. When he sees me, he looks up from where he’s using a flat metal thinger to smooth out the icing, looking so very pleased with himself.

  “Hey, B. How was traffic?”

  I come around the counter and nudge my head under his arm so I can wrap my arms around him. He plants a kiss on the top of my head while he continues to perfect his frosting.

  “Not bad. Tuesday before rush hour. And what have you been up to?”

  I eye the cake, which is not exactly a work of art. It’s kind of crooked, and despite his best efforts the frosting still has sticky-outy bits, but he uses the skinny spatula thing to point to his masterpiece. “This. I felt bad I couldn’t take you out for your graduation, so I made you a cake.”

  Which is the literal sweetest. He came to the ceremony yesterday and had the excuse of a few of us from the SIG team getting our diplomas to be there. Because he does that stuff. He’ll be at Harvard’s ceremony and BU’s, too. Wonderful man. He’d met my parents, but as my coach, not as my boyfriend, because we’re still keeping this very much on the down low. Have agreed to until the fall when I’ll be moving into a new apartment in Brighton and will have been at my job for a few months, and—fingers crossed—on Boston’s women’s pro hockey team. After that, we’ll still get some side eye and gossip, but there won’t be a goddamn thing anyone can do if we’re doing our jobs, which we will be.

  “Thank you. I love it.” I go up on my tiptoes and take his face in my hands, give him a kiss.

  “You haven’t even tasted it. What if it’s gross?”

  “I don’t care.” I kiss him again, and when I do, it’s not a cutesy thing. It’s a kiss of the I - have - missed - you - so - much - in - the - past - several - days - of - graduation - and - family - insanity - and - I - want - to - be - back - in - your - arms - and - yeah - in - your - pants variety. I laugh against his mouth when I hear the clatter of him tossing the spatula on the counter, and then his hands are on me, all over me. Apparently, the feeling is mutual.

  His mouth is hot and demanding on mine, and he tastes unusually sweet, like he’s been sneaking bits of frosting that got on his fingers while he’s been doing his baking. I can’t say I’d be sorry to lick the frosting off his fingers, either, but I also don’t know that I have the patience for that. Mostly I want to be as close to him as humanly possible, have him literally inside me.

  Since his surgery at the end of the season, we’ve had to be a little, uh, creative when it comes to the having of the sex, which when it’s not causing him pain is more of a fun exploration than anything else. How can I make you feel good? How about this? What about this? We’ve been able to try stuff I wouldn’t necessarily have thought of, and it’s made things profanely intimate.

  I break off the making out and try to catch my breath, but it’s hard. As is his erection pressing into my belly, which I want to stroke until hi
s head drops back and then guide him inside me. Without a word, I tip my head up to look into those glass-green eyes and he looks back, a smile curling the corner of his mouth before he tows me over to the dining table where he sits and tells me to strip. Can do.

  He studies me, arms crossed over his midsection, his pants doing nothing to hide how badly he wants me. Makes me stand there for minutes, his eyes raking over my body until I’m practically bouncing on my toes with my need for him. I’m poised and ready, my muscles primed for when he finally gives the word.

  It’s not so much a word as a very obvious sign. He levers out of the chair, strips his own clothes with an economy of movement and not nearly as much caution as he’s been using. He’s feeling better, more confident in his body, and it makes me so happy. I can’t imagine being so out of sorts, out of touch with my body that’s served me so well. It would be a betrayal, but he’s got way more patience than I do. Which he’s exhibiting now by leisurely stroking himself while sitting in the straight-backed chair. Jerk.

  Right as I’m about to strut the few steps over and plant myself in his lap, he crooks a finger at me, and I can finally feel him the way I’ve been aching to for days. Skin against skin, the hair on his chest brushing against my nipples, making them hard and sensitive, and his hands on my bare ass. He uses his grip to bring me in closer until my legs are spread wide around his hips and my clit is pressed up against his cock. Jesus. I put my palms on his shoulders just as he sculpts a hand around my breast and dips his head to lick around my nipple before taking it in his mouth and suckling.

  Which of course only makes me rock against him harder, more insistently, because I want him now. My wetness has made where we’re joined slick, and I can’t get enough of the sensation the rubbing provides. Not quite as good as the penetration I’m craving, but I could get off this way just the same. Want to. But he lets go of my nipple, chastises me with a nip to the side of my neck, and a “Uh-uh. Not so fast, baby.”