On the Edge of Scandal Read online

The bus ride seems interminable, even though we get to zip right by the rest of the traffic in the dedicated lanes. Except when we’re behind a slow-ass Swedish bus. I use the time to do some of my reading.

  My professors have all been super cool about me missing class for the SIGs, and they’ve been really accommodating about making up work, but that doesn’t mean I want to fall so far behind I can’t graduate this spring. If dropping classes meant I could play another year of hockey at BC I’d be tempted, but that’s not an option. So out into the real world I go. Not something I need to think about right now, though.

  At this second, I’ll focus on this textbook on user interfaces, and then I’ll go back to focusing on the SIGs. Our next game is against China in three days, and no matter what, I’m not taking someone out again. We’ll have to study tape and figure out a better way to win.

  When we pull up to the village entrance, we all file out of the bus, picking up our gear bags as we go. When I’ve shouldered mine, I see Brody waiting for me, leaning up against the fence that lines the entire village.

  “Hey, how’d you beat us?”

  He smiles before he leans down to plant a kiss on my lips. “Traffic wasn’t so bad, and you guys got stuck behind some curling buses. Curling, like that’s a real sport.”

  If I were the bitchy and vindictive type, I could point out that while they may not be bruisers like he is, the people on those buses actually made their SIG teams, so maybe he should shut up. But I’ll be good, be nice.

  He slings an arm around me and we head to the entrance, but we’re stopped by security. I’ve got my village ID, but Brody doesn’t have one, for obvious reasons. The rest of my team gets waved through while we stand there.

  “I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go into the village without the proper identification.”

  “I got a guest pass before. Can’t I have another one?” Brody’s dancing on the edge of civilized, and I can hear the irritation in his voice.

  “I’m sorry, today’s passes have all been given out. If you’d like to try again tomorrow, you can, but I’d advise you to get here earlier. Passes are usually gone by eleven A.M.”

  Which is when Brody turns to me. “Why didn’t you get me one already?”

  “I . . .” To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about it. I had a few other things on my mind, like the game tonight.

  “Never mind. This is bullshit. Let’s go.” He starts to tug me toward the street where I guess he’s planning to try to hail a cab or maybe order an Uber or something, but I can’t just leave.

  “But—”

  “But what, Winnie? If I can’t go into the village, you’re coming back to the hotel with me. Right?”

  That look on his face. When we were first-years at boarding school and we’d first started dating, Brody had been so smitten with me. Used to leave me notes, send me texts and emails that made me smile. He was so . . . sweet. Yeah, he’d become less attentive over those high school years, but that’s what happens when you’re together for years, right? Although it couldn’t have helped when it became apparent in our junior year that I was getting courted by top women’s hockey schools and he was being approached by . . . top tier schools, yeah, but not the best.

  I went to BC because it was the obvious choice. Best women’s hockey program in the country. BC took Brody, too, though they hadn’t wooed him quite like they had me. And when people asked about it, he’d made it seem more like he went to BC to be with me instead of that he hadn’t gotten picked up by any of the better schools. Made my accomplishment feel . . . smaller somehow. Which doesn’t make sense, even now. But I can be oversensitive about some things, and maybe this is one of them.

  But there’s something inside me that rebels against this expectation, this obligation he feels I have to him. As if he’s made me somehow and I owe him. I suspect, though I can’t say for certain, that he wouldn’t do the same for me if our positions were reversed. No, I think he’d apologize, kiss me and rub my biceps, but ultimately head into the village with his buddies, leaving me on the outside. He sure as fuck wouldn’t have remembered to get me a guest pass. Nor would I have expected him to.

  I could leave him here, standing outside the gates. I could. But I’m not a cruel person, and the truth is I’ve become accustomed to sleeping with Brody at night, his big body taking up much of the bed, but producing comforting amounts of heat. On the nights I don’t sleep with him, I get cold. Plus I feel small when I sleep alone, and I don’t like feeling that way. Even if sharing a bed with him can sometimes feel like a contact sport, it makes me feel as though I take up space. Also, whatever else Brody is, he’s a good lay. Not always super concerned with me getting off, but I know well enough how to do it myself that it’s not so bad. Sometimes I enjoy feeling a little used. Not that I’d tell him that . . .

  This moment isn’t about sex, though. It’s about loyalty, and being there for someone who has been in my life since I was fourteen. Teammates and coaches have come and gone—and yeah, I have my family, but when you leave home at fourteen and only see them once a month or so, they feel distant. It’s not cheap to come to the SIGs, and when you’ve got five younger siblings who all play a spendy sport like hockey, it’s no surprise my family couldn’t come out to Denver.

  Brody isn’t distant. He’s right here, holding out his hand, and there’s no way I’m not going to take it. Then I’d be left standing out here in the cold, all by myself. I don’t like being alone.

  “Hold on a second, I don’t want to take my equipment.” He looks annoyed but gestures for me to go ahead.

  I flash my ID and run through the gate, catching up with my teammates who are straggling toward our group of suites in the village. “Hey, Jennie. Could you take my shit? Brody can’t get into the village, so I’m shacking up with him at his hotel tonight.”

  Jennie nods, and takes my bag with a knowing smirk. “Yeah, yeah, go have sex with your golden god. I’ll be in my bunk with your stank-ass gear. Pick it up in the morning before practice, yeah?”

  “No problem, and thank you. I owe you.” I give her a quick hug and race back to the gate where Brody’s still waiting, craning his neck to see around the guard who’s still blocking his way. Jeez, I was gone for two minutes. Give me a break.

  Right before I step through, my gaze is drawn to the side of the gate to a figure standing in the shadows. Not in a lurking way like some creeper, in a quiet way. Coach is like that. Quiet. Watchful. Thoughtful.

  He raises a hand, and after a beat of hesitation because I’m not up for another lecture, I head in his direction. He’s got his backpack over both shoulders, and it’s so dorky. He’s like thirty and he still has a backpack? Which he wears over a suit? Anyway, he’s standing there looking out of place, and he runs a hand through his dark hair. It curls when it gets a little longer than it is now but he got it cut right before we came to Denver.

  “What’s up, Coach?”

  Please don’t yell at me again, I don’t think I could take it. All I want to do is go to bed, rest my head on Brody’s shoulder, and listen to him sleep. Sooner or later, his deep breaths will overtake my anxious ones and I’ll have to close my eyes, too. That’s the plan, anyway.

  “I wanted to say . . .” A line forms between his eyebrows, and his mouth pinches. He shakes it off, though, shifts his weight and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sorry about what I said to you earlier. I meant every word of it.”

  “Okay . . .” Is this supposed to be a pep talk? Because it sucks.

  “But I forgot something.”

  Great. Something to make me feel even worse, I’m sure. I cross my arms over my chest and wait for it, but nothing comes. He’s looking at me, though, with his clear eyes. They make me feel naked somehow, like he can see right through me. Sometimes, that makes me feel good. I don’t have to explain stuff to him because he just knows. But right about now? I want to hide. And still he waits. What is this, some kind of power play? But Coach isn’t Brody. Conversations w
ith him aren’t a battle. Which is when I realize he’s waiting for my permission.

  I’m not psyched about giving it to him, but he doesn’t look mad anymore so he’s probably not going to yell. No, he never yells, unless it’s in the service of getting us psyched up. But it doesn’t look like I’m in for another round of verbal wrist-slapping, either. “Yeah, like what?”

  “Like—” He lifts a hand, and I think he’s going to lay it on my shoulder, maybe squeeze. I’d like that. Physical contact has a way of soothing me sometimes when words can’t. But right before he touches down, he drops his hand to his side and shakes his head again. Dude’s going to give himself whiplash if he keeps this up. “Like you are one of the best players I’ve had the pleasure to coach in my career and I’m really proud of you. I know what you did out there tonight wasn’t your idea. I think I even understand why you did it. I’m not giving you a pass, and I’m not telling you it’s okay—you were dead wrong and I wasn’t kidding about consequences. But what I also should have said was that you’re an exceptional athlete, and you don’t need to break the rules to stand out. In addition to your athleticism, you also have great leadership skills and an impressive work ethic. Don’t sacrifice your integrity for anything—or anyone—and you’ll be golden.”

  Oh. It’s a mixture of a lecture and the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. I’m not quite sure what to do with it. Coach scrubs a hand through his hair again, and I get the feeling he’s not quite sure what to do with it, either. It’s not usual to see him so uncertain, but I kind of don’t mind it. Makes him seem more human. Closer, when he keeps his distance from us in some ways.

  “Okay. Thanks, Coach.”

  He smiles, tight and pained, and shifts his weight again, wincing as he does. “Yeah. Well, go get some sleep, and I’ll see you at practice in the morning. Don’t be late.”

  “I’ll be early,” I counter, and his smile gets bigger but only on one side, like half of him likes it, but the other half isn’t so sure.

  “Sure.”

  I kind of want to hug him, which I usually only do after winning a game, but didn’t tonight. It feels off somehow, though. Too intimate without all my gear between us, and it suddenly hits me that Coach is . . . well, he’s a man. Which, duh, but I never really thought of him like that before because he’s just Coach and it doesn’t really matter what’s in his pants because . . . it doesn’t matter. It’s not like you play hockey with your dick. Now, however, I’m aware of the fact that he is, in fact, a guy, and it’s making me stupid and awkward.

  Instead of opening my mouth and saying something embarrassing, I lift a hand and offer a brief wave before I head to where Brody’s waiting, his foot practically tapping. He slings an arm around my shoulder and we start to walk away, but before we’re completely out of sight, I look over my shoulder. Coach is watching us, and his gaze is full of . . . something intense, but I’m not quite sure what.

  Chapter Five

  Ash

  The first game was frustrating as hell, but it’s over now. All the girls are suited up and getting ready to go out on the rink and kick some serious ass against China. The ripples from Bronwyn boarding the Norwegian player have smoothed out, and it’s fun to watch my team. Not only are they great players by themselves, but something happens when we put them all together. Some gorgeous alchemy. They’ve really solidified as a team, and it makes me stupidly proud and happy to see it.

  My girls, my team, and tonight they’re going to play right. Come what may, they’re going to leave this arena with their heads held high, because I’ll goddamn make sure of it. Before we leave the locker room, they crowd in together, shoulder and hip pads knocking, skates bumping up against each other. Their faces are eager, eyes bright, and damn do they look ready to play.

  There haven’t been so many times in my life when I’ve felt more than this. Certainly nothing has made me this happy. I look around, making eye contact with each one of them, willing them to know how proud I am of each of them, and how much faith I have that they’re going to go out there and kill this game. They’re going to win, and then it’s onto the semifinal and medal rounds. Yeah, all the way, because that’s how confident I am.

  Before we head out to the ice, they do their cheer that Lam and Cunningham came up with. It’s pretty good, I think, and their enthusiasm when they shout it is infectious.

  Sticks and pucks can break your bones

  But we are, we are, in the zone.

  Heads held high and sticks down low,

  Let’s show them how we run this show.

  USA, USA, USA, heeeeyyyyyy!

  After the girls have done their thing, they tromp up the angled hallway to the bench, and my starters get on the ice.

  The tension in the arena is so potent, I think it might manifest in some kind of force, like a vibration. One that’s so powerful it’ll shatter the perfectly smoothed ice.

  I swear to god, one day when I’m too old to coach anymore, I hope they’ll let me drive the Zamboni. That’s what I wanted to do when I started playing hockey. My parents would suit me up and shove me out onto the ice and I’d fall down over and over. I hated it so much and I begged to quit. I’m glad they didn’t let me, but my only fond memories from my first year or so of hockey were watching that Zamboni go around the rink.

  Now of course, I’ve got happier memories, and this new one is burning itself indelibly into my brain. In the box, we’re all on edge when the puck drops. Maybe it’s some kind of superstitious nonsense, but when Bronwyn steers it handily away from the Chinese player’s stick, I feel like I can breathe again. This is going to be okay.

  Bronwyn

  We won. Not barely, and not by playing dirty. By playing the way Coach taught us, and sticking with it. It was . . . awesome. No sick lurching of my stomach, just an incredible elated feeling in the center of the crush of my team, celebrating our victory.

  After a—hopefully not obnoxiously—long celebration, we shake hands with the Chinese players and wish them well. I hate the looks on their faces, knowing they’re done. They never get to lay blade on Denver SIG ice ever again. I hate it, but I don’t regret it, don’t feel guilty. Just empathy, knowing how I’d feel if it were us on the other side of this polite handshake. We’re all world-class athletes here; we all know what it feels like to be the best. When you’re not? It feels like shit.

  The arena’s quieted some, but all of a sudden, there’s a rustle on the side of the ice and someone hops over onto the rink. I’m not so worried—some jackass did that during one of our practices and security had him out on his ass in under two minutes—but then I recognize the guy. Brody. And he’s not alone. He’s followed by a camera crew. What the hell?

  He’s headed in my direction, looking awkward on the ice, where he usually looks so smooth, because he’s got street shoes on and not skates, but nonetheless he makes his way toward me. And it really is toward me. He’s not stopping and high-fiving any of the other girls, which would totally be his M.O. Leave it to Brody to make this about him. But whatever, the media loves him, and they love the story of him coming to the SIGs even though he didn’t make the men’s team. If it gets women’s hockey more attention? I’m not going to complain. Much.

  Except he’s not being Brody the good time guy, celebrating with the victors who are headed to the semifinals. No, he’s got that predatory look on his face. The one that says he wants something and fuck all if he’s not going to get it, because he’s Brody goddamn Hill and he always gets what he wants. Sometimes his boundless amounts of privilege really get on my nerves.

  After what seems like forever and a day, he finally reaches me.

  “Brody, what’s going on? What’re you doing? Why are you on the ice?” All of these are perfectly reasonable questions, but he seems disinclined to answer them.

  Instead, he gets this cocky smile on his face, one I used to love but now just makes me pause. He’s standing there, and then he takes his eyes off me, turns to the camera crew, and
I realize what he’s doing. Trying to make sure they’ve got a good shot. For what I’m not sure, and I kind of don’t want to know but then—

  Brody goes down on one knee, and fumbles in his pocket. My heart does this funny stutter, and then I feel like I can’t breathe. Yeah, I’ve been skating my ass off and worked up a good sweat, but this is the first time I’ve felt really winded. Like my knees are going to buckle and I’m going to fall over. What the actual fuck?

  I’d like to say something, make him stop, but I can’t, because if I can’t breathe, then I sure as hell can’t talk. But everything feels so godawful slow, and I can see it coming. The small velvet box, the way he cracks it open and makes sure the camera catches the glint of the diamond under the bright lights of the arena. Is it also capturing the horrified look on my face? Because all I can think is Do not want. I do not want this.

  Not only is he stealing my team’s—my—thunder in our victory, but he’s also forcing my hand. Trying to, anyway. Which is what finally solidifies these nebulous thoughts I’ve been having for a while. I . . . don’t want to marry Brody. I can’t even quite remember anymore why it is we’re together aside from the fact that we’ve always been together. Not always always, but for as long as it’s mattered at all. We’ve always been Bronwyn and Brody, King and Queen of the Rink, we’ve always been a package deal. The thing is, I don’t want to be part of Brody’s package anymore.

  It was easier to stay with him, though, through all the small slights and minor betrayals. If people think I don’t know what he says about me behind my back, well, they’re wrong. I do. I’ve just chosen to ignore it because it was easier that way. I’d planned to ignore it for the foreseeable future. Eventually he’d get drafted for an NHL team, or maybe he wouldn’t. Hopefully I’d be playing on a team in the women’s league, and I’d get a job because, those girls don’t make shit for money, and then sooner or later, we’d just . . . stop. Because staying together out of inertia is harder when you’re not, in fact, together.