Bronwyn

Ash has been a bit of a story unto himself in the SIGs, which is kind of funny. I mean, sure, the coaches get some credit—usually not enough, but some too much—but for whatever reason the press has developed an interest in him. Not quite the fascination they seem to have with Crash Delaney or Blaze Bellamy, but still.

He does, I suppose, have a good story, what with the being injured and being forced to leave the game as a player and coming back as a coach. I wish they’d talk to him more about what a phenomenal coach he is, though, instead of poking at his sore spots. But that’s what they seem to enjoy.

Of course, they’d probably have something to say other than those things if they had any idea I was in Ash’s room, curled up in his bed with some hot chocolate in his SHUT YOUR FIVE-HOLE mug, wearing nothing but his Jeff Halpern jersey.

All I want to do when he gets back is take off his shoes, have him take me over, mind and body, for the next couple of hours, and then fall asleep while snuggled into his side. For now, I’ll maybe sneak a peek at his interview, because I bet Ash is adorable on camera. Maybe kind of uncomfortable, wishing he could go back and watch tape of our opponents instead, or put together the ultimate playlist for our locker room psych-up tomorrow.

There’s no TV in here, so I’ll have to watch Ash be charming and bashful on the small screen of my phone, but I’d rather do that here in the privacy of his room than in one of the common rooms, or the lounge outside the dining hall, or the entertainment complex, or well, basically anywhere else. Here smells like Ash, and feels like him.

Which is when it hits me. Like yeah, I’m not stupid or delusional, so I know the SIGs are coming to an end in a few days, but I hadn’t actually thought about what that might look like. My entire relationship with Ash has been in Denver, under the billions of white flakes that swirl around in the SIG snow globe. It may snow back in Boston, but everything is going to be different. The question is, how different?

I’ll be finishing out my senior year at BC, Ash will be back coaching at BU, but aside from that, does anything really need to change? I can’t imagine him in my apartment, but we could still . . . date. Except that’s not really what we’re doing is it? He lives in Carlisle, and that’s not super far, surely—

Which is when Carla Carruthers welcomes Ash to her show. He is so fricking cute. Not even the stylists for the show could make his hair totally behave so he looks sort of disheveled, even if his suit is on point. Man looks good, and I wonder for not the first time how I could’ve overlooked him for so damn long. His smile is easy and charming, and I like the way he talks with his hands. Of course, there are other things I like that he does with his hands, too . . .

Carla is clearly not immune to Ash’s charm, because she smiles and simpers while she asks him how the team is doing so far and whether he’s nervous about the game tomorrow.

He smiles and shakes his head. “No, I’m not nervous.”

Carla raises an eyebrow that must’ve been groomed to within an inch of its life, and her skeptical expression makes Ash laugh.

“I mean, there’s definitely adrenaline pumping through these veins, don’t get me wrong, I’m not made of stone. But am I worried about how the team is going to perform? Not at all. They’ve trained incredibly hard, they work together beautifully, and they know what they’re doing. Honestly, I could not show up tomorrow and they’d be fine. That’s how solid they are.”

If I had popcorn, I’d throw it at the screen. “Not funny,” I mutter to the mini-Ash in front of me. He’s so going to hear about that when he gets back.

I get it, and it’s flattering, but it’s also outright not true. We’d flounder without him. At least I would. He doesn’t give himself nearly enough credit. Although, really, what would be enough? I don’t think there’s enough credit in the whole world. Ash is the best man I know. And maybe that’s the difference between him and Brody. Yeah, Brody looks like a man, but he doesn’t act like one. He’s selfish and self-centered, has zero empathy, and is as juvenile now as he was on the day I met him.

Ash is . . . not that. Which is also something he’s going to hear about when he gets back. After I finish stripping him and showing him exactly how marvelous I think he is. Because that is a thing that’s happening over no matter what protests he might have. I think the interview’s about over when Carla presses a couple of fingers to her ear like she’s listening to her producer, and her gaze darts sharp to Ash’s face.

This has been a softball interview, which isn’t Carla’s usual M.O. She’s more of the barracuda equivalent of a reporter for Hour 25, but she’s been a bit more cotton candy during the SIGs. Now, though, instead of looking like she’s flirting with Ash over drinks in a bar, her face gets hard, devious . . . predatory. I’ve seen that look on women’s faces, and it’s usually right before they try to steal the puck away from me. Good luck, lady, with whatever it is you’ve got because Ash is far, far tougher than he appears.

“So, Coach Levenson, tell me. Is it ever challenging to coach women, from an attraction perspective? You’re not so much older than your players.”

Oh, shit. Ash’s light eyes blink wide, and I can imagine the flush that’s creeping up his throat. Luckily, because he’s a teensy bit stuffy, his collar’s buttoned all the way up for his tie, so the rest of the world isn’t going to see what I know is there.

He gets that funny wave-wrinkling around his eyebrows, and his eyes narrow. “I mean, in college it was hard when I was the manager for the women’s team. Those were the women I had everything in common with, who I thought were phenomenal athletes. Did I have crushes on them? All the time.”

The constriction in my chest loosens up some, because he’s very good with the charm. But Carla doesn’t let it go. “Sure. But when you started your first university coaching job, you were the same age as your players. Have you ever gotten romantically or physically involved with one of your players? It’s a simple question.”

I want to gouge the woman’s eyes out. What business is it of hers if he has? If she knew Ash better than ten minutes on a TV set, she’d know he wouldn’t do that.

. . . Except he is. With me. But it’s not that simple. And heaven help me if she implies he’d use his position to get a girl into bed, or pressured her in any way. I’d march down to the studio and threaten her with my stick, but somehow I don’t think that would help anything.

She must’ve brought her usual camera crew with her, because they do one of those close-up shots Hour 25 is famous for. The ones where they zoom in so close to the interviewee’s face it makes them look guilty just from the camera angle. It makes me sick, what she’s doing to Ash, and it makes me sick that this is partly my fault. This never would have happened if it weren’t for me. Would it? Or has there been someone else?

Why is Carla Carruthers asking about this now? What the hell is Ash going to say?

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t look at the ground, but keeps his gaze straight on Carla’s face. She looks like a mouser, waiting to catch up her prey between her paws and bat him around.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re implying. Nothing inappropriate or untoward has ever happened between me and any of the women I’ve coached. I have never been physically involved with any of my players.”

My stomach roils at his insistence even as I know he can’t very well say that yeah, we’ve been fucking any and every chance we get for the past week. That would end his career, maybe damage my prospects, but does he have to look so sure about it?

That goddamn eyebrow of Carla’s cocks again. “And what about romantically? Have you ever had inappropriate feelings for any of your players? Feelings that were a long way from professional?”

Ash’s jaw flexes, and I want to reach my fingers through the screen, stroke it, soothe him, and poke frigging Carla in the eye. What the hell? He already said no, can she not leave it at that?

Most of the time, Ash is pleasant looking. Not in a bland way, but in a regular - guy - walking - down - the - street kind of way. But every once in a while, he gets very stern. Depending on the context, I can find this stomach-clenching in a guilty, squirmy way, or in a holy - fucking - turn - on kind of way. It’s the former right now, and my throat gets tight as I wait for his answer.

“The only feelings I have ever had for any of my players have been of concern and pride. My job is to foster their talents, help them work as a team, bring their attention to bigger-picture issues they may not be able to see when they’re in the middle of a game, and to keep them happy, healthy, and primed to win. I’ll say it one more time and one more time only. I have never had inappropriate feelings for any of my players. Everything I’ve done has been for the good of the team, because that’s what professionals do. Speaking of, we’ve got a big game coming up tomorrow and I won’t do the women on my team or this country the disservice of being unprepared or exhausted for it.”

The camera pans out and Carla talks out the last minute or so of the segment while Ash sits there, kind of stiff but looking none the worse for wear. Which is good. That’s good. Right? But on the other hand, my heart’s not beating its normal rhythm, nor is it racing like it was when this ridiculous line of questioning first started. No, it’s kind of tripping along, a thuddy, uneven beat that’s making it hard to breathe.

Rational me knows there was nothing else he could possibly say, nothing else he could possibly do. At least not without putting himself at risk, and I wouldn’t want that, at all. But watching him say that so confidently and so very frankly? It makes me feel like nothing. Like all along, I’ve just been a chore he has to do, a responsibility he has, like what we’ve been doing was an obligation he had to the team, and it hurts. Worse than anything Brody’s ever said or done. Worse than a hard check into the boards.

Not only did he say it, but he looked as though he meant it. Would he have done this for anyone on the team? Does he truly have no feelings for me whatsoever beyond a professional interest in me not crashing and burning? Because I have to say, it doesn’t feel good. I thought it was more than that. I thought he might . . . love me?

But apparently that was stupid. I’m a job he has to do, and all of this has just been another duty he had to fulfill for the good of the team. And I’m the stupid, stupid girl who thought she could matter to a man more than just her skills on the rink. Idiot. Idiot.

Sitting on Ash’s bed, wearing his jersey, holding his mug suddenly all seem embarrassing. Immature and like playing dress-up. What is he thinking, as he walks off the set, removes the sound equipment, and heads back here? Is he rolling his eyes and dreading seeing me? More work to do. Better make sure Bronwyn gets her orgasms in, otherwise she’s going to be a hot mess for the game tomorrow. Checking his watch while we’re making love because Oh my god, can this be over yet?

The idea makes my eyes water, but I try to be reasonable, rational. Not let that tendency to make small things into federal disasters take me over. I’ll wait. I’m overreacting, and surely, surely when Ash gets back, he’ll be able to make this panic go away. Be able to soothe me and hold me and tell me how he really feels and I’ll be able to believe him because he’s a good man.

Ash

That was ugly. Carla’s always been kind to me, and that . . . that was unexpected. She totally fucking blindsided me with those ugly accusations. The weird thing is, she seemed surprised, too. Like maybe she got word from her producer in the middle of the interview to poke me about having inappropriate relationships with my players, and where the fuck did her producer get that from?

I shiver, even though I’m plenty warm in my down coat on my way back to my room at the village. The only thing I want is Bronwyn. To have her in my arms, her skin against mine, her eager body pressed to me, and her bossy insistence about how exactly we’re going to have sex so I’m not in pain. That’ll reassure me that there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. Yes, perhaps the circumstances aren’t ideal, but if the circumstances were different, would we have ended up together?

I can’t be one hundred percent thrilled about being with Bronwyn because it’s fucked with my head quite a bit—I’m not the kind of guy who would take advantage of anyone, never mind someone who I was supposed to be mentoring, inspiring, and who I have some level of control over. I wouldn’t. And yet, I have. A lot. But it doesn’t feel as though I’ve been taking advantage of her. The guilt sometimes makes me want to crawl out of my skin, but then we’re together, and it seems so right. As though this is a really, really good thing.

If the trigger had never gotten pulled, if Brody had never proposed, what would we be doing? My lust for her would still be quietly simmering below the surface, and she’d still be with Brody, and then she’d graduate. Get a job somewhere. She’s got plans to try to play in the women’s professional league, but who knows if that’ll work out. Probably, though, because she’s as good a player as anyone they’ve got.

All that shit is jumbled up in my head as I hoof it across the village to my building, while the overriding impulse is to see Bronwyn, hold her, kiss her, be close to her in any way I possibly can. Bury myself in her scent, her laugh, and god yes, her body. She said she’d be waiting for me after my interview, and I can’t wait to get my shaking hands on her.

I slip the keycard in the door, and push it open, feeling some of my tension unravel just by being in this place. Safety, warmth, humor, and love. That’s what I’ve built with her in the past couple of weeks and nothing can change that.

Except maybe for the look she’s giving me when I open the door. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing my Halpern jersey, which should be sexy as hell, and kind of is, but she also looks terrified. Fuck.

She holds her hands up to shoulder-height, and doesn’t look me in the eye. “So . . . I saw your interview on Hour 25, and I . . . I . . .”

Her eyes are darting around the room, and she makes a motion with her hands like she’s trying to get herself to spit the rest out. “I get why you said those things, and in some ways I’m really thankful, because I don’t want anyone to get in trouble, and I don’t want you to lose your job, but I . . .”

Bronwyn rests her hands on her shins and looks as though she’s trying to catch her breath. She closes her eyes, and I’m standing there, feeling like a shmuck for making her doubt my feelings in any way. If I’d known she was sitting here, watching . . . My insides are getting wrung out and I want nothing more than to go to her, convince her of exactly how false everything I just said was. But I’ll wait. She deserves to have her feelings heard, and I’m not going to silence her.

When she blinks her eyes open, her watery gaze meets mine and it’s like an icicle is being lanced through my gut. “It felt really bad, Ash. Like I started to believe you.”

Her fingers have tightened on her shins, her nailbeds going white from the pressure, and she’s going to have marks gouged into her skin from her short fingernails. I cross the room to make her stop, and my first thought is to fall to my knees, lay my head in her lap and ask for her forgiveness, tell her I’ll call Carla right now and set the record straight. But there are a few things wrong with that picture, so instead I sit next to her on the bed to let her do what she will with me.

I let out a huge breath of relief when she turns and wraps her arms around me and squeezes me so tight I can barely get air into my lungs. Small price to pay for alleviating her worry. I don’t talk at first, just let my own arms encircle her, my hands rubbing her shoulders, her back, her hair.

Which is of course when my phone rings. It’s in my pocket, so I can barely hear it, but it’s not “Gloria,” nor is it “Kodachrome” which would tell me my parents had seen the interview and my mother is fretting. No, it’s “Born to Run,” which is exactly the feeling I get, because Bruce means my boss is calling.

Suddenly Bronwyn doesn’t feel so much like a magnet drawing me in, but a dangerous thing that’s hot or poisonous to the touch. Which is entirely unfair. It has far more to do with Madeline Channing being on the line and my heart shooting into my throat, because this is her calling to tell me that I’m fired. After the SIGs, I should come back to campus, pack up my things, and fuck off, because she knows what I did. What I’m doing.

Thing is, I can’t even defend myself. Especially not when I’ve got Bronwyn clutching at me. Can’t do it, can’t do it. Which becomes even more apparent as I drag my phone from my pocket and answer it.

“Hi, Madeline. What can I do for you?”

Please let it be her calling to ask me to get some SIG athlete’s autograph, or pick up an extra Team USA parka while I’m here. Something, anything, other than her calling to say she’s seen the interview with Carla.

“I saw you on Hour 25, and I have to say, Ash. I’ve got some concerns.”

The concern I believe she’s talking about is wrapped around me like a vine. My stomach bottoms out, because this is just too much for my brain to handle. I can’t be cuddling Bronwyn while outright lying to BU’s Athletic Director. As much as I hate it, I disentangle Bronwyn’s fingers from where they’re grasping my shirt, and ease away from her before pushing off the bed and heading to the bathroom where I can close the door and maybe get my shit together enough to focus on the long-term, smart thing to do, which is to lie through my teeth, and not confess like every bone in my body is itching to do.

“Madeline, I assure you. You have nothing to be worried about.”

Bronwyn

He pushed me away. I told him I needed him, and he pushed me away. I was totally prepared to believe him, to give him the benefit of the doubt, that he’d put that charade on for us. To have him shake his head and laugh in relief. “Thank fuck that’s over with. I hated lying, but you understand why I had to. Right, baby?”

I would’ve said yes. And I would have understood. But now he’s disentangled himself from me—literally—and had to get away from me so he could tell his boss she has nothing to worry about. I can hear him through the thin door, telling Madeline he has no idea what Carla was talking about. Again, he’s so good I believe him. I wish he were sitting next to me, even. Maybe he’d roll his eyes while he was talking to her, or just keep, for the love of everything, holding me, and I could trust in his body even as his words made me uneasy.

Everything’s gone away now, though, and he’s telling Madeline even more strenuously than he insisted to Carla that he’s never done anything to warrant this suspicion, that he’s never had any feelings for any of his players, and that if some of his methods have been unorthodox, it’s all been in the service of his teams.

I am so sick of being jerked around by men. Be like this, show up at this opportune time, fit into this convenient mold I have for you. Well too fucking bad. I deserve more than that. I deserve to be inconvenient and imperfect and still get what I want, what I need from my partner. I get why Ash is issuing assurances to his boss, I really do, but he flat-out abandoned me when I was feeling most insecure. Could he not have let her call go to voicemail? Could he not have stayed here with me while he talked to her? I was so ready to believe him, but I need more from him. His walking away has tipped me over the edge from feeling vulnerable and bewildered to being incensed and destroyed.

I need to get the fuck out of here now. I’m tempted to do damage to this place. This room where so many things happened that I’d loved, and so many things that had blown my mind and made me melt. Made me feel precious, and like Ash really liked me. But all along I’ve just been a task, a thing to be managed. So what I’ll do is check myself off his list.

I climb off the bed, and goosebumps rise up on my skin quickly, since I’m no longer in my little Ash nest. The rest of my cocoa has gone cold, so down the drain it goes and I wash it out, hands moving slow and deliberately because if I let this shell crack, I’ll throw the damn thing across the room. No. I will take off this Jeff Halpern jersey, fold it like an employee of the Gap and put it back in the drawer. I will remove any trace of myself. I will make it look like I was never here.

I clearly didn’t make an impression on Ash in any meaningful way in our time together—not the way he’s branded himself on my heart in such a short period of time—but I don’t want his last thoughts of me to be that I cannot clean up after myself. That picking up my mess is still part of his job, just like making me feel loved has been.

Ash

Once Madeline has interrogated me to her satisfaction, I’m practically scratching at the door to be back with Bronwyn. To finish what I started and prove to her that it was lies. All fucking lies, and that the only reality exists between the two of us. This is what I’m looking very much forward to convincing her of when I finally come back into the main room of the suite—convincing her with every tool at my disposal that I love her and that I’m just trying to keep us safe. This is my plan, which I am willing and able to execute except for one thing. She’s not here.

Not in my bed, not at the little table. Even stranger is that there’s no evidence that she’s been here at all. There’s always some trace of her left behind, which at first had tweaked me when I was ready for the vice police to come knocking down my door. What if, what if, what if . . . But it had become something I looked forward to. What piece of herself had she shed this time, knowing she’d be back to claim it? A hair tie, a mug half-filled with tea or cocoa, a shirt or, hell, that time she’d left lacy underwear behind.

The lack of anything belonging to her is disquieting, and the anxiety I’d shed when I crossed the threshold is back with a vengeance. Digging my phone out of my pocket, I see I didn’t miss any calls from her. Or a text. Or anything else. No note sitting on the table to let me know she’d gone back to her place to chill, nothing.

So I do what any guy would do. I dial her. It rings, and rings, and rings but nothing. Maybe she’s somewhere she can’t pick up? Which doesn’t make sense because the earliest she could’ve left is like twenty minutes ago. Last minute tickets to an event or something? Which is the nice thing about texts.

Hey B, are we on for tonight?

I wait, pacing, feeling jittery and frozen at the same time. Stiff, hurt, and like my lungs have shrunk. It’s just an overreaction because of the stress of the interview and from talking to Madeline. That’s all it is. Bronwyn will text me back in a minute, with a “Yeah, we are” that’ll make me smile because I’ll be able to hear it in her voice and practically see her ridiculous attempt at a salacious wink.

Ten minutes later, and still nothing. This . . . this is when I start to panic. There’ve been some creepers hanging around the village and being inappropriate with female athletes. Which A, makes me shake my head, because, dudes? Do you not realize that most of them could put you through a plate glass window without breaking a sweat or shank you with a skate or a ski pole? B, had me sending warning emails to my team to walk in pairs at least and to be on the lookout; and now, C, has me fretting because what if Bronwyn got attacked? She could totally take down one moron, but more than one?

Or what if her injury started bothering her again? Wouldn’t she text or leave me a note, though, if she’d gone to see the trainer or to the village ER if it were really bad? Although maybe she wouldn’t want to worry me? Fucking worry me a little, because this is unbearable.

My last thought is Brody. He was pretty fucking angry, and we haven’t heard a peep from him. Why is that? It’s not like patience is a virtue of his. If she was heading back to her room, and he did something to her, I swear to god . . .

That’s the thought that gets me to take up my coat and hat and mittens, shove them all back on after I’ve just gotten thawed, although honestly I’m buzzing so hard from the anxiety that I’ll hardly notice the temperature when I go outside.

It’s not a long walk from my building to Bronwyn’s, but fuck those stairs are killer. At the end of them, though, maybe she’s just naked in the bath tub and put her phone on mute so she could actually relax. Yes. That’s what I tell myself as I take step after painful step to make it up to her room so I can bang on her door. She’ll answer in a towel and after checking the hall to make sure we don’t have any witnesses, she’ll drag me inside and make everything okay.

And me? I’ll tell her about the interview and my call with Madeline, and we’ll share a moment of panic about it, but laugh it off because it’s over now and we don’t have to worry about it. Maybe it’ll even lead to talk of what’s going to happen once we go home. Back to Boston, back to real life.

We’d have to keep it under wraps still because even if she’s not my player, I’m sure our relationship would still be frowned upon. But she could come out to Carlisle sometimes, we could go away for a weekend to someplace no one gives a shit about hockey. Charleston, New Orleans. After I have my surgery and then I’ll be able to show her a good time. Dance with her. Dancing with Bronwyn would be . . . The idea makes a little of my brain ooze out my ears. I mean, the closeness would be like foreplay unto itself, but it would also mean I’d have my mobility back. It’s like all the good things I’d wish for all in one.

And it wouldn’t be such a godawful pain for me to climb up some fucking steps. By the time I reach the top, my hip is on fire and I’m so going to pay for this with stiffness and soreness tomorrow morning. But knowing Bronwyn’s okay and has just been kicking back and watching a movie on her laptop or is in the bath to take the edge off? Worth every twinge, every pang, every stab of pain.

At her door, I catch my breath and try to wipe the exertion from my face. Not that I’m winded from walking up a few flights of stairs, but my face is probably drained of color and in some ridiculously attractive death mask. That’s what fighting against constant pain will do to a man. A smarter, less desperate person might’ve figured out another way, but I’m just me, and while I admire my girls for their ability to play smartly, elegantly, with frigging poetry, my impulse is still to bust on through things that are in my way. Perhaps I should take notes.

The other thing I should do is knock on the door because I don’t need people seeing me here and asking questions.

So, doing my best to school my features so Bronwyn won’t freak when she sees me, I rap on the door. A few shuffles later, and there’s the welcome clack of the door unlatching, and I’m so glad, I nearly push in without waiting for her to open the door fully. But holy crap am I glad I didn’t, because it’s not Bronwyn standing in front of me, but Nguyen. Lisa Nguyen? What’s she doing here? And in her . . . yeah, she’s totally wearing pajamas.

She looks as confused to see me as I am her, her head cocked to the side, and a frown tugging down the corners of her mouth. “Coach?”

“Yes.” I never, ever, have claimed to be smooth under pressure. At least nowhere outside a rink.

“What are you doing here?”

Perfectly fair question, which is why I ask my own ridiculous question. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s, uh, my room.”

I suppose that’s technically true, but, “Haven’t you been staying with your family?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, but they were driving me up a wall. Figured I’d have a better shot of keeping my focus if I stayed here with everyone else.”

“Okay.”

Still, I’m standing in this doorway, and things are bumbling over awkward and heading straight for mortifying. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Coach?”

“Yeah.”

Nguyen is looking at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind, and she’s not so far from the truth. It’s possible my brain’s wandered off because there is no other excuse as to why I’m failing so utterly to come up with a reasonable explanation for why I’m here. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes have narrowed, and she’s speaking slowly, because clearly I am not comprehending the most basic of sentences.

“I was . . .” Panicking and feeling like a dirty old pervert so I was seeking my entirely inappropriate lover to tell me everything is okay? When I put it like that, it doesn’t sound so good.

“Looking for Bronwyn?” she prompts.

Do I say yes? I mean, clearly I wasn’t looking for Nguyen since I was surprised she was here, but what’s my excuse for wanting to see Bronwyn? “Yes?”

If slapping my forehead with my palm wouldn’t be such a dead giveaway, I’d do it right now. Or turn and bang my head up against the wall. I swear I’m not usually this stupid. If I were, there’s no way I would’ve graduated from college, or high school for that matter. I probably would’ve drowned in a puddle or something.

And now I have to come up with something in the moment of stall I’ve bought myself.

Lucky for me, there’s a noise behind Nguyen, and Bronwyn’s nudging her aside.

“Hey, Coach, what’s up?”

Well there’s a throat punch. Coach? I’ve gotten used to our dual personas, and it doesn’t make me flinch when she calls me Coach at the rink or in the gym or at team meetings or meals. No, that makes all the sense in the world. Nor does it seem to bother her when I call her Perry in all those places. Because of course I do. But here? Standing outside her room, the site of so much sex, so much intimacy? Having her call me Coach makes my stomach feel like a brawl on the ice.

What I wouldn’t give to hear her mouth breathe those three little letters. In her voice, it sounds more substantial, and, yeah, sexier than it has any right to.

Nguyen gives me one last side-eye for good measure and then retreats back into the suite, but I’m all too aware she’ll still be able to hear what’s being said. While I try to come up with exactly what that might be, I look at Bronwyn. Her eyes are puffy, reddish, and her mouth is tight with strain, the lingering effects of crying.

“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.