Bronwyn

I can’t sleep.

That’s not unusual a couple of days before a big game, but what is unusual is that I don’t have anyone to fuck the tension out of me. For all he didn’t particularly give a shit if I came—or at least never made much of an effort to make sure that happened—Brody was always good for a first-rate pounding. He could fuck me so hard and for so long I’d sometimes wake up feeling bruised inside, but at least he could wear me out. Leave me limp and replete, so exhausted I’d have no choice but to close my eyes and let the dark take me over.

I don’t have Brody at my disposal anymore, though. Nope, made sure of that. It’s possible I could’ve found a way to say no that would’ve allowed us to stay together, at least until the SIGs were over, which is maybe not the most honorable thing to do, but everyone gets to be a little selfish now and then, right? God knows he was selfish enough with me.

But when I think about it, there was no way out of that with a pleasant outcome except to say yes. Which I suppose I could have done to save face, to not humiliate him, and then afterward told him no. When we got home—so that I could still be getting fucked within an inch of my life right now when I really need it.

As it is, I’m twitchy and jittery, tossing and turning, and really fucking tempted to go for a long-ass run in hopes of wearing myself out, which is not a good idea. I need to be on it for our game the day after tomorrow, which means no bonus workouts, especially not one where I push myself to exhaustion.

I could, I suppose, call Brody anyhow. Yeah, he’s ripshit at me, and yes, there’s a definite possibility he’s already banging someone else, but he probably wouldn’t pass up the chance for a revenge fuck.

Though I know it’s a terrible idea, I go so far as to pick up my phone, scroll to his number and open up a text message, but a sharp pang of fear hits me. Never has Brody hit me, ever. But if I’m completely honest, there were times when I thought he might. Maybe he wanted to, but he never did. And maybe now there wouldn’t be anything stopping him. Nope. No can do. I may lack enough sense of self-preservation to make a good hockey player, but I’m not that lacking.

But what was it Coach, Ash, said? If I’d call Brody, I should call him. It makes me snort a giggle, because I am positive this is not what he had in mind. Like, really sure, even if my drunk-and-asleep brain thought it was a super idea. On the other hand, if he doesn’t know, what’s the harm?

Also, he said he could do that. Hold me. Which he looked totally mortified by, like he’d walked into the locker room when we were all running around naked still, which he never ever does. He has Gail give us ten minute warnings and round us up exactly so that won’t happen.

But if he offered . . . I’ve managed to get through over twenty-four hours without taking him up on it, which I’m now regretting because of how twitchy I am.

Maybe we could just do that? Cuddle? Maybe sleep together? Like just the actual sleeping part. Not the—oh. That’s not something I should even consider because if Ash was mortified by the offer of holding me, what would he do if I asked him to fuck me? Even if it was just for sanity reasons? You know, a utility fuck? I don’t think that would make him feel any better. Plus, I don’t know that that’s really what I’d want from him. Probably the best part of having sex with Ash would be the connection, the attentiveness, the care. I can’t ask him for a meaningless distraction of a lay.

Being wrapped up in his heat and his smell, though, I suspect would soothe me. Maybe that sounds boring. But after being in the tempest of Brody’s company for so long, it might be nice to be in the calm cove of Ash’s. I wouldn’t have to defend myself, wouldn’t have to worry he’s going to constantly criticize me or that he’s judging me against a standard that doesn’t even make sense.

Yes, he absolutely tells me how I can be better, but in a way that doesn’t make me feel like shit and actually makes sense for the game I’m playing. He has the utmost respect for what I do, to the extent that he’s made it his life’s work. So maybe curling up with Ash and letting his approval and kindness leak into me wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. The only way I’d disappoint him was if I broke the rules—which I’m never doing again—or if I didn’t give him my all—which I wouldn’t withhold from him. He’s earned it, and my teammates deserve it.

So I thumb back to my contacts, and down to Coach Levenson. Which . . . I take a second to go into the listing and edit it so when I call him I’ll be calling Ash, and not my coach. The guy who escorted me home from the club, made sure I was safe, and cuddled me on his lap, not the man who could almost be considered my teacher in a way? Because surely that will make it totally acceptable, not at all awkward. Nice try, self. It does, however, make me feel better, if not good. My heart doesn’t pound nearly as hard when I press Ash’s name as it had when I was calling Coach Levenson.

It only rings once before he picks up.

“B? Are you okay?”

B. When did he start calling me that and why? I don’t mind. It’s way better than him calling me Perry, especially given what I’m calling for. Also, I find that a smile is curling my lips. “Yes, I’m fine. I mean, mostly. I can’t sleep, and I . . .”

I’d usually call Brody. I’d usually smoke that cigarette, even though I knew it wasn’t good for me. But you’ve given me an alternative, so I’m trying that instead.

“Yeah, of course. Big game in a couple days. How can I help?”

Just like that. So frigging easy. Even with his uncomplicated offer, I’m choking on my request. He doesn’t hurry me, though, doesn’t tell me he’s got other stuff to do so I can either tell him what my deal is or he’s going to hang up. He waits a minute while I struggle, pick at my shirt that doesn’t have anything to pick at.

“B. It’s okay. This wasn’t a conditional offer. It wasn’t half-hearted. If you need something, and it’s possible for me to give it to you, I will. You don’t need to be afraid to ask for what you want, because it’s already yours. I’ve got this whole stockpile of stuff right next to me that’s labeled ‘For Bronwyn.’ You just have to let me know what you want out of the pile, okay? It’s sitting here waiting for you to take it.”

Fuck. It’s totally fine that my eyes are watering and my throat is getting tight. Yes, I’ve known he’s a generous person. He’s unstinting in caring for us, in the time he offers. Colleen plays for him at BU and said when her teammate’s dad died last year, Ash flew out to Minnesota to be at the funeral. None of her professors did that, not her advisor, but Ash was there, and that surprises me not at all. He’s good at that stuff. Why have I not fully appreciated that before?

Looking up at the flat white ceiling, and blinking through my tears, I can’t help but wonder what else is in that pile. His tender insistence that I take from him makes me want to dig through it to see what else is on offer, and perhaps in the process maybe figure out a thing or two I could do for him in return.

I hate myself a little for how small my voice is when I ask, “Can I come over?”

But his answer is unruffled. “Of course.”

Ash

I’m an idiot. Why don’t I just stitch a fucking LED heart on my sleeve that pulses red with Bronwyn’s name on it in slopey turquoise cursive? Because I think it might be a less obvious way of saying I’m in love with her.

Okay, maybe love is going too far, because I don’t honestly know if we’d actually be compatible outside of my fantasies. It’s bad enough I’ve had a great deal of respect for her as a player since the first time I saw her on the ice, which would be her sophomore year of high school.

I wasn’t even there to scout her, but I was lucky to be able to give a report on the girl we were considering because I could barely take my eyes off of seventeen. Even then she was phenomenal, and when we lost her to BC I felt regret, but I couldn’t be mad. It was a better choice for her. I was more mad at myself for not being able to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

Of course, I’ve seen her play a couple of times every year since that first time. Watched her get even better, but also watched how she responds to her own coach. BC’s head coach is a screamer. That works for some players, but not for Bronwyn. Just makes her cower, puts tears in those gold eyes of hers. Yeah, she’ll still do her best because it’s in her nature, but wouldn’t you rather have someone try to please you because you’ve earned their respect than because you’ve threatened them if they do otherwise? I know what my answer is.

And yes, perhaps in the time since she’s been at BC, my interest has gone from a purely professional admiration of her skills to something less . . . sportsmanlike than that. I remember when it happened, actually. Four years after I’d first seen her play, and BC had beaten us on our own rink. It wasn’t a surprise, and it was a hard, cleanly fought game, but I was still disappointed. Not mad, though.

The girls all lined up to shake hands, passing by each other in lines on the ice, coaches mincing behind them because even when you’ve been doing it for years, walking on ice is tricky. Plus, by that point, I was in a fair amount of pain all the time. Nonetheless, I made my way through the line, shaking hands, complimenting BC’s players because they’d really done a fine job.

When I got to Bronwyn, she had this big smile on her face. Her hair was pulled back in a dark braid like how most of the girls wear it—letting the plait swing out of the bottom of their helmets—and she was all pink-faced and sweaty because she’d played hard. When I saw her . . . I can’t say for sure what exactly had changed. She didn’t look all that different from the last time our teams had faced off, when I hadn’t thought anything of it besides that she was phenomenal on the ice, but this time there was something about her that punched me in the gut with wanting.

I wanted her. Fantasized that night about stripping her out of her hockey gear, getting to see the strong body underneath all that padding and the layers to keep her warm. Was utterly jealous of her goddamn hockey stick for getting to have her hands run all over it for hours upon hours every day, every week. Stupid, but it knocked all the sense from me. Those light brown eyes, a glint of red in her hair under the harsh lights of the rink, and her goddamn smile. I forgot what I was going to say to her. Had had a compliment all ready to go of a particular play, and fucking lost it when I opened my mouth because all I could think was how gorgeous and perfect she was.

So I mumbled something about how she’d had a great game as usual, and her smile got bigger, and she said thank you. Like it meant something to her, my approval, and fuck it all did that make me feel good. I wanted to hold her hand forever, but instead I ducked what I’m sure was an incredibly awkward nod, hoping I wasn’t flushing, and moved onto the next girl, Washington. My synapses started to fire again, so I could tell her that her assist on Belvedere’s goal was a thing of beauty.

It was inappropriate to have a thing for her even when she wasn’t my player, because she was the same as my girls. Exactly the same. Same age, same ability to kick ass on the ice, and I should have felt the same slightly paternalistic protectiveness for her—and I did. But I also felt like I’d like to have dinner with her, I’d like to kiss her, I’d like to watch her ass as she blew past me as we went for a run together on a Sunday morning, and then strip her sweaty clothes off before having her in the shower.

Now, because I’m truly an idiot, this woman who I should have nothing but professional respect and concern for, is coming to my suite, and I’ve told her she can have anything she wants. Which she fucking could, but please for the love of Pete just let her want some hot cocoa and cookies, maybe some tissues.

Yeah, it would hurt to watch her cry over Brody, because the guy’s a dipshit dripping in asshat juice, but it probably would not cause as much mental anguish as if she actually wanted me. Because that would set this good guy, upstanding citizen, motherfucking professional, and top-notch coach—caring-but-in-an-entirely-sexless-way Coach Levenson—on a collision course with Ash, the man who has definitely made sweet sweet love to himself with his left hand while thinking about a woman—a girl—he had no right to. Yep, fucking idiot.

It doesn’t take Bronwyn long to make her way over here—far less time than it would’ve taken me to get to her room, so I’m glad she asked to come here instead of the other way around. There’s a soft knock on my door, and since I’ve already been pacing while thinking what a dumbfuck I am—even though it pains me to do it—it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to change course and answer the door.

There she is, hands knotted in front of her, mouth wrenched to the side. All I want to do is hug her, take her mind off all this shit. No, not all of it. Just the Brody shit. The hockey shit she can keep, but only enough of it that it’s a buzz in her system, keeping her ready, keeping her primed, hungry to win. Not so much that she can’t sleep. Which is maddeningly specific, especially because everyone knows anxiety doesn’t fucking work like that.

She has a sheepish smile for me when I let her in, and the same self-deprecating roll of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t have called you, I shouldn’t—”

However difficult this might be for me, it doesn’t need to be difficult for her. “You should have, and I’m glad you did. What you shouldn’t have done is tossed and turned all night, not gotten any sleep, and been exhausted for the game. So come on in and take a seat.”

That must seem a reasonable argument to her because she comes all the way into the room, and plops on the bed against the wall—the one I’ve been sleeping in, though there are two.

“Do you want anything to drink? Eat?” I gesture to the bureau where I keep my stash. It’s not much to look at, just a coffee pot and a basket of protein bars, fruit, and snack food, but better than nothing.

“No, thanks.”

Her gaze is darting around the room and I kinda wish she would’ve said yes, because that would give me something to do. As things stand, I have no fucking clue. Standing here awkward as hell isn’t helping any, so I sit on the bed opposite her.

“So, it’s, um, late.” Way to go, Captain Obvious. “Are you tired? Do you want to talk? What would be most helpful for you?”

“I . . . I am tired, but I can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Boy do I ever. Sometimes it’s nerves before a big game, but more often it’s being in pain. Like “I’d probably have to hit myself in the head with a mallet to render myself unconscious,” mind-destroying amounts of pain. Those are the nights when nothing works. Heat, ice, movement, reasonable amounts of drugs. Sometimes it gets so bad I’m nauseated, and all I can do is ride it out. Or give in and take an unreasonable amount of medication, which isn’t a good idea. Yep, I know what it’s like to not be able to sleep, and I don’t want her to suffer. “So what can I do?”

“I . . .” She looks at me from across the gap that separates the two beds, and then drops her head into her hands, mumbles something about how she can’t, she shouldn’t.

“Hey, B. What I told you before, I meant it.”

She looks up at me, her expression like hope warring with mortification. Yeah, I know what that’s like, too. But I can wait for her, will wait. She deserves someone who will wait as long as she needs them to.

“I’m not used to sleeping by myself?” The last bit of her sentence goes up in tone like a question, but she’s not asking me. It’s more of an apology, and I want to tell her she doesn’t have to apologize. “It’s, um, distracting? Being in a bed, alone. It’s cold, and empty, and it makes me tense.”

I could suggest to her some of the ways I lull myself to sleep on the less-bad nights—music, a movie I’ve seen so many times I can repeat the thing by heart with my eyes closed, a hot shower, a cup of tea, meditation, or, jeez, really confirm my ticket to hell and offer masturbation as a good way to wear out her body and her mind. God knows, some nights jerking off is the only way I get some shuteye. Bronwyn’s a smart girl, though, and I bet she’s tried some, if not all, of those things. Though I really shouldn’t think of her doing the last thing. Nope, really shouldn’t.

“I like touch, human contact, always have. Not having that is really—” She swallows, and studies her nails, like this is a hard thing to admit. Maybe that kind of reliance on another person makes her feel weak? Maybe talking about this with me is making her feel awkward? Maybe she’s just getting choked up because she misses Brody. “It’s really hard, and I’m having a tough time. I just, I want.”

That’s when she swipes at her nose, and my chest squeezes around my heart. That’s usually my cue during practice that she’s tired. If she’s doing that without having been through a hard three-hour practice, she’s not kidding. She’s super stressed, and how easy is it for me to try to fix it? As easy as shifting my weight and pivoting so I’m sitting next to her instead of across from her and putting my arm across her shoulders.

“Is this okay?”

She nods, and turns her head toward me, rests her forehead on my shoulder. Her breathing is soft and even, and before I can stop myself, I’m using my thumb to stroke her trapezius that’s been bared by her shirt slipping just off her shoulder. Bronwyn doesn’t ask me to stop, doesn’t tell me it’s too much. Rather, she breathes in and out, and some of the tension that’s holding her muscles tight loosens.

We sit there like that for about ten minutes before she raises her head and looks at me. Unlike when she came in, she doesn’t look like she’s buzzing with anxiety. More like sleep’s finally getting the better of her, and she’s entirely willing to let it.

“Can we lie down?”