Bronwyn

I think at first Ash is going to weasel out of my question. Maybe pretend it was about something else or tell me it’s time for me to head back to my room and get ready for practice. Which it is, but I’ve got a few more minutes. And it’s not fair, to scare the living hell out of me like that and then shrug it off. Which isn’t what he did—I can hardly call giving me the world’s best hug, making me promises, and calling me baby blowing me off—but if he does it now, it would feel that way. Like I’m not worth sharing with. Like I’m allowed to confide in him but he doesn’t have enough faith in me to do the same. That kind of pat - me - on - the - head dismissal would make me feel shitty and small.

He huffs a breath out of his nose while letting his PUCK YOU mug rest in his hands between his knees. There’s a minute of silence, and he looks like he’s thinking super hard. I’ve seen him do it when he’s deciding who should take penalty shots, or making other hard calls.

“Look, B. I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to promise me you won’t say anything. Not to the girls, not to anyone. It’s not some creepy secret, I just . . . find it difficult to talk about and I don’t want to talk about it with anyone but you. Can you do that for me?”

He didn’t say not to the other girls, and it gives me a tiny thrill. Ash likes girls, likes women. Likes the game we play, has a lot of respect for his players and everyone else in the sport. Never have I caught even a whiff of misogynistic asshattery from his direction, so I don’t get mad that he’s called my teammates girls. And to be let in on this secret, it feels precious already even though I only have the ghost of it in my hands. I’ll hold it, I swear, keep it to myself, and be selfish with it. So, “Yes, I’ll keep your secret.”

He tips his head to look at me and then takes his lips between his teeth like he’s figuring out where to start.

“I played hockey in high school. And not to be a dick about it, but I was good. Like possibly - headed - to - the - NHL good. At the end of my sophomore season, I had the shit luck to get a pelvic fracture.”

I wince, because those don’t come easy. His body must have taken some serious abuse for his pelvis to actually break. Hockey players have a ton of hip injuries because of repetitive movements and other factors, but I’ve never known anyone who had a break there.

“The recovery time was long and basically wiped out my chance at a junior season.”

Which also meant his college recruitment season. Sympathy burbles in my chest but he shakes his head before I can offer anything.

“I thought I might be able to salvage something, maybe a D-III school even if I couldn’t hack it in D-I. Once I got back on the ice, I was fine for a while, but then it started to hurt. So bad I had to quit.”

There’s a flex of his jaw that makes me want to lean over and put my arm around him, nuzzle into the side of his neck, but I don’t think he wants that right now. Or maybe ever from me.

“There was already a manager for the guys’ team at my high school, and besides, I didn’t want to see my old team. So I started managing for the girls’ team. Their coach was this washed-up alcoholic who couldn’t coach those girls for shit. So in addition to keeping stats and dealing with the equipment, I started watching tape. Giving the players advice when I could sneak it, and we made states that year. That was also when I got diagnosed with degenerative joint disease. You know, osteoarthritis? Which makes me sound like I’m a million years old.”

I don’t know exactly what that is, but it sounds like it would hurt. And degenerative? That makes it sound like there’s no way it’s getting better. Ever.

“I wasn’t going to give up and I still wanted to be involved in hockey. Plus, after managing my high school team, I came to love the women’s game. Maybe more than the men’s. It’s faster, more elegant, more about finesse and strategy and speed than brute strength. So I went to college, managed the women’s team there and at the same time tried to keep my OA in check. Exercise, PT, I did everything right.”

That would’ve been, what, ten years ago? Ash is twenty-eight. Has been head coach at BU for four years after moving up the ranks after he graduated from there.

“It was better for a while, manageable, but that shit doesn’t go away. No matter what you do. Sometimes you can keep it steady, but sometimes, it just gets worse and there’s . . .” He sounds like he chokes, and he’s staring into his mug between his knees like it might have some answers for him. “There’s not a damn thing you can do about it. It just gets so bad you have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. You can hide it, though. For a while anyway.”

There’s a jerk of his head as he turns to look at me. His expression, which is usually pretty chill unless he’s got his game face on, is fierce.

I’ve never spent much time thinking about Ash’s looks, because he’s my coach and I had Brody. Even if I hadn’t, Ash isn’t really my type. But this is the first time I’m really noticing the color of his eyes. If you’d asked me before, I couldn’t have told you what color they are. Light? But they’re actually this startlingly clear green, like the sea glass I used to hunt on the beach when I was a kid. Unlike those precious pieces with their smooth edges, his gaze could cut. “I’m not angling for sympathy, I’m just trying to tell you what you wanted to know.”

“Yeah,” I say softly, because I don’t want him to stop, and I don’t want him to feel pitied. I don’t think he could take it. “I want to know.”

“It got so bad last year that I was popping pills in a way that wasn’t okay, and finally my ortho told me she thought it was time for surgery. Twenty-fucking-seven and she wants me to have hip replacement surgery. I finally stopped being a stubborn enough dickhead to admit that was probably a good idea, and we’d scheduled it and everything. I would’ve missed part of the season probably and wouldn’t have been able to do the super far travel, but my surgeon was optimistic about my recovery and so was I. That’s when I got the call.”

He turns to me again, and there’s a genuine smile on his face, one that lets my insides un-crumple some. A bright spot in this dark cloud of a story.

“Their top choice for coaching the SIG team dropped out and they were scrambling to find a replacement. And a hell of a lot like BU when their head coach retired unexpectedly because her husband got really sick, they took a chance on me.”

Ash has got this dreamy look on his face like he can’t frigging believe he got so lucky, and more gratitude and admiration than I’ve ever felt for anyone flood my system. If I’ve ever wanted to kiss someone so badly, I can’t think of when it was. It wouldn’t be a sympathy kiss, a pity jumping his bones, it would be a holy fucking hell, I think you’re an incredible man, and that is a turn-on like I’ve never felt before. It’s different from the pure physical attraction than I’d felt for Brody, and we’ve got as much in common as Brody and I ever had. Maybe more.

It’s disconcerting that scales I’ve never thought existed have tipped. Ash is just . . . he’s really fucking incredible is what he is, and I can’t believe I never saw it before.

“So you put off having surgery to coach us?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“No.” I’m not letting him get away with that. It might be dangerous and stupid as hell, but I set my half-full mug on the bedside table, and get to my knees on the mattress, take his face in my hands, look straight into those sea glass eyes. “Not you guess so. You did that. Made that sacrifice, for us. That’s why you looked sick this morning, because you were in that much pain. If they had any idea . . .”

His gaze goes sharp again, and I soothe it with a rub of my thumbs over the scruff of his cheeks. He didn’t shave. “I won’t tell, I promise, but I will—I will say thank you.”

Before he can tell me not to, I lean up, intending to set my mouth to where my thumb just grazed. My heart is beating hard like I’ve just been doing Z drills, and it goes into overdrive when he turns his head ever-so-slightly at the last second, so that instead of getting his scruff like sandpaper beneath my lips, I get his soft lips.

This is . . . not what I meant, but now that I have it, I can’t imagine why not. His mouth feels incredible against mine, and he smells so goddamn good, I want to lick him all over. Devour every inch of him because . . . I don’t even know, it just feels really fucking good. Like something I want to do instead of something I’m obligated to do.

Which is why it hurts so much when he pulls away.

His eyes are closed, hands are white-knuckled around his mug, and the pleasant heat that had been gathering in my chest blooms into the worst burn of embarrassment. Oh my god, I just did that. I kissed Ash. No. Coach, I kissed Coach, and that is not okay for like a thousand different reasons, and now he’s mad at me and my life is over. Yep, I can go from thrill to catastrophe faster than I can skate between blue lines.

When I look at his face, though, he doesn’t look mad. Nor does he look disgusted or mortified or any of the other bad things I’m looking so very hard for because I expect them to be there. He’s frozen to the spot, barely breathing if he is at all, and it occurs to me that maybe he’s gripping his PUCK YOU mug until it looks like his fingers are about to break off because he doesn’t want to be holding the mug, he wants to be holding me.

Maybe he wants this as much as I do, but he’s got more willpower than I have and is resisting because this is not a good idea. Well, you know what? I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me, I’m tired of being everyone’s pawn. Yes, even Ash’s. I fully recognize the irony of him being one of the people I’m giving the finger to as I grab him by his shirt collar and pull him into another kiss, this one entirely on my terms. Which, in this case, means an aggressive surge of my mouth against his, and fuck yes, I’d like to taste him so I slip my tongue into his willing mouth.

Ash

Fucked, fucked, fucked, I am so incredibly fucked. I am also blissfully, deliriously happy, and hard as hell. I’d turned to tell Bronwyn she didn’t have to thank me—I’m doing my job, one I love and have found satisfaction in after I’d been terrified that my life might be over.

It’s been a delight to watch her play for the past six and a half seasons, and the girls, too. Being able to make good players great? Helping their dreams come true and getting even an ounce of thanks for it? Thank you.

But instead of being greeted with a Bronwyn who would’ve stubbornly insisted on thanking me anyhow, I got her lips. Her kissing me is like being struck by lightning, hit with a bus, and snorting coke all at once. At least I’d imagine that’s what it’s like, I have no fucking idea.

Whatever it is, despite the connection being only between our mouths and her fingertips grazing my cheeks, I feel the bond throughout my entire body. From each strand of hair on my head, through the marrow in my bones and the blood rushing through my veins, all the way down to my goddamn toenails. That’s how Bronwyn electrifies me.

After that beat of enjoyment, though, I pull away, because there’s too much at stake here. Her future, my future. More immediately, we’ve got to get through the SIGs and how am I—are we—supposed to do that if we’re carrying on this illicit affair? Maybe that sounds like a giant leap, but from that brief kiss, I can tell. This isn’t just a kiss, it’s going to turn into a consuming . . . if not love affair, then certainly a lust-fueled sex binge.

Maybe, I think, she’ll realize what happened and will be sorry. Profusely apologize because I don’t think she meant for that to happen, and even though it’s not her fault and anger is the furthest thing from my mind, discouraging her from doing it again would be a smart move. But somehow, my brain’s sense of self-preservation has gone AWOL, and the feeling of desperate wanting, need for her, must show up on my face because that’s the only explanation for why she’s kissing me again.

Her tongue is hot, slick, and silky in my mouth. I’ve had fantasies about her before but I have underestimated the effect she would have on me, and that is saying something. What I should do is wrap my hands around hers, which are clutching my open collar, gently disentangle her fingers, and break this off. Pull back again, tell her this isn’t okay, it’s wrong, we could both get in trouble for this, it endangers the team, all of the thousand reasons why getting involved would be a genuine mistake. And yet, I don’t.

What I do instead is drop my half-empty coffee mug on the floor, thankful for the first time for the cheap faux-wood that will make it easy to wipe up, though I’ll still have to do it on my hands and knees and won’t that be a bitch. But worth it. So very, very worth it. To be able to—after years of wishing and lusting and wanting—slip my hands over her powerful shoulders, up her defined traps, and into the fall of her hair. Her dark, glossy hair, and yeah, I almost choke because it’s as soft as I’d ever thought it would be.

I can’t stop, can’t stop, and she doesn’t seem in a hurry to, either. No, she’s knelt up on the bed and the weight of her against me is such that I topple backward, thankfully toward the pillows, and then she’s on top of me. It’s only through some miracle that I don’t come in my pants—or let out a bark of pain, because as much as I enjoy this, my hip is not a fan of sudden movement.

Makes me think of those studies they’ve done on frequency of concussions. Despite not being allowed to check, women’s hockey players get more concussions than men do. And what the fuck is with that? The hypothesis is that women get hit (and do the hitting) anyway but aren’t prepared for it, so they don’t brace themselves for the hit. Not like in men’s hockey where getting checked and roughed up is a fact of life, a rule of play. It’s going to happen, so get ready.

I’m not ready for this. Maybe if I’d been prepared I would’ve been able to say no, but as things are, I’m doing my best to get the air into my lungs that the shooting pain knocked out, all while kissing my dream come true.

Bronwyn

After the kiss—and yes, I will likely forever refer to it that way, in mental italics—I had to hustle back to my room and get ready for practice. I hadn’t really wanted to change my clothes, would’ve liked to smell like Ash and his room, but that’s an even better reason to change. So here I am at practice, trying not to touch my lips whenever I look at Ash, remembering what it had felt like to kiss him and wishing I could do it again as soon as humanly possible.

I managed to get through practice without killing or making a complete ass out of myself, although I don’t know how. I’m distracted by this new thing that’s taken over my brain. My newfound fascination with Ash is unfamiliar. The guys I’ve found attractive at first glance have always been big. Tall, broad, muscles for days. Like Brody. Along that scale, Ash doesn’t measure up.

It’s not like he’s in terrible shape or anything, but I can look him in the face, I might be taller than him if I ever put on heels—not likely—and he’s got a little bit of a tummy. Like all those descriptions of guys whose pants hang off their hips in this ridiculously alluring way? Ash does not have that going on.

During practice, I caught a glimpse of skin between his pants and his sweatshirt as he was waving his arms wildly about something Jennie did. It didn’t make me want to buy a ticket to board that train, but it did make me curious. What would Ash be like in bed? Would he be sweet or bossy? Would he tell me I was pretty or would he just want to roll me over and pound away? Would he make sure I came first, before he got his, or would he just take, take, take and leave me to scramble after my own pleasure? How would his furry stomach feel against my smooth one? The thought of his chest hair brushing against my nipples as he bucks into me is, well, mmph.

Not to mention I had no idea about his injury. Like, yeah, I’d wondered how he ended up coaching women’s hockey, especially not being a former pro like a lot of the top coaches are. But knowing he’s basically in constant pain . . . it pinches my heart. Not in a pity way, because I don’t think he’d like that, and he’s made it very clear that he’s not some fucking inspiration for doing what he does, but I feel for him and I want to empathize with him in a way that he’s okay with but that still tells him what I want to say. That’s shit, and I think you’re awesome.

Ash is really strong. Not in the could-bench-press-me way Brody was, but in a quieter way. I don’t think I’d be able to dedicate my life to helping people get better at something I used to love but could no longer do. How is he not bitter as fuck? I would be. I don’t even think there’d be anything wrong with that. But no, he’s really fucking good at what he does, and never does he make us feel guilty for having something he doesn’t.

This epiphany of how goddamn amazing Ash is and how smoking hot that makes him is all I can think about now, on my way back to my room, especially when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Ash.

Can we talk?

There hadn’t been much in the way of talking after the kiss, because we’d had to haul ass to practice. In some ways that had made it easier, but in some ways harder, and I’m glad he’s decided to be the mature one here and yes, we definitely need to talk.

Yes. Your place in twenty minutes?

My heart races when he texts back.

Works for me, see you soon.