Maybe Brody saw the writing on the wall just like I did, but instead of it spelling a vague sense of relief, it spelled out panic on his side. Especially since he didn’t make the men’s SIG team. This is his way of holding on.
I’ve been a member of Team Brody for as long as I can remember, but he’s only been a fair-weather fan of mine. That time sophomore year when I broke my arm? He was there but not. I could tell he was looking for a way out if I came through on the other side not able to play, or not able to play as well.
All of this is piling up on my shoulders, weighing me down. I look around at my teammates hoping one of them will somehow, some way, help me. Save me from this. But the ones I can see look ready to swoon. All they’re waiting for is my answer. Which is weird, because I don’t remember Brody asking me. He must’ve, though, because he’s holding my hand and looking up at me expectantly. I can’t look him in the face. I have to look away. The lights in the arena are too bright for me to see exactly how many people are going to witness this and how they feel about it. Probably better that way.
My gaze catches on Coach Levenson who seems to be the only one not waiting with baited breath. I know he doesn’t like Brody, and not just since the game against Norway. I can’t say I blame him, because Brody can be kind of a douche. But I would’ve defended him to Coach if it came down to it. Now I can’t. This is the last straw.
With Coach’s cool gaze on me—saying do whatever you want to do—I find it in me to declare myself firmly on Team Bronwyn.
“No, Brody. I won’t marry you.”
Chapter Six
Ash
I . . . did not see this coming. Clearly, Bronwyn didn’t see it coming, either, because she looks shocked. It takes a while for her to get ahold of herself but when she does . . . I pity that fool.
What on earth made Brody think this is a good idea? I mean, I get it, but only in the desperation - is - the - mother - of - stupidity kind of way. Does he actually think she’ll say yes? Or does it not matter to him? I wouldn’t be super surprised by the second, but then there’s the whole Brody - having - an - ego - the - size - of - a - whale thing, so he wouldn’t be thrilled about being refused, doubtless on national television and milliseconds later all over the internet.
Is he really so full of himself he couldn’t imagine the possibility of Bronwyn saying no? I’m not entirely sure what she’s going to say when he pops the question but I’m damn well not assuming she’ll say yes. I can see some of the girls—the ones who aren’t rigid with anger, at any rate—getting all googly-eyed. It’s not as though they’re Brody’s biggest fans, but I can see how this kind of gesture could be interpreted as romantic. It would be a dream come true for some of them.
I don’t want Bronwyn to know what I really think, because she’s the kind of person who will worry about it afterward, regardless of whether she should—obviously, she shouldn’t give a shit what her coach thinks about her personal life. If it doesn’t affect her performance on the ice, or hell, even if it does, it’s none of my business. What I do want to give her is someone who doesn’t care what she does either way. Neutrality. Make up your own mind. Don’t be swayed by this stadium full of people. I will be the person who tells you to do what you need to do, all the while hoping against hope you’ll tell Brody to fuck off for broadsiding you like this, and stealing your glory.
There’s just a whole lot of fuck you swimming around in my head for that guy but I swear I will not let it spill all over Bronwyn. I don’t have time to paint Switzerland on my face, and that would also be awkward given it’s possible we’ll be playing them in the next round, but I can do my best to plaster it over with . . . not exactly disinterest, but impartiality. The only thing she needs to know is I want her to do what’s best for her. Not anyone else who might be watching.
There’s a possibility she won’t look at me, because why would she? Why would a girl who’s been freshly proposed to look at her coach to see what he thinks? Part of me hopes she won’t, because what the fuck input should I have in this major life decision? None, because I’m just some guy. Not a completely unbiased one, either, what with the kind of being in love with her thing. But I put that aside and she’ll never know. Especially not when she’s making this kind of decision.
Do what you need to do. I will be here no matter what you choose.
Which is when she does look at me, and I struggle to keep that objective look on my face. Have to hold myself back from vaulting onto the ice and grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her and saying, How can you even be considering this? He’s a monster.
Bronwyn looks at me for a good few seconds, and in that time, I feel like the arena has fallen into silence, which is nonsense. But still, there’s a tether between us that’s not letting anyone else in, and when she snaps it by looking back at Brody, I feel like I’ve lost a physical support. Bereft, and like my knees might give out.
Only until I heard the words clear as day. “No, Brody. I won’t marry you.”
Which is when the whole place first goes silent, followed closely by apeshit. No one saw that coming. Including Brody, who’s sitting there on one knee looking blank. Like, more blank than usual. Blank is fine, but I don’t expect it to last long. I’ve never gotten the impression that Brody’s gotten physically abusive with Bronwyn, but I don’t want to chance him becoming so now.
What I’d like to do is hop over the wall, jog across the ice and put myself between them. Hustle Bronwyn away from the crowds, away from Brody, away from the cameras. But I can’t. I try to keep my frustrations with my physical limitations at bay because if I lamented them as often as they bothered me, that’s all I would do all day. I can and will be a productive person despite the things I cannot do.
Find a way around it, Levenson. Solve the problem.
I may not be able to skip out onto the ice, but the thing is, I’ve already got a presence there. My own personal chess pieces. Who I try to think of like that only during the games, but I’ll use them now for the sake of one of their own.
Putting my fingers between my lips, I issue a piercing whistle that makes my entire team look toward me, their heads swiveling in unison. I point to Nguyen and Wright, my two most physically imposing players, and try to send them a message with my hands and my eyes. Get in there. Protect your own. Through some miracle, they seem to understand. Nod at me and then each other, before skating over and stopping short on either side of Bronwyn. The three of them talk, quickly, quietly, and then they’re skating off the ice. God love them for covering Bronwyn’s back as she heads for the gate that will let her back into the hallway toward the locker room.
Before she can get there, though, Brody’s back on his feet, chucking a velvet box halfway across the rink, where the box skitters and spins across the game-roughened surface. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Oh no he didn’t.
I will the girls to keep skating, right on through the gate, tromp down to the locker room and shut everything, everyone, else out. Give Bronwyn a lick of peace because the next couple of weeks just turned into a shitstorm for her. Every interview, every post-game chat, they’re all going to talk about the same goddamn thing, as if enough of them weren’t bringing him up already. Brody.
While I think Nguyen and Wright would keep going, that’s not the cue Bronwyn gives. No, she stops, and doesn’t listen to my desperate mental begging to skate on. And then she turns. All the curse words I’ve ever learned in my life erupt in my head at once. English, the Spanish swears our exchange student taught me, even a few in Hebrew I learned on my birthright trip. So many coarse words, and not a place to spit them.
While my brain is swimming in inappropriate word soup, Bronwyn is finding her bearings, and in fact skates a few feet toward Brody, looking elegant and poised.
“I am not kidding. I will not marry you. You do understand that asking someone to marry you is no guarantee they’re going to accept, right?”
Brody stares at her, his gaze becoming mo
re murderous. I locate the security guards lining the rink, but they’re as fixated on the unfolding drama as everyone else in the arena. Fat load of good that’s going to do Bronwyn if Brody decides to go ballistic.
Brody opens his mouth with a no doubt polite and rational response, but Bronwyn shuts him down.
“No. You had your chance to talk and now it’s mine. I’ve said no, and that’s my final decision. You have been pushy, you have been dismissive, and you have been disrespectful of my abilities and the very game I play. So no, Brody. I will not marry you. I hope you make it to the majors because you’re a good hockey player, but you won’t be doing it as my husband. My answer is no.”
Her voice has started shaking ever so slightly. I don’t know if anyone else will pick up on it, but it’s like that sympathetic vibration that starts out small and the longer it goes on, it gets huge. Big enough to destroy bridges, level cities. Nguyen and Wright need to get her out of here before everyone sees her cry over that jackass, because she’ll never forget, she’ll never forgive herself.
This will be what she’s remembered for, and not what a goddamn fine hockey player she is. Which is what people should remember her for, dammit. Not Brody, who is now cursing up a blue streak. I wish I could say that would keep him out of the NHL, but men’s pro sports aren’t known for their concern with how their players treat women.
Lucky for me, Nguyen nudges Bronwyn with an elbow and tips her head toward their way out, and Bronwyn takes a deep breath before skating out next to her. Then Brody’s standing there with his camera crew, looking like an idiot. Bronwyn was classy as fuck, and he’s the one left spewing into the cold air.
The arena is quieter than you’d expect, and people have started filing out, hopefully because they can’t even bear to watch the shitshow Brody Hill has turned into. Good riddance, you dickwad. Good fucking riddance.
Now it’s time for me to make my way to the locker room and make sure the person on the ice who matters to me is handling this better than her erstwhile boyfriend.
Bronwyn
Coach mercifully keeps the locker room talk to the game as best he can, but there’s still an uncomfortable amount of chatter and whispering about the proposal, and far too many looks and finger-points in my direction. But god love Coach Levenson for the death glares he sends the gossips, and the small nods he gives me when they’ve been momentarily silenced.
Still, I can barely get through it, and I stare straight ahead as much as I can get away with while Coach goes over the game, trying not to think of what just happened. What I ought to be focused on is the fact that we won, we’re headed to the next round, and that game is slated to be difficult. From here on out, there won’t be any easy victories.
Finally the team meeting is over, and we all hit the showers and get on the bus, Lisa and Tara walking beside me like sentries as they had on the ice, trying not to let the cameras snap my picture too much. They do it anyhow, and I try not to care about what it’s going to look like in the papers tomorrow, what it’s going to look like on the internet tonight. Possibly TV.
Dammit, Brody.
Any illusions I had about him really loving me have dissolved like salt in hot water. We’re very public about our dating, but major moments—good or bad—I’ve never wanted to share. He had much less concern about it, picking fights in front of the library at BC, practically announcing to his team that he’d bought a box of condoms for our first time our junior year at prep school.
The ride back to the village seems to take forever and a blink, and Lisa and Tara guide me through the gate. Coach looks at me as I pass through, opens his mouth like he might say something but then decides against it. One part of me wants to stop and demand “What were you going to say?” I’d like to have control over something right now. But it’s not his fault, and whatever he could say wouldn’t make the grade. Because what do you say at a time like this?
Lisa walks with me to what’s supposed to be our suite even though she’s been staying mostly with her husband and kids at a hotel, and I sit on my bed.
“Hey.” I didn’t even notice Lisa has sat down beside me until she speaks and bumps me with her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I give her an are - you - fucking - kidding - me look, and she smiles, a pathetic wan thing. “I mean, I know you’re not really okay, but are you okay enough to be left alone? I should get back to the hotel, but is there someone you want me to call so you don’t have to be by yourself?”
So I can have a witness of exactly how pathetic I am? Yeah, that sounds awesome. “No. Don’t worry about it. I’m not fine, but I’m more numb than anything else.”
My break-up with Brody seems excruciatingly real but also like a bad hallucination. Ghastly, but not quite a thing that actually happened. If only it hadn’t.
Lisa bumps me with her shoulder again and gives my hair a tousle, which I can’t even muster a protest for. Is it annoying? Yeah, but I’ve got bigger things to devote my energy to. Like getting up the willpower to not log onto my computer and search for footage. I don’t want to see it. But I kinda do? No, I don’t.
“Really, Lisa, it’s fine. You can go. I’m just going to sit here looking shell-shocked.”
“And you’re not going to do anything stupid, right?”
“At the moment, I’m finding it difficult to think about anything, never mind dream up some devious and ill-advised plan, so I think you’re safe.”
“Okay.” She looks me in the eyes, hers a far darker brown than mine, and her hair, too, black enough that it’s got blue undertones instead of red like mine. “You did the right thing. You know that, right?”
I nod, because deep down I know I would regret marrying Brody far more than I’m going to regret being embarrassed by this. But there’s a coal of anger sitting in the pit of my stomach, burning through me, reminding me of how furious I am at him for having forced me into this. “Yeah. He’s a dick.”
She laughs, and gives me a lung-emptying hug before grabbing my face with both hands and kissing me on the forehead. “You’re going to be okay, and we’re going to kill Switzerland in a few days. If you need anything, you’ve got my number. Don’t be afraid to use it, even if you think you’re being obnoxious. I guarantee you it would be my pleasure to deal with you instead of the monster children.”
That drags a shuddering sigh from me, and I try not to let the tears spill over as I see her out and close the door behind her. She’s heading to her hotel to be with her husband and her kids, something I hadn’t figured was all that far in my future, and all of a sudden, it seems very far away. Like some epic clock has restarted. That’s okay. Really. It was the wrong clock for me. Brody and I weren’t meant to be together for the long term, and if we were . . . Well, the universe messed up big time.
After twenty minutes of sitting on the edge of my bed feeling dazed, I can’t do it anymore. Maybe I’m supposed to be in tears, maybe I’m supposed to be calling Brody on the phone, apologizing to him, or showing up at his hotel room, begging on my knees for him to take me back because I just made the biggest mistake of my life. But none of those feel like the right thing to do. What does seem appealing is moving. I want to get out of here.
I put street clothes on and pretty myself up a bit, and then head out of my suite, out of my building, out of the village and into the busy streets of the neighborhood that’s sprung up around SIG central, intending to just go for a walk, to be somewhere I’m not hemmed in by the walls of my suite.
It’s strange to walk around knowing a bunch of these people must have seen my break-up on TV. Or on Celebrinews or some other website. As much as I try to keep my head firmly on my shoulders and out of my ass, it’s hard to ignore that people have been paying a lot of attention to us in the past couple of months, and this kind of thing will attract even more.
Luckily for me, I play a sport that requires a helmet, so it’s not as though people get to see my face very often. Here’s hoping I look like just another girl wandering
around the bars, restaurants, tourist shops, and upscale sporting goods stores that cater to people who all of a sudden think they’re going to take up ski jumping or speed skating. Good luck with that.
Then I see it. A club some of my teammates have had their eyes on since we got here, but they haven’t dared set foot in . . . yet. After we’ve finished all our games, though, they’ll either be there in champagne-spraying victory, or sitting - at - the - bar - doing - tequila - shots defeat.
It wouldn’t be smart. It really wouldn’t be. But maybe a single shot to sear my throat, give me something to distract myself from the fiery embarrassment and burning anger I suspect will be setting my insides aflame for quite some time. Even that smoldering coal of sadness that I hate. I really fucking hate.
Which is why I backtrack a few yards, square my shoulders, and push through the doors to Icing.
Chapter Seven
Ash
It’s past curfew, all the girls are in their beds . . . Well, they’re at least where they’re supposed to be. Nguyen’s with her husband and kids at their hotel, and Wright is with Green at their hotel. Everyone else is in the village, tucked up in their beds or getting ready to go to sleep.
That makes it mentally, if not physically, easy to pull on some pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt and fall into bed. Today was a frigging ridiculous day, and I hope the water of the team around the USS Bronwyn won’t be too choppy tomorrow. We’ll likely all feel waves from the bomb Brody dropped for days. Hell, this is the SIGs, so the impact could last for years, which makes me want to strangle the guy all over again. If my grandfather were still alive, he’d call Brody a ham-boned idiot, which is a lot nicer than any of the names I have for him.
The look on Bronwyn’s face . . . My chest hurts thinking about it. I knew Brody was a selfish fuck, but I had no idea—
My phone starts playing “Gloria,” and I sit up immediately. That’s the ring tone I have for my players. The girls don’t call me often—especially not at night. They tend to call my assistant, Gail, who passes relevant things on to me, and I encourage the distance that creates even though I like to think they trust me, but this time . . . Bronwyn?
On the Edge of Scandal Page 4