Page 101 of Top Shelf

WREN

The sharp scrapeof skates echoes off the boards as the guys run drills at full tilt, their jerseys blurring as they pivot and race through the neutral zone. I’m kneeling by the bench, gathering stray water bottles into a carrier and trying not to let the cold settle into my knees. Practice is winding down, but Coach has them working on a forecheck sequence—maybe a 1-2-2, if I read it right.

My gaze flicks up to check.

Yeah, a neutral zone trap just like I thought. One forward applying pressure with two more supporting just behind, and two defenders hanging back. It’s a pretty standard sequence designed to force the opposing team to dump the puck. It’s safe. Effective in theory. However, something about it isn’t playing out quite right. The team has been running this drill for a while now and hasn’t managed to get the sequence down yet.

My eyes track the guy playing F1—the first forward in on the puck. It’s Isaac. He’s got size and grit, sure, but not the kind of speed or tenacity you need to pressure a breakout effectively. That’s not his game. He’s better as a trailer, swooping in for theintercept or cleaning up a rebound, not chasing defensemen at full tilt, trying to force turnovers.

“He’s a half-step late every time.” Lucian should be in first. He’s the most aggressive guy on the team. Agile; fast when he wants to be. Instead, he’s hanging back in the F2 spot, coasting. “They need switched.” Shaking my head, I fetch another stray water bottle that had attempted escape by hiding under the bench.

“What was that, Winslow? I didn’t quite catch it.”

Coach’s gruff tone freezes me in place.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I hadn’t known he was standing so close to me. Last I’d seen, he was barking orders on the other side of the rink.

“Nothing.” I hurriedly stand, face burning as I brush my hands on my thighs. “Just muttering to myself.” I try to laugh it off, like I’m just some crazy girl talking to herself.

“Didn’t sound like nothing to me.” Shrewd eyes bore into me, making me sweat. Coach has that grizzled veteran look—weathered, sharp-eyed, but not unkind. He’s a magnificent coach, but he’s also intimidating as hell.

“It wasn’t anything. Really.” I can feel my cheeks flaming now. The last thing I need is to draw unwanted attention. I already get enough criticism and belittling from Dean. I don’t need Wexler thinking I’m so entitled that I know better than he does with his decades of experience.

Except it’s clear he’s not going to let me off the hook. He folds his arms across his chest, clipboard tucked underneath as he waits.

I swallow hard, knowing I’m not getting out of here without giving himsomething. “I just…Isaac’s not closing down fast enough. He’s a power winger, not a pressure guy. Lucian is faster; more aggressive on the forecheck. If they switch, Isaac can support the second layer and pick off a pass if it gets chipped up the wall. Lucian forces the play faster, meaning the other team’s D has to make a quicker decision—which typically ends up being the wrong one…” I trail off, bracing for the brush-off. For Coach to tell me to stop talking crap and get back to my job. Or worse—for him to go to Carver and complain.

However, instead of doing any of that, Wexler turns toward the ice. His gaze roams over the players as though taking each of them in, seeing the play through a new lens. Then, to my complete and utter surprise, he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Isaac, Lucian! Flip it!”

Both boys look toward Coach, but where Lucian simply nods before returning to the play, there’s a beat of hesitation from Isaac, like he's weighing whether to question the order. Before he can make up his mind, Ronan calls his name. “You heard Coach. Let’s run it again.”

When they go again, Lucian surges forward like a shot from a cannon, cutting the breakout at the half-wall. The defenseman panics under the pressure and fumbles the puck. Lucian pounces before anyone else can react, ripping it into the back of the net. Goal!

Coach nods once. “Better,” he calls. “Go again.”

Unlike the rest of the team, who raise their sticks in celebration of finally getting the play down, Isaac skates back to the line, ignoring everyone else, his jaw tight and expression like steel.

Unable to help himself, Lucian tosses a smirk Isaac’s way as he skates past him, and I sigh internally, knowing my suggestion is going to cause tension between the two of them—more than there already is.

Isaac doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t say a word, but his shoulders are rigid as he waits for the whistle to blow again.

The play resets.

Lucian once again shoots forward, proving he was the right player for that position, resulting in another easy goal.

At the end of another successful play, Coach turns to me. He’s not smiling per se, but there’s something in his expression that’s measured. Dare I say, impressed, even. Like he’s actually seeing me for the first time.

“Good eye, Wren.”

That’s all he says, but it hits me like a punch to the chest. His simple praise is unexpected, sharp, and startlingly satisfying, like a jolt of adrenaline straight to the system.

I blink, stunned. “Uh, thanks.”

Coach Wexler has already turned back to the ice, barking another command, like it’s nothing. Unaware of how hard his little bit of praise has hit me. It’s the first time anyone at this internship has looked at me like I’m not just some clueless tag-along. Like maybe I have something to offer beyond coffee runs and silent obedience. Like maybe Iknowsomething. Dean and some of the others are so stuck on the point that my family name got me this internship that they haven’t stopped to consider that perhaps growing up in an ice hockey family means I actually know a thing or two about ice hockey. A crazy concept, I know.

As I return to collecting water bottles, warmth unfurls beneath my ribcage, soft and bright, like a live wire jolt of something dangerously close to pride. For the first time since I started here, I feel a spark of something I thought I’d lost a long time ago.