Page 106 of Top Shelf

“Are you finally going to kiss me?” I ask, slightly breathless.

He smirks. “You finally accepting what this is?”

“Yes.”

I barely have the admission past my lips before he smothers the words with his mouth. Ronan’s lips are soft yet firm, demanding yet controlled as he encourages mine to open. I moan into his mouth, my arms coming up to wind around his neck and pull him closer as our tongues connect. Sparks sizzle and snap along my veins as I give myself over to him. His arms band around me, holding me steady, and I can feel the rapid beat of his heart as it thumps against my chest.

Maybe it’s the build-up, the anticipation from wanting him to kiss me for weeks now, but kissing Ronan is like having your world upended. I know life will never be the same again.

“Damn, I’m regretting not doing that the first time I thought about it,” he rasps, voice thick and lips swollen when we finally break apart.

“It was definitely worth the wait.”

I grin up at him, and he returns it, before pulling me in again.

We lose the next hour to exploring one another’s mouths, to memorizing the shape of lips, and the way he groans when I tug on his hair.

27

WREN

By the timeProfessor Cartwright opens the floor for discussion, I’ve already filled several pages of notes. Today’s lecture has been all about PR fallout—what happens when athletes become the scandal. Substance abuse, infidelity, assault allegations. The kind of headlines that shift public perception overnight. Cartwright focused mostly on how organizations handle the backlash, the cleanup, and the spin. Not the actual human wreckage underneath.

Lucian’s been uncharacteristically quiet beside me. His normal running commentary and sarcastic asides notably absent. I’ve gotten used to tuning him out while he does his best to distract me—he’s a terrible student—it’s no surprise he’s barely scraping a pass in this class. However, since the professor announced the topic of today’s lecture, he’s been slouched in his seat, hood up, jaw tight as he stares at nothing on the wall opposite.

At the front of the room, Professor Cartwright taps the edge of the podium. “Alright, let’s open this up. Thoughts? Reactions? Anyone want to weigh in on how public opinion can shift so drastically before facts are evenconfirmed?”

A hand shoots up three rows ahead. “I mean…it’s kind of messed up, right?” the guy says. I think he’s on the football team. “All it takes is one accusation and boom—career’s over. Doesn’t even matter if it’s true.”

Someone else snorts. “Yeah, especially if it’s a girl accusing a guy. He’s guilty the second she opens her mouth.”

Another voice jumps in. “Didn’t that happen to that high school football player like ten years ago? The girl lied about being raped—he did time, lost his scholarship, and she admitted years later that she made the whole thing up.”

“I remember that,” the first guy says. “Brian something, right? Totally wrecked his life.”

“Yeah, so who’s protecting him?”

Around the room, heads nod. The energy shifts—righteous, almost smug. Like they’ve found a loophole in the idea of believing survivors. Like this one story negates all the others.

My pen stills in my hand.

Something cold and ugly coils inside me.

Because I get it. I do. False accusations are a real problem. And yeah, they’re infuriating, but not for the reason most of these guys seem to think.

They’re not just damaging to the people who get wrongly accused—they’re a slap in the face to people like me. People who’ve lived through the real thing. Who already fight every day to be believed. To be taken seriously. To not feel like a burden or a liability or a goddamn cautionary tale.

A guy near the front of the hall snorts. “Anyone else notice how it’s always women making those claims? You never hear of a man wrongly accusing a woman.”

The room buzzes with murmurs. There are a few nods. A few eye-rolls.

Jesus, give me strength.This is the problem with being in a sports communication class that, unfortunately, is comprisedprimarily of male athletes. Zero fucking ability to think before opening their stupid mouths.

Or God forbid they just keep their trap shut altogether.

Like men don’t get hurt. Like they don’t get violated. Like the narrative only ever runs in one direction.

“Let’s be real,” another student pipes up, and from his arrogant tone, I already know I’m going to hate whatever bullshit he’s about to spout. “It’s not like men can be sexually assaulted. Especially not players.” He scoffs like the idea is entirely preposterous. “What girl is overpowering a six-foot brick house of an athlete?” Laughing, he nudges his buddy beside him.