Page 119 of Top Shelf

Dean sighs loudly before she can continue. “I think we’re capable of evaluating prospects without dragging the intern into it.”

The temperature in the room drops about ten fucking degrees. Or maybe that’s rage boiling my blood.

Wren immediately ducks her head, cutting herself off from the rest of the room. The fact that Dean Carver makes her want to curl in on herself has my eye twitching. I bite my tongue, but if this is the tone for the rest of the meeting, there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to stay silent.

“Iwant to hear what Gwendolyn has to say,” Wexler refutes. He’s calm, collected, and yet, there’s a solid firmness to his tone. One I know intimately from countless orders barked across the ice. It’s hisdon’t fucking question mevoice. Theentire time he stares down Dean Carver, daring him to contradict him.

Of course, the idiot just can’t help himself.

“With all due respect, Coach, she’s here to document the meeting, not participate in roster decisions.”

If possible, Wren’s shoulders hunch even more. Something sharp twists in my chest at watching her try to make herself as small as possible.

Fuck.I can’t stand it anymore. I’ve spent my entire life around politicians. Men who smile while gutting each other alive behind closed doors. Men who understand that timing is everything. Dean is making a big fucking mistake right now, because the more he talks, the more room he gives me to bury him with his own bullshit.

“Or have you forgotten that she is only anintern?” he tacks on snidely.

“Funny how the person you keep dismissing is the one fixing everyone else’s mistakes,” I cut in. “She probably knows more about front office operations than half the people sitting at this table,” I state flatly. Not once have I ever spoken out of turn at one of these meetings. In fact, for the most part, I don’t say anything. As captain, I’m included in meetings such as these, but my role is negligible.

However, years of campaign dinners and donor galas have taught me exactly how influence works. Sometimes the quietest voice in the room carries the most weight.

Dean’s eyes slide toward me, narrowed in irritation. His arrogance likely can’t comprehend being called out by a player. A student. “Excuse me?”

I sit forward slowly. “You heard me.”

“Ronan,” Coach warns lightly, knowing I’m treading a dangerous line.

“I’m serious.” My gaze locks on Dean’s. “Wren hasoverhauled the entire team, caught mistakes others have missed, and streamlined players’ schedules.” I glare him down. “We’re the most efficient we’ve ever been—because of her.”

From the corner of my eye, I can tell Wren is staring at me, wide-eyed. Not as though she’s telling me to shut up, but as though she’s shocked someone has stood up for her. I’m kicking myself for not saying something sooner. I’ve been listening to her complain about Dean at our late-night diner dates. I should have spoken up weeks ago, but now I’m going to make certain Carver doesn’t try to shit on her parade ever again.

“Not to mention,” I add, “she grew up inside an NHL organization. She’s been around hockey operations her entire life. You treating her like she’s clueless just because her last name opened the door is bullshit.”

My declaration is followed by silence.Heavysilence.

Dean’s face darkens. “Careful, Sterling.”

“Or what?” I practically goad, knowing he can’t actually touch me.

Coach clears his throat. “Gwendolyn,” he says, ignoring the tension entirely as he redirects the conversation. “What do you have to say about the prospect?”

Her lips part slightly. I can practically see the uncertainty battling with the confidence she’s been slowly building these past few weeks.

Then she straightens in her seat.

And there she is.

My Wren.

“The issue isn’t that he can’t handle the pressure,” she says carefully, eyes shifting from person to person around the table. “It’s hesitation.” She gestures toward the paused footage on the screen. Coach presses play. “There!” She points at the screen. “He keeps deferring the play half a second too long before committing. At lower levels, he gets away with it, but at acollegiate pace?” She shakes her head slightly. “That delay is the difference between scoring a goal or missing the shot.”

One of the scouts leans forward, rubbing at his stubble as he studies the footage replaying on the screen. Others around the table do the same. Dean is the only one who looks put out.Well, fuck him.

Wren keeps going, growing more confident with every word.

“If he’s paired with an aggressive defenseman who communicates well, he could develop out of it. But if you throw him into a passive system, you’ll make the problem worse.”

Coach Wexler slowly leans back in his chair.