Page 12 of Top Shelf

Ronan doesn’t look up. “That she’s their daughter?” he deadpans. “Pretty sure they’re aware.”

I grab a cork coaster off the counter and launch it at his head. It hits his shoulder and drops to the floor.

He still doesn’t look up, but he snorts. “How can you be the best center we’ve got and fuckingmiss?”

“Shut up, a coaster isn’t a puck. Give me a puck, and I’ll show you how fucking good my aim is.”

He doesn’t argue back, which immediately has me standing straighter.He’s found something.With quick, long strides, I move to stand behind him, Silas silently coming to stand at my side as we look over Ronan’s shoulder.

“What’d you find?” I ask impatiently, stepping closer so my chest presses against his back. My breath is hot in his ear before he swats me away.

Flashing us a cocky grin, he states, “I have her student files.”

“Nice. Who knew flirting it up with the old crow in reception would actually prove beneficial?”

“Nothing is a waste of time,” Ronan retorts succinctly. “Any source of information can become useful at any point in time.Besides, did you seriously think you aced your Interpersonal Communications class last year?”

“I got an A in that class!” I argue defensively.

He arches an elegant brow. “You were barely scraping a pass all year, and you think you pulled it out of the bag on your final exam?” He scoffs like I’m an idiot. My fingers flex with the urge to wrap them around his throat and squeeze, but if what he’s saying is true—which I don’t doubt it is—then I was failing that class until he pulled magic mambo-jambo shit and made it go away.

Thank fuck. When I selected communications as a joke major, I didn’t take into consideration the fact that communicating beyond fists and brute force is not my forte. Seriously, Silas would have an easier job passing these classes than I would, and he doesn’t even fucking speak. Every time one of my professors asks for suggestions on how to mediate situations or deal with a difficult altercation, and I suggest violence, they look at me like I’ve got a screw loose. Fuck knows why. I’ve always found threats and bloodshed to be an incredibly effective method of communication. These tight-asses are too stuck on the path ofwhat’s rightto appreciate my more artistic methods. Their loss, really.

Especially if Ronan is going to change my grades to ensure I at least scrape a pass. Knew I kept him around for a reason.

Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I grin at him a little maniacally before leaning in to focus on Wren’s student profile on his screen.

“What do we have on our Wren, then?”

Full Name: Gwendolyn Elise Winslow

Student ID: 320976

Year: Senior

Program: BSc, Sports Business & Management (formerly BSc, Applied Statistics)

Transferred: Blackstone University

Address: 14 Locke Row, Eastvale Apartments, Valehurst

“That’s right across from campus,” I mutter, scanning the address and committing it to memory. I do the same with her phone number.

Silas pulls a small black notebook from the inner pocket of his hoodie and flips it open. He scribbles something in it before he tilts it toward us.

Not exactly a sports girl.

Ronan nods in agreement. “There’s nothing in here about any previous internships. No work with any of BSU’s sports teams. Her schedule’s clean, too. The only thing it mentions is her being a volunteer librarian. Everything paints a picture of a quiet, introverted student with zero interest in sports.”

“So why the hell is she here, interning for the team?” I ask.

Ronan lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Her family?” he surmises. “With her brother now in the NHL, maybe they’re looking to bring her into the family business and fill the role he was supposed to.”

“And she couldn’t have done that at BSU?” I counter.

Silas nudges my shoulder, and I glance down to read what he’s written.

What if it’s about that night?