Page 123 of Top Shelf

Children raceacross the concourse in oversized Valehurst Kings jerseys, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor while parents trail after them carrying hot chocolates and raffle tickets. Volunteers dart between booths, clutching clipboards and boxes of merchandise. Somewhere near the entrance, the mascot is being mobbed by a swarm of shrieking kids while music pulses through the speakers overhead, loud enough to make the glass display cases vibrate faintly.

Every single part of this youth charity weekend is running exactly the way it’s supposed to.

“Wren!” I pivot just in time for one of the volunteers to nearly crash into me. “We’re running low on wristbands at the west entrance.”

“There’s another box beneath the registration table,” I answer immediately.

“Right. Got it,” she hurries before racing off.

I barely have time to take a breath before someone else stops me.

“The line for photo ops with the players is backing up into the concession stands.”

I follow toward where she is pointing, noting the impending disaster.

“Start ticketing people in line,” I tell her. “They can come back when their number is called, meaning they aren’t wasting time and concessions doesn’t get congested.”

“On it.”

Another fire extinguished before it can spread. I should probably be stressed. Actually, IknowI should be stressed. This entire weekend has taken weeks of planning, endless emails, scheduling nightmares, sponsor negotiations, volunteer coordination, media management, player appearances, transportation logistics, security clearances, and approximately six hundred last-minute changes that nearly made me lose my mind.

But standing here now, watching it all unfold?

I feel…good.

More than good. I feelalive.

The realization hits me unexpectedly as I step aside to let a group of children rush past me toward one of the interactive shooting stations set up near the practice rink.

I love this. Not just seeing the fruits of my labor, but the coordination, the grinding, the way all the separate pieces click together to create something bigger. I love the energy in the building. The smiles on people’s faces. The unmistakable feeling of being part of something meaningful.

A warm hand settles against my lower back as someone passes behind me.

“Careful, Little Moth.” Lucian’s voice slides over my skin like dark velvet. I glance over my shoulder to find him grinning down at me in full Kings gear, his damp hair pushed back from his face indicating he’s just stepped off the ice after one of the youth drills.

Unfortunately for my rapidly deteriorating composure, sweat darkens the collar of his compression shirt. Which reallyshould not affect me the way it does, but suddenly the idea of running my tongue up his neck is all consuming.

“You’re staring,” he says smugly.

Blinking out of my trance, I roll my eyes. “You wish.”

His grin only widens. “You’ve been bossing me around this entire arena all weekend,” he says, before moving closer. The smell of sweat, bergamot, and burnt spice sends a shiver rolling down my spine. “It’s kinda hot.” He smirks. “Makes me want you to boss me around in the bedroom.”

“Lucian!” I chastise, smacking my hand against his chest, even as I wish we were alone so I could do what I secretly want, and pull his lips to mine and see just how far he would let me go with bossing him around before he’d lose all control. “There are people around!”

He scoffs, brushing his lips across mine in a teasing touch. “If you think that would stop me, you don’t know me at all, Little Moth.” Pressing his lips to mine in a firmer touch, he adds, “The only thing holding me back is knowing you’re proving yourself to the idiots here who don’t have faith in you.”

He glances toward the far side of the room, his gaze darkening. Following him, I spot Dean Carver lurking on the outskirts of the chaos, much like he has all weekend.

“He’s just waiting for me to mess up,” I grouse.

“Well, he’ll be waiting a long time then. You’re kicking ass, and you look hot as hell doing it.” His gaze drops to take in the wide-legged linen pants I have on, paired with a fitted cream blouse tucked in at the waist. Combined with my low heels, I must admit, I’m emitting hot girl boss vibes, and I am freakinglovingit. I’m feeling the perfect blend of sexy and confident, professional yet maintaining part of my own self.

Lucian watches me for a second longer, something softer flickering beneath the usual sharpness in his expression. Pride,maybe. Then his attention shifts toward the rink entrance, where a line of kids waits impatiently for autographs.

“You’ve got about thirty seconds before Coach starts looking for me,” he says. “No doubt that tattletale has gone running to him because I made him cry.”

“You made a kid cry?!” I wheel around to face him fully. Hands on hips, I glare at Lucian.