Page 133 of Top Shelf

Carson bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “You need to stop acting like wanting something they also want automatically means they win.”

The words hit with startling force.

Because…God. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Rejecting anything tied to my parents on principle alone. Even things I might actually love.

“You don’t have to let them control the narrative anymore,” he says quietly. “If you take over the team one day, it doesn’t have to be because they told you to.” His gaze locks onto mine. “It can be becauseyouchose it.”

Choice.

Control.

The realization settles slowly through my chest, unfamiliar, fragile, and terrifying all at once.

For years, every conversation about my future has felt like a cage slowly closing around me.

But now, for the first time, it feels less like a cage and more like an open door.

33

WREN

Sunday morningsin Valehurst have a strange kind of energy. The town wakes up slowly around the edges while the university district stumbles through hangovers and caffeine addiction. Students clog sidewalks in oversized hoodies, clutching coffees the size of their heads while local businesses drag chalkboard signs onto the pavement outside their storefronts.

Since the guys typically have a game the night before, we rarely get the opportunity to go out on Sunday mornings, but they had the night off last night, so we took the opportunity to grab an early breakfast in town.

Hardware store.Silas writes as we approach Ronan’s SUV.

“Why do we need to stop at the hardware store?” I ask as Silas opens the front passenger door for me to climb in, while Ronan slides in behind the steering wheel.

“Because somebody,” Ronan says pointedly, glaring at Lucian, “snapped the leg off the coffee table.”

A scoff from the back of the car has me twisting in my seat to look at Lucian. “It’s hardly my fault it couldn’t support my weight,” he defends.

“It’s your fault for climbing on top of it in the first place,” Ronan argues in an exasperated tone that suggests this isn’t the first time this argument has taken place.

“I’d just won the Stanley Cup. What else was I meant to use as a platform to accept my trophy?”

“What?” I ask, looking between the three of them in confusion.

It’s a video game. Silas writes, clueing me in.

I snort. Only Lucian could destroy a coffee table while pretending to accept a trophy as part of a video game.

Because Valehurst is a small college town, it doesn’t take us long to reach the local hardware store. Piling out of the car, we head inside. It smells faintly of lumber and fresh-cut wood mixed with industrial cleaner. Weekend shoppers drift through the aisles, pushing carts overloaded with plants, power tools, and enough supplies to survive the apocalypse.

“Wow, look at that thing!” Lucian races toward a display of power tools like an overgrown child seeing a dinosaur exhibit at the museum. He snatches up the nail gun, waving it around like it’s not a deadly weapon.

“Absolutely not,” Ronan states, laying down the law.

“Aww, come on.” Lucian puts on this dramatic pout that has me hiding my laugh behind my hand.

“You are not buying that. If you don’t kill yourself, you’ll kill someone else, and I don’t want to deal with that fallout.”

Huffing, Lucian reluctantly sets the power tool back where he found it.

“Buzzkill,” he gripes, making Ronan roll his eyes. Silas and I share a look behind their backs, the two of us stifling our laughter.

“What aisle do we need for whatever it is you are looking for?” I ask, reading the signs above each aisle, but I’ve no idea what Ronan needs to fix the coffeetable.