Page 17 of Top Shelf

She studies me for a beat longer than necessary. “When you are, start cross-referencing the names with the medical clearance sheets in the blue folder. Make a note of any missing signatures.”

I nod firmly. “Okay.”

Grabbing the next file in the pile, I flip it open, feeling her eyes boring into the top of my head. I don’t lift my gaze, not needing to hear any more today about how undeserving I am of this opportunity. If only she knew, I don’twantthis opportunity. To be here. In this room, this stadium, on this campus.

But the life of a Winslow means rarely getting what you want.

The past three years let me believe I could escape. That I’d cut the leash and built something real. But it was always there, coiled around my throat, waiting for the right moment to yank me back.

Still, I’m not the same girl I was at eighteen, fresh-eyed and going off to college, tasting freedom for the first time away from the shadow of my family name.

She didn’t survive what came after.

So no, I don’t want to be here. And I’m sure as hell not wanted here.

But Iamhere.

And if they’re going to drag me back into this world, then I’ll make damn sure they regret it.

By the time I make it home, my feet are screaming.

I kick off my heels the second I walk through the front door, one skidding under the coffee table, the other slamming intothe wall. I don’t care. They deserve it. So do I, for wearing them in the first place.

My blouse clings uncomfortably to my back as I reach for the light switch. Everything feels too tight. Too stiff. I strip it off in the hallway and toss it over the back of the couch, then tug my skirt down over my hips, stepping out of it as I pad barefoot into the bedroom.

Opening the top drawer of my dresser, I pull out my favorite hoodie. It’s oversized, faded black, the cuffs fraying at the seams. There’s a tiny bleach stain near the hem that looks like a heart if you squint. Pairing it with matching cycle shorts, I shuffle into the kitchen. Grabbing a large mug, I fill it with milk and chocolate powder before sticking it in the microwave. As the seconds count down, I go about my evening routine of double-checking the deadbolt. Then the latch on each of the windows. Then I check again, just to be sure.

The microwave beeps as I finish with the last window, doing a quick scan of the quiet street below before pulling the curtains and turning my back on the outside world.

Retrieving my scalding hot mug, I add a hefty dose of whipped cream and marshmallows—definitely deserved after today. The scent hits me like a hug, and I wrap both hands around the mug, carrying it to the couch.

I grab the latest edition ofThe Hockey Ledgerfrom the side table and crawl beneath the heavy, cream throw blanket, tucking my legs under me. Everything aches. My shoulders. My temples. That ugly space between my ribs where the day keeps replaying itself on a loop.

However, that first sip of rich chocolate is heaven on my tongue. I instantly feel better. More relaxed. Sinking deeper into the sofa, with my mug in one hand, I flip open the magazine. It’s one I’ve read every week since I was a little girl. At first, I read it in an attempt to bond with my parents, tounderstand what they were talking about at the dinner table and, pathetically, to make them like me, to make them take an interest in me the way they did with my brother…and all things hockey-related.

Now, I read it because, over the years, I developed my own love for the sport that has nothing to do with my parents or the NHL team we own, and everything to do with the rules of the game, the adrenaline rush as a player races toward the net, the hint of savagery when a fight breaks out and blood sprays across the ice.

This week’s edition contains an in-depth interview with the Timberwolves player, Logan Astor. I try to focus on his answers to the questions the interviewer asks him, but my gaze keeps sliding back to the full-page photograph of him. Except, it’s not Logan I see; it’s Lucian. The way his lips curved earlier, the gleam in his eyes, like he was enjoying my panic. Not confused by it—thrilledby it.

I freeze, blinking at the page before shaking the lingering image of Lucian’s face from my mind.Not thinking about them.

Giving up on the interview, I flick to another article onplayers to watch this season.However, instead of photos of the players, hazel eyes swim in my mind. A perfectly trimmed beard, and strong, lean body made for cutting up the ice.

Ronan.

My stomach clenches. My pulse betrays me.

Skimming over the article, I flip aggressively to the next page. It’s a “fun piece” ondating a hockey player, and my mind immediately jumps to Silas. The way his eyes tracked me earlier. There was something far too possessive in that stare...

The magazine falls against my chest, and I groan. “Nope.”

I toss it aside, dragging my hands down my face. My cheeks are hot. I swear I can still feel their eyes on me, even now, evenwhen IknowI’m safe and alone inside my apartment. Still, I can’t help but glance toward the windows.

Forcing myself to look away, I grab my phone instead. There’s an unread message from Dylan.

Dylan

How did today go?