Page 27 of Top Shelf

That he was right about me.

That I’m not soft.

That I’d draw blood if I had to.

We stand in silence for another beat, locked in some unspoken test neither of us is willing to lose. Finally, his eyes flick down, like he’s cataloging me. Not sexually. More like, he’s seeing straight through to the core of my being. Noting every bit of hardship and trauma that makes meme.

I wish he wouldn’t. Wish I didn’t feel so transparent to him, but no amount of covering up is going to keep him from seeing whatever it is he’s looking for.

By the time he finally takes a step back, something has shifted between us. I can’t name it, but the air is heavier, charged with an energy I can’t pinpoint. Or perhaps I just don’t want to.

“People think pain makes you weak, but it doesn’t. It makes you dangerous,” he says cryptically, eyes running over me appraisingly before he retreats into the shadows. “I see you, Wren Winslow, and I’m not going away. Not until you see me, too.”

What the hell does that mean?

I sense the absence of his presence when he slips from the room, leaving me alone once again. Still, I don’t move until the door closes firmly behind him.

When I do, it’s only to release my held breath, the shaky sound loud in the silent room. I stare down at the skate stillgripped in my hand, attempting to understand what just happened. I faced off against Lucian Caulfield…and survived.

Adrenaline and something heady, something…intoxicating, pumps around my body. A small, hesitant smile slowly stretches across my face until hysterical laughter breaks free. Dropping the skate now that I’m alone, I double over, laughing until I’m gasping for air.

I feel empowered. Unhinged. Fractured, and yet like some part of me has been pieced back together.

And I have no idea what it all means.

The conference room is already half-full when I walk in, the tray of coffee cups balanced in both hands and a stack of printed schedules tucked under my arm. No one looks my way. They’re too busy talking—players slouched in chairs, admin clustered near the whiteboard, Coach pacing near the front like he’s gearing up for battle.

Dean Carver catches my eye from across the room and makes a circular motion with his fingers, like hurry up, as if I’ve somehow delayed the meeting by not teleporting in here ten minutes ago.

I plaster on a smile and weave through the room, setting paper cups in front of everyone who either ignores me or mutters a distracted “thanks.” Approaching Carver, I hand over his coffee.

“Where are the schedules?” he demands.

“Here.” With my hands finally free, I offer him the neatly collated stack. However, instead of taking them, he lifts his chin to the room. “Distribute them.” He’s already turning back to his conversation, dismissing me.

I bite the inside of my cheek and move through the room,handing schedules to each player and staff member. A few players thank me. Quinn, the quiet freshman goalie, flashes a grateful smile, but most of them are distracted, skimming the page before tossing it on the table.

Having deliberately started at the front of the room, I swallow nervously as I reach the back row of players where Lucian, Silas, and Ronan are seated.

The air shifts the second I step into their space, and I hand out their schedules without meeting their eyes.

Ronan leans forward in his seat, and as he takes the schedule from my outstretched hand, he murmurs, “You can pretend we don’t exist, but that doesn’t meanwedon’t seeyou.”

His words are a strange echo of Lucian’s from the other night, and I have to ask myself,what the hell is wrong with these psychos?It’s like my telling them to leave me alone was waving a red flag in front of a bull, and now they’re more incensed than ever to barge their way into my space.

I practically shove Silas’s schedule at his chest, wanting to get as far away from the three of them as quickly as humanly possible. He doesn’t speak, just studies me like I’m something he’s trying to figure out. Why, though? What is there to figure out?Whatis he looking for?

Lucian, of course, doesn’t accept my hasty attempt to offload his schedule. Instead of taking the piece of paper I’m handing him, he reaches for me instead. Long, calloused fingers wrap firmly around my wrist, causing an instant spike of panic. My eyes flash to his, going wide.

“You’re no mouse, Wren Winslow. Don’t pretend you don’t know how to bite…I have the mark on my throat to prove it.” Tilting his head back, I spot the faint red line where I held the blade to his neck. I gasp, surprised. I hadn’t realized I’d pressed it hard enough to mark him.

As quickly as he grabbed my wrist, he releases it, and at aloss for words, I hurry away to find an empty spot along the wall at the side of the room. Lucian’s words play over in my mind. What is it he sees when he looks at me? How can he know things about me that I’m only just now figuring out for myself?

It’s too complex of a question to address now, so I force it to the back of my mind and instead focus on the schedule in my hand. I confirm the dates I’m looking for before pulling out my phone to text Dylan.

Snapping a shot of the relevant dates, I send it to her along with a message.

Me