Page 38 of Top Shelf

Second-line winger. Sharp jaw. Smug grin. Trouble, written in the casual sprawl of his shoulders.

He’s sitting at the end of the bench, helmet resting between his knees, watching the game like it’s a joke he’s already figured out the punchline to.

“I’m Evans, by the way,” he adds, like I don’t already know. Like he doesn’t already know me.

“Wren,” I say, cautiously. Polite.

“I know who you are,” he responds, with a grin that’s pure flirt. “Kind of hard not to, isn’t it?”

I arch a brow. “Because I’m the new intern or because of my last name?”

He hums, leaning in slightly. “Nah, because the last time I said your name, Lucian nearly took my head off.”

That catches me off guard. Not because of the comment—but because of the way he says it, like he’s laying bait.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

I glance toward the ice.

Lucian’s out there now, charging toward a Kraken winger like he’s got something to prove.

“Don’t worry,” Evans says. “I don’t bruise easily.”

My eyes snap back to him, brow furrowed in confusion. He can’t be telling the truth. Why, for all the stars in the sky, would Lucian nearly take his head off for simply saying my name? It doesn’t make any sense.

I’m about to tell him as much when the crowd erupts in a collective gasp that has my head jerking up in time to see Lucian barrel into the opposing winger after the whistle.

The guycrumples. Slams into the boards shoulder-first, then drops to the ice, like a boulder rolling down a hill.

A whistle pierces the air, shrill and frantic, as the referee’s arm shoots up, already motioning.

Skates cut across the ice, one ref skating hard toward Lucian while another rushes to the downed player.

Evans lets out a low whistle of his own beside me. “Wonder what got under his skin.”

It’s another targeted comment that feels as though it’s got hidden layers to it, and I frown at him, trying to understand, to read beneath the surface.

The overhead speaker crackles to life, cutting through thenoise: “Number twenty-eight, Caulfield. Five-minute major for charging. Game misconduct.”

The crowd breaks out into a storm of reaction. Boos. Cheers. Shouts of “throw him out!” from the Kraken side.

Lucian doesn’t bother to argue, doesn’t waste time defending himself. Instead, he skates toward the penalty box with all the casual threat of a lit fuse, ripping his helmet off on the way.

But then, as he passes the bench?—

His eyes find me.

And I go still.

Because whatever fire’s burning in him, whatever that was…

It’s not spent.

And even though his anger isn’t aimed at me?—

Even though I didn’t do anything?—

It feels like it is.