Page 54 of Top Shelf

I straighten, breathing hard, eyes locked on Evans, before I snap them to Ronan. “What?” I shrug, nonchalant. “I guess I hit him harder than intended.”

“Harder than intended,” Ronan echoes, disbelievingly. “You shattered fucking safety glass, Lucian!”

Unbothered by Ronan’s scolding, I look past him to where Wren stands, frozen. Our eyes connect. She looks…stunned. One hand still clutches her clipboard. The other covers her mouth.

Her eyes—wide, horrified—flick from the broken glass to me…

And suddenly it’s too loud.

Too real.

The red haze burns hotter.

I don’t know if it’s me, or her, orus, but there’s a crackle in the air, like an impending thunderstorm on a sweltering hot day. I can’t look away from her, and it appears neither can she. There’s shock in her stare, sure, but there’s also something more, something that speaks to me, that calls out to the fractured fragments of my soul. Something that looks a hell of a lot like curiosity. Interest, even.

Subconsciously, I find myself moving toward her before I’m abruptly yanked back.

“What the fu?—”

“Get off the ice,” Ronan orders, shoving me toward the locker room. “Now.” He shakes his head, making his disappointment clear. “Coach is going to rip you a new one for this. You’ll be lucky if you see any ice time for the nextmonth.”

Whatever. It was totally worth it.

Coach’s office reeks of sweat, old leather, and disappointment.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was, Caulfield?” Coach growls, leaning forward over his desk like he’s fighting the urge to throw a clipboard at my head. I know for a fact that’s exactly what he’s resisting doing.

I don’t answer. My jaw flexes, arms crossed over my chest. Not in defiance; it’s the only thing keeping them from shaking with the leftover adrenaline.

Carver is here too, of course. Leaning against the back wall like he’s the executioner brought in to finalize the sentence.

“You shattered the goddamn glass.” Coach Wexler slams a palm on the table. “You didn’t just check him; you drove him into the boards hard enough to send him to Medical.”

“Maybe if he’d had his head in practice instead of showing off.” I shrug.

Carver’s eyes narrow at my insolence. “You think your NHL prospects can survive this temper of yours?”

I tilt my head, giving him a droll stare. “You think anyone gives a shit what you think, Dean?”

Coach slams a hand on the desk, and I quickly shut my mouth, dismissing Carver’s presence entirely.

“I should bench you for the foreseeable future.” Coach’s face is carved from stone.

“But you won’t, because I’m the best center you’ve got.”

His eye twitches, and I know I’m close to crossing a line. If only I could find a fuck to give. I’ve never been good at following the rules. Equally, I’ve never been good at caring about breaking the rules. Who gives a shit? Short of getting myself disqualified for the season, I’ve got an NHL offer all lined up. So long as I play the way I have the past three years and don’t do anything to make the Serpents look bad, I’m set. There’s fuck all Carver can do, other than talk a big game.

I wait Coach out, and eventually he huffs out a breath, dropping his gaze as he shakes his head.

“You’ll be suspended for Friday’s game.”

“Fine.” It’s what I expected.

“If anything like this happens again,” Coach warns, “we will have no choice but to bench you. It’ll be out of my hands.” His gaze flicks to Carver. “Do you hear me, Caulfield?”

“Yeah, I hear you loud and clear.”

The second I’m out of that office, I move like a loaded gun. I don’t stop at the locker room. Don’t bother changing. I leave therink with my gear still on. The sweat, the heat, the itch under the pads all add fuel to the fire thrashing in my chest.