Page 7 of Top Shelf

And then, as if the situation wasn’t already my worst living nightmare, one of them looked at me. Right at me. Eyes locked on mine, rounding in surprise. Herecognizedme.

Run, my mind screamed. So I did. Muttered something to Dylan that I can’t recall and hightailed it out of that booth. I hid behind the bar the rest of the night, hands trembling and one eye constantly on them, before I snuck out the back at the end of my shift.

I didn’t take a full breath until I was back home, doors locked and windows secured. Even then, my heart still thrashed like it might claw out of my chest. My only reprieve? Knowing they’d be gone by the morning.

I curl into myself, sliding down to the floor, the phone still clutched in my hand.

Now I’mhere.

Stuck at Valehurst withthem.

With the only people who know what happened that night.

And my mother just handed me to them on a silver fucking platter.

How am I supposed to survive a year here with the men who ruined me?

The Valehurst Kings’ athletic complex sits at the north end of campus, a sleek, modern contrast to the gothic stone buildings that make up the rest of the college. While the school feels like something out of a classic New England postcard—ivy-covered walls, wrought-iron lampposts, and bell towers—the athletic complex looks like it was airlifted in from a high-performance training facility. Glass, steel, chrome. All sharp lines and no warmth.

The building is intimidating, even without the logo etched in frosted glass above the doors.Kings,is carved in thick, angular block letters, all caps—bold enough to punch through steel and sharp enough to draw blood. Accompanying it is a brooding monarch who stares down at me with ice in his eyes and fury in the set of his jaw. His crown is jagged, tilted just enough to suggest madness. A cloak of royal purple drapes from his broad shoulders, but there’s nothing noble in his expression. It’s the face of a god of war. The kind of king who burns empires for sport and smiles while doing so.

Etched beneath the logo in gold script are the words:Not all who bleed will rise.The delightfully warm and inviting motto of Valehurst College. All of it is a warning. A prophecy. A promise that has me wanting to run in the opposite direction.

Have I mentioned how much I miss BSU? Classes haven’t even started yet, and I already know this year is going to be hell on earth. There’s a reason I chose the laid-back Blackstone campus over the uptight, elitist one of Valehurst.

I buzz myself in with the temporary pass I found in the accursed envelope my mother left, the scanner flashing green as the glass doors slide open. Inside, the noise of the outside world disappears. The lobby is cool, quiet, and unnervingly spotless.

A reception desk sits dead center beneath a gleaming steel Valehurst Kings logo. The woman behind it doesn’t look up as I approach, my heels clicking on the white, sterile floor.

I pause at her desk, listening to the clacking of her nails as she types on the keyboard. After a moment, when she hasn’t acknowledged my presence, I clear my throat, announcing myself before stating, “I’m here for the hockey internship.”

“End of the hall. Left at the mural.”

She says it all without looking up. No name. No welcome. No questions.

Giving her a final glance, I follow her instructions, heading down a corridor lined with backlit portraits of championship wins and faded, framed jerseys that I don’t stop to linger over. Everything about this place screams legacy and dominance. The weight of expectation grows heavier the further down the hall I go, like even the air has been conditioned to punish weakness.

I find the mural easily—an oil-painted monstrosity of Kings’ players in mid-celebration, arms thrown up in victory. I turn left and spot the brass plaque mounted on the wall beside a matte black door that readsDean Carver, Team Operations Manager.

Stopping in front of the door, I take a moment to gather myself. Inhaling deeply, I blow out the breath before raising a shaky fist to knock.

“Come in,” a voice calls, clipped with impatience.

Stepping into the office, that weight of expectation becomes even more potent. I glance around at the sleek desk hosting dual computer monitors. Yet another Valehurst Kings logo is printed on the back wall in the school’s colors of royal purple and matte gold. It’s as if the university is concerned that its employees will forget where they work—orwhothey work for—if it isn’t shoved in their faces every minute of every day.

The man behind the desk doesn’t rise when I enter. He’s middle-aged, square-jawed, with gray hair that’s gelled into something painfully precise. His suit is tailored to within an inch of its life—crisp white shirt, pale gold tie, suit jacketunwrinkled. He looks more suited for a boardroom than a hockey rink.

“Miss Winslow,” he addresses, barely sparing me a glance. “We’ve been expecting you.”

I nod once, attempting a polite smile. “Hi.”

“Take a seat.” He gestures toward the two chairs sitting opposite his desk, and I slowly lower myself into the nearest one, perching on the edge. I don’t dare relax into the buttery-soft leather while I wait for the man to shuffle some papers on his desk.

Not looking my way, he speaks. “I am Dean Carver. I oversee operations and team management for the Kings’ hockey team.” Clicking the end of the pen he was using, he finally lifts his head, meeting my gaze. “Which means, unfortunately, I’ll also be supervising your internship with us this year.”

His eyes rake over me. Not in a way that feels predatory. Just dismissive. Like I’m a clerical error that keeps showing up in his calendar.

My cheeks heat. I’d spent twenty minutes smoothing my hair into a perfect bun and applied just enough makeup to look polished but not fake. The skirt is too tight. The heels pinch. All of it is chosen by my mother in the name of appearances, but the moment Dean Carver looks at me, I know it wasn’t enough.