Page 72 of Top Shelf

“I can’t do that,” he blurts. “He said to make sure you knew, you’re a King now, not a Steelhawk.”

My nostrils flare in irritation. Inoutrage. I might be attending Valehurst. Might be forced to wear the Kings’ colors when I’m working for the team, but at my core, in my heart and soul, I willalwaysbe a Steelhawk.

I fold my arms, making no move to take it. “I amnota King, and I am most certainlynotwearing Ronan’s jersey like I’m his property or some other eighteen-hundreds bullshit,” I snap,possibly unfairly, at the rookie. “I’m supporting Dylan, end of conversation.”

I turn away from him, giving the ice my attention once more, even if I’m no longer paying attention to the game. I’m too worked up. Too furious to focus on the blurred, faceless forms racing by in front of me.

“But,” the rookie stutters, apparently not willing to give up just yet. “He’s gonna be watching. He’s going to see…”

“Then he can watch menotwear it,” I snark, not sparing him another glance. I glare murderously at the ice instead, growing acutely aware of the people around us listening to our altercation.

I hold my breath until the rookie, admitting defeat, stalks off. Only then do I blow it out, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. I shift forward in my chair, forcing myself to pay attention to the game playing before me.

Ronan accelerates through center ice, calling for a stretch pass?—

But as he crosses the logo, his eyes lift and lock on mine.

He sees me.

Still in Dylan’s jersey.

Stillnotin his.

In a move of rebellion, fueled by anger that he thinks he can dictate what I wear, I lift my hand and flip him the middle finger. Something sharp flickers in his eyes, his lips twitching, although I’m not sure if it’s with humor or irritation. I don’t particularly care which, at this point. Let him be pissed off.I’mpissed off.

And yet the weight of his stare feels like a brand. Like I’ve broken some unspoken rule, and now I’m going to pay for it. I can feel the weight of his annoyance pressing into my skin. My chest. My throat.

My entire body heats beneath his attention, low and curling and relentless.

My breath catches, my fingers tightening around the hem of my borrowed jersey.

He’s on the other side of the ice, and still, it feels like he’s touching me.

It pulls at something buried deep in my core—something primal and electric and entirely beyond my control.

I hate that he has this effect on me.

I hate how my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

But most of all, I hate that some part of me doesn’t want to look away.

That some dark, twisted part of melikesit.Likeshis sinister stare at me. The heat of his gaze. The brunt of his frustration.

I almost don’t want the moment to end because what’s burning in his eyes?

It feels like hunger.

The moment can’t have lasted more than a second before he snaps back into play, picking up right where he left off.

Just as a shiver with awareness skitters down my spine, knowing I’ve crossed some invisible line that I won’t be able to come back from, the guy sitting to my right leans in.

“Huh. Seems like you’ve got the attention of all of the Kings tonight.”

My lips flatten as I glance sideways. He’s older than most of the crowd. Maybe a grad student. Maybe just a sleazy townie who managed to score student section seats. Blond hair tucked under a backward cap. He’s ignored me the whole game…until now.

“Is Sterling your boyfriend or something?” he asks, lifting his chin toward the ice.

I grit my teeth. “Definitely not.”