Page 74 of Top Shelf

The guy beside me hasn’t so much as twitched in my direction since Lucian’s threat to decapitate him with a puck, but that doesn’t mean I want to sit awkwardly beside him for the next fifteen minutes. So instead, I push out of my seat, choosing to stretch my legs.

The concourse is packed, seemingly half the arena deciding to stock up on food and drink, or dash to the bathroom, while they have the opportunity. The loud noise drives me into the nearest stairwell, and I breathe out slowly as the door closes behind me, shutting out the worst of the noise and giving me a quiet moment of reprieve.

Wandering through the back hallways while I kill time, I pass the occasional staff member bustling about. Finding a quiet spot, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes.

God, I needed a minute.

Everything—the standoff with the rookie, the puck slamming into the plexiglass, Lucian’s glare, Ronan’s determination, Silas’s unreadable expression—it’s too much. Too intense. The heat of it all still burns beneath my skin.

“It would be much easier for you if you just did what I asked.”

My eyes fly open.

Ronan stands a few feet away, sweat beading along his hairline, cheeks flushed, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath the Kings’ jersey stretched tight across his frame. He’s still in his skates and gloves, as though he got off the ice and made a beeline straight for me.

And he lookspissed.

Pushing off the wall I was leaning against, I stand straight, ready to face off with him as I scoff. “Easier foryou, you mean.”

He takes a step closer. Then another, until he is towering over me by more than a solid foot. His skates make him seem giant-like, as if the fact that he already had a foot on me wasn’t enough. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat as I crane my head back at his approach. It should be intimidating—him standing there in his gear, practically the width of the entire hallway as he looms over me, and yet…my thighs fuckingclench. My mouth runs dry, and I can’t help thinking how fuckingattractivehe looks right now, fresh off the ice,his cheeks tinted red and hair mussed up. Those searing hazel eyes pinned on me, reflecting just how worked up he is.

His gaze flicks over me, slow and cutting. “You shouldn’t be wearing that jersey.”

I cross my arms. “Why? Because it doesn’t sayRonan fucking Sterlingon the back?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He keeps coming until my back hits the wall. His hands plant on either side of my head, caging me in. His scent wraps around me—sweat, spice, and something cold and sharp, like metal.

“You put on another team’s colors, wear someone else’s name, and you expect me not to respond?”

My brows shoot up. “So this is about your ego?”

His eyes darken. “This is aboutyoustill denyingthis.”

A strangled noise escapes me. “I am notdenyinganything.”

It’s his turn to huff a breath, one side of his lips quirking up in an arrogant smirk that I want to wipe from his face. A sudden vision of grabbing him and pulling those lips to mine takes over me.

“Aren’t you?” His taunting words snap me out of that crazy line of thought. “Always running—from us. From your feelings. From your past…”

I suck in a breath. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

“Am I?” His voice drops to barely a whisper, the feel of his words skating along my skin and making me shiver. “Because from where I’m standing, you can deny it all you want, but I see the way you look at me. At us. You think this thing we’re doing is a game, Winslow? That we’re going to give up and walk away?” He leans closer. “We’re not. We’ve been in this since the moment we found you, unconscious and vulnerable. Seeing you like that…it spoke to each of us.”

It’s the first time one of them has said it out loud.That they were there. That theyfound me. My knees threaten to buckle. As if sensing that, Ronan’s hand drops to my hip, pressing me into the wall as he inches impossibly closer. Part of me wants to scream. Another part wants to grab his face and demand to know everything.

“You are strong enough to face your greatest fears,” he murmurs against the shell of my ear. “When are you going to wake up and realize that?”

The heat between us spikes.

My hands press to his chest, but it’s not to push him away. I don’t even think I could. My heart is hammering. My skin prickles with awareness.

“What does any of this have to do with a jersey?” I ask, my voice rough.

“Everything.” His face is so close, I can see the individual sparks of gold in his eyes. They glimmer and dance in the fluorescent light, only adding fuel to his words. “It haseverythingto do with the jersey. With you moving forward. With you healing. With you realizing thatthisis where you belong, where you were always meant to end up—with us.”

I stop breathing.

“You are not a Steelhawk anymore,” he continues. “You aren’t that same person. You aren’t the girl from that night.”