Page 8 of Top Shelf

He sets the pen down with a click that feels like a verdict.

“I assume you’re aware that this internship was…arranged.”

I hesitate for only a moment before I give a curt nod. “Yes.”

“Notearned,” he adds, letting the silence stretch after the words land.

Something in my chest contracts, and my next words come out clipped. “I’m aware.”

Isheaware that I want to be here about as much as he clearly wants me here?

He sighs, folding his hands across the desk and leaningforward with all the weight of a man who wants me to feel very small. He succeeds, even if just a little. “This program is the most sought-after internship on campus. Eighty-three students applied. We selected a candidate who was qualified, prepared, and eager. Then your mother picked up the phone, and here you are.” He finishes with a flourish of his hands.

I don’t say anything. What would be the point?

“Tell me, Miss Winslow—do you have any experience managing or assisting a collegiate-level team?”

“No.”

“Have you completed any sports-related coursework? Internships? Volunteer training?”

“No.”

“I understand you’re a transfer from BSU, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“And, what were you studying there?”

My teeth grind. If he knows I’m a transfer, then he likely already knows what my major was before my parents changed my entire life course with the snap of their fingers. This whole charade is to make me feel as though I’m two feet tall.Jackass.

“Applied statistics,” I answer, voice thin, brittle.

He snorts softly. “Numbers.”

The way he says it, you’d think I’d bummed around in some pointless major. I’ve heard of some colleges offering eclectic courses, such as one solely encompassing Taylor Swift or a degree based on pirates.

To Dean Carver, a statistics degree is on the same level asthat.

“I like numbers,” I retort, refusing to feel ashamed for not doing something businessor sports-related that would meet his snobby, close-minded standards.

“Well, I like candidates who don’t waste my time,” hereplies, the smarmy smile dropping from his face. “However, I wasn’t given a choice, so let me make a few things clear.”

He stands, rounding the desk slowly like a man stepping into the center of his own stage. I go rigid when he stops beside me, arms folded, his voice lowering. “The Kings are not just any hockey team. They are the cornerstone of this university. Our reputation. Ourpride. The reason Valehurst gets the attention and funding it does. We don’t have time for vanity projects or spoiled legacy favors. So if you’re going to be here, you’ll earn your keep.”

I swallow hard.

“You’ll start at the bottom. Coffee runs. Data entry. Gear inventory. Filing.” His tone sharpens with every syllable. “No one on this team owes you anything, and if you think your name gets you a shortcut, you’ll find out just how replaceable interns are.”

“I don’t think that,” I’m quick to argue, my tone just a tad too defensive.

“Good.” He smiles, but there is no warmth behind it. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

He walks back to his desk, picks up a clipboard, and hands it to me. “Report to Equipment Manager Bo Larsen. He’s downstairs in the gear bay. Ask him what he needs and do it. No complaints. No questions. Clear?”

“Clear,” I say, standing on shaky legs.

“Oh, one more thing,” he adds, already turning back to his computer. “Lose the glasses. They make you look like a mouse that just wandered into a pit of vipers.” Shaking his head, he tacks on, “The guys will eat you alive.”