Page 10 of Top Shelf

Scowling, Coach turns to see what has captured the attention of the entire team. The second he sees her, he sighs, shaking his head before hitting us with one of his lethaldon’t fucking mess with meglares.

“The only thing any of you need to know about her is that she’s off limits.”

Too late.

I’ve already decided I want her.

Right now, the fantasy is nothing more than curious intrigue. A need to see her mouth. Hear her voice. Watch her face when I drag my knuckles up the inside of her thigh.

Then, with three words, Coach douses my filthy fantasies with ice-cold water.

“She’s a Winslow.”

The world stills.

“She’s Theodore Winslow’sdaughter,” he adds, voice sharp now. “As inowner-of-the-SerpentsWinslow. If you want any hope of a career in hockey, then she is as off-limits as you can get.”

Fuuuuck.

It’s like having your mom walk in on you mid-orgasm.

If screwing the coach’s daughter gets your jersey torched, then screwing the owner’s daughter of the team you’reslatedto sign with gets your future iced…and your name quietly scrubbed from every roster in the league.

I clench my jaw, my gaze inadvertently finding its way back to her.

She is still bent over, still oblivious to the eyes on her as she tucks items into a duffel, standing too close to the edge of the rink like she doesn’t realize every guy on this team has stoppedlistening to Coach, too busy staring at the woman he just painted a bright red target on.

Theodore Winslow’sdaughter.

I spent the entire summer at his satellite training facility in Springview, along with Ronan and Silas, doing conditioning alongside the team’s players. I met the staff. Lifted weights in the gym and skated drills on the ice alongside his son—a cocky rookie with a slapshot that others in the league would kill for.

I even met the man himself—Theodore—when he flew out from their Atlantic City base for the day.

But I never met a daughter. Never even heard mention of her.

As if she can feel the weight of every eye on her, she lifts her head. Slow. Cautious.

Honey-brown eyes sweep the stands, and time fractures.

Those eyes.

Today is a day for mind-blowing revelations, apparently, because any care for her being Theodore Winslow’s daughter goes out the window as I rake my eyes over the face that has haunted my dreams since that night freshman year.

Eyes that stare back at me from the shadows when I’m trying to sleep.

It’s a face I hadn’t expected to ever see again. Not in real life. A face that had taken me entirely by surprise when I saw her staring at me in The Stanley last year, while we were at BSU, playing against their team.

Wren.

I branded her name into my memory the second her friend said it. Even then, it felt important. Sacred. Like knowing it gave me something no one else had.

Wide-eyed, her gaze rakes over the team.

Eyes on me. Eyes on me. Come on, baby, look my way.

When she finally does, it knocks the air from my lungs.Those sharp, guarded eyes land on mine, and I’m fucking gone. Her face pales, and despite me begging her to keep staring, she snaps her eyes away, turning her back on us as she hurries to gather the last of the equipment and scurry out of the rink.

I move to follow her, not wanting to let her out of my sight for even a second, but a hand pressing against my shoulder has my ass smacking against the metal bench. I round on Ronan with a glare, but he matches it with one of his own, shaking his head in a silentnot now.