Page 128 of Top Shelf

Ronan intercepts a pass at center ice moments later, weaving through two defenders with smooth precision before sending the puck straight between the goalie’s legs. The arena erupts.

He skates backward afterward, pointing directly at me through the glass with an unbearably smug grin.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, already feeling heat creep into my cheeks.

Further down the ice, Silas strips the puck from another Serpents player so cleanly it barely even looks intentional before sending a brutal pass straight to Lucian. The three of them move together with effortless chemistry, sharp and instinctive, like they’ve spent their entire lives learning each other’s rhythms.

Which…I guess they kind of have.

The crowd eats it up.

Kids scream every time someone crashes dramatically into the boards. Parents laugh from the stands. Phones remain permanently lifted, recording clips while the announcers lean fully into the ridiculousness of it all.

At one point, Lucian and Carson end up in a mock fight at center ice after arguing over a penalty call that absolutely did not matter. The refs barely bother intervening because both idiots are grinning the entire time while the crowd chants for them to ‘drop the gloves’.

“This may have been a mistake,” I mumble.

Coach snorts beside me. “Too late now.”

And honestly? Watching the two teams together on the ice like this feels strangely surreal.

The Valehurst Kings.

The Atlantic City Serpents.

Two parts of my life, colliding in the middle of an arena packed full of people because of somethingIcreated.

“Nah, this was a hell of an idea,” Coach Wexler says, more serious now.

I glance sideways to where he’s standing beside me near the boards, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as he watches the game unfold.

“You think?” I ask quietly.

He snorts. “Kid, you did good. Accept the win.” Warmth blooms low in my chest. “You were made for this.” His voice is matter-of-fact. Certain. “And I’m not saying that because of who your family is or your last name. I mean you. Your skillset. Your temperament. You know how to handle players without bruising their egos. You can manage ten problems at once without panicking. You’ve got instincts for this job that most people spend decades trying to learn.”

I swallow hard as his gaze sweeps the arena before coming to rest on me. It somehow seems to cut right through me. “You act like this world was forced on you, but watching you today? Looks to me like you belong here.”

32

WREN

The exhibition gameends in a roar of applause loud enough to rattle the glass.

Kids crowd the edge of the rink the second the final buzzer sounds, bouncing excitedly while players from both teams skate over, tossing pucks into the stands and signing anything shoved in front of them. Jerseys. Programs. Hats. One little girl even hands Lucian a stuffed dinosaur to autograph.

“You’re surprisingly good with kids,” I tell him when he approaches.

Clapping a hand over his chest, he teases, “You wound me, Little Moth,” before adding, “Children are easy. Especially at that age,” he gestures toward the little girl who couldn’t be any older than five or six. “They haven’t had the chance yet to become assholes.”

I’d tell him off, but he’s not exactly wrong.

Looking around at all the boys and girls, their faces covered in paint and fingers sticky from popcorn and ice cream, it’s impossible to reconcile them with the types of people who grow up to be like Lucian’s cousin or whoever hurt me.

Before I can fall too far down that dark hole, large arms band around me, lifting me off the floor.

“Wrenny Roo!”

“Carson!” I smack at my brother’s arm, wriggling in his hold until he puts me down.