Page 16 of Top Shelf
He steps back, holding the door open with a dramatic little sweep of his arm, like he’s dismissing me from his presence.
As I squeeze past him, he delivers a final blow to my self-worth. “We expect more from our interns. Even from someone who walked in through the back door.”
That lands. Hard.
My pulse roars in my ears, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I step into the hallway. Without looking back, I half jog down it in a bid to put as much distance between Dean Carver and myself as possible.
When I reach the base of the stairs that lead to the Kings’ operations offices, my feet hesitate. I don’t want to go up there. I want to go home. I want to crawl under a blanket and pretend none of this happened—pretend today never happened.
But I don’t have that luxury.
By the time I push through the frosted glass door marked “Staff Only,” a woman—Patricia, presumably—is already waiting for me, standing behind a massive oak desk with a headset perched on her perfectly curled bob. Other staff members are spread out across the large bullpen, headsets on or hunched over their computer screens.
“You’re late,” Patricia snaps when she spots me, barely sparing me a glance before grabbing a large stack of files from her desk.
“I—I know. Dean sent me?—”
“Yes, I know,” she cuts in. “You’re the one who replaced Laura.”
I blink. “Laura?”
“Theactualintern.” Her voice is level, but the words drip acid. “The one who worked her ass off all summer for this spot. The one whoearnedit until...” She finally glances up at me, her smile tight and fake. “Nepotism pulled rank.”
My stomach twists. “I didn’t know?—”
“Of course you didn’t,” she says smoothly. “Why would you? Girls like you don’t need to work for anything. It’s all handed to you.”
My lips part, but no words come out.
God, this woman is even more brutal than Dean.
Patricia steps out from behind her desk, heels clicking across the hardwood floor. The office is high-ceilinged, all stone archways and dark leather furniture—opulence that lacks any warmth. She gestures toward a smaller desk shoved up against the wall, slightly removed from everyone else. “You can sit there. Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. If you get a text, ignore it. This is a professional workspace, not a sorority lounge.”
I nod quickly, eager to make a better impression on her than I have on Dean so far.
She drops the files on the desk in front of me. “Start alphabetizing these by last name. And be careful with them—some of these players’ contracts are more important than your entire future.”
She disappears down the hall without waiting for a response.
For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the papers like they might rearrange themselves. My heart is still thundering in my chest, and I feel like a kid who’s wandered into a classroom halfway through a test. I can feel eyes on me, but I refuse to look up. I don’t need to see the judgment on everyone else’s face.
Nepotism.
The word sticks like gum to the roof of my mouth. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it. Definitely won’t be the last. But today, it cuts deeper, because she’s not wrong. If I were in her shoes, I’d see the same thing everyone else does: Entitlement in designer shoes. A rich girl playing at real life.
Except that’s so far from who I am.
I’m unaccustomed to working for a hockey team in an office setting, but I am not unfamiliar with hard work. I’ve worked behind a bar since freshman year, living off the tips I made so I didn’t have to touch my trust fund—and the strings that came along with it.
Blowing out a breath, I force the tension out of my body. Then, I focus on the task at hand. I flip through the files slowly, careful not to smudge the paper with my sweaty palms, before I begin sorting them alphabetically.
I don’t need to be liked here. I just need to survive.
Some time later, the creaking of the door announces Patricia’s return. I glance up, eyeing the coffee cup in her hand. She makes a beeline directly toward me.
“Are youfinished yet?”
“Nearly.”
