Page 25 of Top Shelf

My spine straightens, fingers curling tighter around my phone. “Is that so?”

Henods like it’s a reasonable request. “VIP, if you can.”

“What’s my name?” I all but demand, clearly catching him off guard as his eyes go wide. He clearly wasn’t expecting that response. “Myfirstname.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“My name,” I repeat, louder now. “What. Is. My. Name?”

Silence stretches between us. One of the guys behind him coughs awkwardly.

“I…don’t know?” His brows crease in confusion.

I nod once, unsurprised since he didn’t bother to introduce himself before so casually asking for a favor. “Then what makes you think I’d lift a damn finger for you?”

“Is that a no…?” he asks hesitantly.

“What do you think?” I’m so irritated that the words snap off the end of my tongue.

Gone is his cocky smile. “Jesus, you don’t have to be a?—”

“Bitch?” I finish for him, tone flat. “Is that what you were gonna say?”

“You could have just said no,” he gripes with a roll of his eyes. LikeI’mthe one being ridiculous here.

“And you could have engaged your brain for two seconds before opening your mouth.” I shrug. “I guess it’s a shit day for both of us.”

Not waiting around to hear any more, I shove through the gathered team. Behind me, I catch their muttered insults?—

“Rude.”

“Cold.”

“Bitch.”

They aren’t wrong. I am all those things because that’s what this world turns you into. Here, I don’t get to be the quiet, studious librarian or the friendly, flirty bartender. I don’t get to beme.

There’s a reason my parents’ team is called the Serpents.Not because we strike first, but because this life teaches you to bare your fangs before someone takes your throat. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to bite. Doesn’t matter if the venom burns. It’s the only way to survive in this kill-or-be-killed world.

The hiss of the blade over the sharpening wheel is rhythmic. Controlled. Soothing in a way I hadn’t expected. I shouldn’t still be here. Everyone else left hours ago, after practice ended, but I needed the quiet. Needed to feel the cold press of the rink through the concrete walls. Needed somethingrealin a life that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

The scent of oil and leather clings to the air, mixing with the bitter edge of cold metal. I slide the skate out from under the wheel and inspect the edge, just as I was shown.

Sharp. Clean.

I reach for the next one.

Being here this late, sitting in the silence that comes with an empty arena, is familiar. Like coming home to a place I didn’t realize I’d missed. I grew up in rinks like this. Not on the ice, like Dylan did, butaroundit. In the shadows. In the stands. Wandering the echoing halls once the crowds had cleared out and the fluorescent lights buzzed low and tired. I’d trail behind my father while he locked up or buried himself in paperwork, left to my own devices with only the hum of vending machines and the chill of winter air curling in from the loading bay for company.

While other little girls played house or tea party, I was memorizing the feel of rubber flooring under my sneakers, the smell of sweat and puck rubber, the sound of sticks clattering somewhere deep in the equipment room.

This—being here now—isn’t strange to me.

It’ssafe.

Or at least, it used to be.

But this arena isn’tmyarena. It’s not the one in Atlantic City I grew up in.