Page 35 of Top Shelf

Ronan catches the look between us, his eyes flicking in Wren’s direction before he focuses on the rest of the team. “Everyone cool it. This isn’t high school.” Giving everyone a stern glance, he adds, “How about we keep locker room talk to non-staff members, yeah?”

“He shouldn’t have been talking about her,” Lucian hisses low enough that only I hear.

They were just talking shit.

I scribble.

It didn’t mean anything.

Giving me a look, he asks, “So you’re telling me it didn’t bother you?”

My lips purse, and he gives me a vicious smile. “Exactly.”

Alright, fine, so I might be a little satisfied that Evans is currently bleeding from a split lip.

“She’s not some puck bunny,” he continues, voice dipping lower. “She’s?—”

He catches himself, brow furrowing as he struggles to finish that sentence.

She’s what?

I write, showing him the notepad.

“Ours,” he grumbles, looking almost…bashful. Except Lucian wouldn’t know the definition of that word if he read it straight out of the dictionary.

The look I give him is flat. Measured.

Really?

Hescowls. “Whatever.”

“We’ve got a season to win,” Ronan continues, sternly. “You want to throw hands; save it for the ice. You want to run your mouth; don’t do it about someone on our team—and you know damn well that includes more than just us players.”

A few heads drop, one or two nod, but no one speaks.

Then Ronan’s eyes find Lucian. “You paying attention, Caulfield?”

Lucian scoffs under his breath, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his leg.

“Yeah. Loud and clear, Cap.”

“Good. Because if you keep it up, you’ll spend the first game of the season watching from the goddamn bench.”

Lucian’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue.

Ronan nods, sharp and final. “Let’s get back to practice.”

We clamber onto the ice. The scrape of blades drowns out the tension, but glares continue to be shared between Lucian and Evans. Lucian continues to release his anger by slamming through defensive zones with a kind of violence that’s almost beautiful in its precision.

Ronan barks orders, and I focus on the rotations, settling into the comfort of structure. No voices. No chaos. Just movement and pattern.

And for a little while, the world makes sense again.

9

WREN

The locker room is chaos.