Page 37 of Top Shelf

Silas is still standing at his locker, ignoring everyone else as they file out of the room. Not wanting to disturb him, I move quietly, tidying up the mess the team has left in their wake. I reach for a crumpled practice jersey that’s been cast off and left abandoned on the bench near him, but before I can grab it, he picks it up and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I murmur. Then, before I can stop myself, I add, “Good luck out there.”

He looks into my face, almost as though searching for something only he knows, then, slowly, he gives me the faintest of smiles. It’s small, fleeting, like it’s not something he’s had much practice at. I’m still staring after him as he follows the rest of the team out of the locker room.

I’ve never heard Silas speak. Not once in the two weeks I’ve been here. The guys don’t encourage him to engage in lockerroom talk. In fact, other than Lucian and Ronan, no one really engages with him at all. I find myself wondering why that is.

More concerningly, I wonder what his voice sounds like—if it’s quiet and deliberate like the way he moves.

The roar from the arena is deafening as I follow the team through the tunnel, clipboard tucked under my arm and heart thudding like it’s trying to break through bone. As much as I may not want to be at Valehurst or interning for the Kings, there’s no denying the thrum of excitement that goes through me the moment I step out onto the concrete and the cold air hits me. It’s not just the physical bite of the rink, but the electric buzz of the crowd, the lights, the hum that exists in the seconds before something important happens.

The arena is lit up like a show. Music pulsing. Spotlights sweeping. The Kings’ logo glints at center ice, polished and pristine, waiting for the first contact. Players are already gliding out one by one, slapping their sticks against the boards, shouting to each other over the music as they warm up. The air is sharp with adrenaline and expectation, cut with the smell of ice spray and sweat.

It’s intoxicating.

I linger by the bench, unsure where to put myself until one of the assistant coaches gestures for me to join the staff just behind the gate. They stand in a cluster, headsets on, arms crossed, checking watches and clipboards. No one acknowledges me as I slip in amongst them.

Coach crosses behind the bench, catching my eye as I hover too long with nothing to do.

“Clipboard,” he barks, flicking two fingers at me.

I fumble to pass it over.

“Stay here,” he adds gruffly. “Keep track of the scratches and shifts. And make sure no one forgets water. I’m not pausing a line change because one of these idiots got lazy.”

He moves off before I can nod, so I do as I’m told. I hover in the pocket of space just behind the bench, jotting down notes, and adjusting bottles, but most importantly, staying out of the way. The players carve across the ice in fast, practiced formations. Even during warm-ups, there’s aggression in the way they move, blades hissing, shots cracking off the glass.

Lucian barrels down the ice, an unstoppable force. Ronan commands the right side of the rink like he’s already dictating the pace of the game. And Silas…moves like smoke. Quiet, deadly. All sharp turns and sudden power.

Catching myself staring, I hurriedly glance away. My lips pull down in a frown.Why can’t I stop staring at them?I hate them. I hate what they did. The fact that they got away with it. The fact that, even now, there is nothing I can do to them. They are untouchable.

I should hate them.

Ido.

So why can’t I seem to look away?

I keep my mind focused on the task at hand until the music quiets and the crowd goes still in preparation for the puck drop.

I’ve always loved this part—the silence before the mayhem. It’s as if everyone in the room is aware that somethingextraordinaryis about to unfold.

With a held breath, I watch as Ronan and the captain of the Dunhaven Krakens duke it out for the puck.

Ronan wins the faceoff. He moves like precision carved into muscle. Everything he does is controlled yet relentless. Lucian’s already cutting through the defensive line, lowering his shoulder as if daring anyone to get in his way. While Silas lingers on the edge, ghosting where the play isn’t…until it suddenly is. One flick of his wrist, and the puck is his. Smooth. Effortless. Deadly.

The Kings shift as one organism—Ronan leading, Lucian charging, Silas anticipating what no one else can see. The Krakens scramble to react, their defense collapsing like a poorly built wall.

The sound swells: the scrape of blades, the slap of the puck, the roar that follows when Ronan’s shot hits the back of the net. I’m already leaning forward, pulse matching the rhythm of the game, that old familiar thrill climbing up my spine.

I can see why my parents wanted the three of them. Why they were willing to lock in a deal early. There’s something hypnotic about the way they move, the way the puck bends to their pace, the way even the crowd holds its breath when they’re on the ice. Not having all three of them on your team would be a travesty. A monumental mistake that you would live to regret for years to come.

As always happens when I’m at a hockey game, I get swept up in the excitement of it all. In predicting the shifts before they happen. The change in positioning. The strategy woven beneath the noise. It’s instinctive. I can feel the rhythm of it, the way you can feel thunder before it breaks.

“Pretty incredible, huh?”

The voice draws my attention away from the ice.

Isaac Evans.