Page 52 of Top Shelf

While Silas nods in silent agreement with my plan, Ronan exhales like he expected no less than bloody violence from me but is disappointed all the same. Still, his gaze tracks Carver as he moves across the rink like a hawk stalking prey. Ronan might prefer negotiations and peaceful resolutions, but he’s also a hockey player, so he’s not afraid to dive into the fray and get a little blood on his hands when the need arises.

I have a gut feeling that the need is going to arise veryverysoon.

Carver has no fucking clue that his days are numbered. I’m counting them down one by one, because no one makes Wren flinch like that.

No. One.

Not anymore.

“I’m looking into his whereabouts that night,” Ronan states, eyes still glued on the shitstain.

“Carver’s?” I question, brow creased.

“The way he talks to Wren, always putting her down,” Ronan explains. “Could be that he’s just a jealous dickhead, but you never know.”

Reaching over the boards, Silas grabs the notebook and pen that he keeps on the bench during practice, at hand for when he needs it.

He does attend every game. Home and away.

“Fuck,” I hiss, squeezing a gloved fist around my hockey stick. We’ve been looking into team members—starting by identifying the whereabouts of the current players, since they are the easiest to track. Then we’ll look at those players who have graduated. However, I’d never even considered it could be a staff member who attacked Wren that night.

It would make sense, though. Dean has had it out for Wren since the second she arrived. It could just be because she’s a Winslow and got this internship because of her parents, but equally…

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” I hiss, already envisioning peeling the skin from his bones while his sweet screams make my ears bleed.

“First, we need to find out if it could be him,” Ronan reminds me, always the boring head of reason.

“Sure, sure.”

The blow of Coach’s whistle reminds me we are in the middle of practice. I force myself to put all thoughts of murdering Dean Carver to the back of my mind and focus on the game instead ofher. Thank fuck anger is useful here—a weapon I can shape and hone. Anger makes me faster. Sharper. Deadlier.

I throw myself into the next drill, taking tight turns and handling the puck like it’s Carver’s head I’m playing with as I slice through cones. My muscles burn, lungs ache, but that burn is the closest thing I have to peace.

On the ice, nothing owns me.

Not memory.

Not blood.

Not pain.

I’mthe storm here.

Coach shouts something praising the line play, but I’m not paying attention, already pulling away and powering down the rink. I beat one defender clean, then send a shot flying past the goalie’s shoulder—top shelf.Perfect.

The boys smack their sticks against the ice in approval, and I let a smirk curl my mouth as I circle around the back of the net, performing a little victory dance.

Then I look up, and the smirk tugging my lips slides straight off.

Because instead of focusing on what’s happening on the ice, fuckingEvansis talking to Wren.

MyWren.

And not just talking. He’s fuckingflirting.

I come to a stop, kicking up ice as I gape at what I’m seeing, certain I’m imagining it. I have to be. Except my vision goes red as Evans leans in, his abdomen flush against the top of the boards like he can’t get close enough to her. Talking, smirking.Fucking dickbag.

And Wren?—