Page 71 of Top Shelf

But nothing about this is normal anymore.

The buzz in the arena spikes as the Kings and Steelhawks return to the ice, players gliding out beneath the overhead lights, blades cutting sharp lines into the surface.

I’m watching the flow of them, picking out Dylan near the middle—helmet tilted back, her braid spilling out the bottom as she shouts something to one of her teammates—when Lucian skates into view.

He’s doing a slow skate of the rink, showing off for the crowd…until he sees me. Recognition hits like a slap to the face. His eyes latch onto mine, narrowing before they drop…to the blue and silver jersey I’m wearing.

He comes to a complete stop, oblivious to the game starting up as he stares at the Steelhawk logo on my chest, like his brain is struggling to compute what he is seeing.

When it finally catches up, his mouth presses into a firm, unreadable line. There’s no mistaking the spark of something hot and territorial in his eyes before he tears his gaze away—only to twist around and grab Ronan’s jersey.

Lucian mutters something low to him, jerking his head in my direction.

Ronan scans the crowd, his stare locking onto me. His expression doesn’t change. Not the way Lucian’s outwardly did, but I see the tension coil in his shoulders. The cool steel in his eyes sharpens as his jaw tightens by a fraction.

A second later, Silas rolls up behind them, and Lucian flicks a hand toward the glass. Towardme. Silas follows the motion, his gaze cutting clean across the rink until it lands squarely on mine.

Great, let’s invite the entire team over.

The three of them are beginning to garner attention, people in the rows in front of me shifting in their seats to see what they are looking at.

I shift in my seat, heart stuttering beneath the weight of eyes on me. Not because I feel guilty—I don’t—but because it’s suddenly hard to breathe with that much heat trained directly on me.

It’s just a jersey.

Just a show of support for my best friend.

But the way they’re looking at me?

You’d think I’d incited a war.

The game is chaos.

Not the kind that comes from disorganization or lack of skill, but from the beautiful, brutal chaos of two rival teams whohateeach other and aren’t trying to hide it.

Every pass is a risk. Every hit is calculated.

The Kings are fast and surgical—Lucian carving through the ice like he’s born to bleed precision, Ronan commanding the defense like he sees the game five steps ahead, Silasghosting down the boards so smoothly that you’d miss him if you blinked.

The Steelhawks, for all their differences, are just as relentless. Dylan especially. She’s ruthless with the puck, pinwheeling around defenders, shouldering through contact, snapping orders, and setting plays like a general.

The puck slams off the boards.

Someone checks hard against the glass, the force rattling through my seat. I’m entirely locked in—eyes sweeping across the ice, adrenaline spiking like I’m part of the game—when there is a tap on my shoulder.

I glance up to find a guy in a Kings warmup jacket standing beside my seat. Early twenties. Baby-faced. A rookie I vaguely recognize from practice runs. Giving me an awkward grimace, he holds out a jersey—a purple and gold one.

I stare at it, not reaching out to take it.

“This is from Ronan,” he says stiffly when the awkward moment stretches between us.

I stare at it. I stare at the rookie.

Then I scoff.

“Tell Ronan I don’t want or need his jersey.”

The rookie’s eyes flare, like the thought of going back to his captain with anything other than confirmation of a job completed is unacceptable.