Page 9 of Top Shelf

My hand flies to my frames instinctively. I don’t wear glasses over contacts because I think they make me appear cute or innocent. It’s got nothing to do with how I look. Never hasbeen. I wear them because they help me keep the world at a manageable distance.

Unable to conjure a response, I turn on my heel and leave.

Back in the hallway, I stare at the list clipped to the board in my hands. It’s all logistical grunt work. The stuff no one wants to do. And still…part of me wonders if I even deserve that much.

I might not have liked what Dean Carver had to say, but he wasn’t wrong.

I don’t have the right experience.

I don’t want this job.

And I didn’t earn it.

But I also didn’t ask for it. And that, somehow, makes all the difference.

I turn left toward the stairs, the clipboard pressed tight to my chest. My shoes click softly on the polished floor.

Welcome to hell.

2

LUCIAN

Coach Wexler standsnear center ice, puffed up like a general addressing his troops. He’s tall, mid-fifties, still broad-shouldered from playing days he never stops referencing. His hair is salt-and-pepper and buzzed close to his skull, and he’s got a scar down the left side of his face—from a puck, or a fight, depending on which version of the story you get.

He’s currently deep in the midst of his ‘First Day Back’ sermon. He claims it’s about setting expectations. Building cohesion between the rookies and returning guys. Laying the foundation for the season.

I’ve heard it three years in a row now. Spoiler alert: it never changes.

Same talk about legacy, about the weight of the Kings’ jersey. Same clichés about grit and brotherhood and sacrifice.

“A Kings’ jersey is earned,” Coach laments. “Through hard work. Through blood, sweat, and tears. Not just on game nights—every night. Every time you set foot in this arena.”

Yeah, sure. Whatever.

Around me, a few of the rookies sit rigid, wide-eyed, likethey’re soaking in the gospel. It almost makes me laugh. Give it a few weeks; they’ll be just as dead-eyed as the rest of us.

I let Coach Wexler’s words roll off me like sweat after a hard shift on the ice as I move to get more comfortable on the metal bench. I can’t feel the coldness of it through my practice gear—unfortunately. It would be blissful against my overheated skin if I could. The buildup of sweat from our first practice session of the season is starting to make me itch, and I’m getting fucking cranky. I need a shower and to get away from all the fucking noise. Maybe find a pretty little thing to stick my dick into.

A wicked smirk curls at my lips, my leg bouncing in anticipation of getting out of here before my ass goes completely numb. Even though Coach has been droning on for the past twenty minutes, my thighs still burn from today’s scrimmage. My stick leans against the bench beside me, and as I crack my neck, movement catches my eye at the far end of the rink, just beyond the plexi.

Bent at the waist, balancing on slim heels and reaching for a crate of sticks, is a woman I’ve never seen before.

Believe me, I would have remembered.

Skirt tight enough to show off the round curve of her ass. Legs toned and bare, despite the chill, her calves flex as she stands on her toes to stretch for the box just out of reach. Auburn hair is twisted into some impossibly tight knot at the nape of her neck, just begging for me to free it and wrap it around my fist instead.

Leaning forward, I’m not even pretending to listen to Coach drone on as I stare at her.

I think I just found my pretty little something.

As my eyes rake over her inviting form, I deduce that she must be this year’s intern.

Last year’s had a mouth like sin and zero gag reflex.

I wonder if this one will be just as much fun to playwith.

“Who’s the new girl, Coach?” a junior player asks, interrupting Coach’s speech.