Top Shelf (Northern Legacy #2)

Prologue

The Serpents’ training facility is my favorite place in the world.

The second I step through the doors, everything feels alive.

Skates scrape against ice in the arena beyond the hallway.

Coaches shout instructions. Trainers wheel carts full of equipment from room to room.

Phones ring. People rush past carrying clipboards, coffee, and stacks of paperwork.

I love all of it.

The chaos. The noise. The energy.

The feeling that something important is always happening.

“Morning, kiddo.”

I grin as one of the equipment managers passes by. “Morning, Frank.”

Everybody knows me here. At least, it feels that way.

My sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I hurry after my father. He’s already halfway down the corridor, talking to someone in a suit while checking something on his phone.

I have to jog to keep up.

“Dad.”

No response.

“Dad!”

Still nothing.

“Dad!”

Finally, he glances down. “What is it, sweetheart?”

I hold up the folder clutched against my chest. “I finished it.”

His attention shifts back to his phone.

“Finished what?”

“My plan.”

That gets his attention. Slightly. Enough that he at least looks away from the phone screen.

His eyebrow lifts. “What plan?”

“My plan for the team.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. The man beside him chuckles too.

I don’t understand why. It’s a good plan. I spent three whole days working on it.

Dad finally stops walking. “Let’s see.”

Excitement explodes through me. I immediately open the folder. Pages spill out. Drawings. Charts. Lists. They might not make a lot of sense initially, but I worked really hard on them.

“This is the new locker room.” I point enthusiastically. “And this is where the players can eat after practice.”

Dad studies the drawing. “Uh-huh.”

“And this one is for community events.” I flip the page. “And this is a youth hockey program.” Another page. “And this is a summer camp.” Another. “And this is—”

“Wren.”

I stop talking.

My father is smiling, but it’s off. It’s one of the ones he uses that I don’t like. That smile adults use when they’re humoring children. Not the smile they use when they take you seriously.

The excitement in my chest flickers. “What?”

He taps one of the pages. “You worked very hard on this.”

Pride blooms instantly. “I did.”

The man beside him laughs.

Dad’s smile grows before he reaches over and ruffles my hair. The way he always does when he thinks I’m being cute.

Not smart. Cute.

“You’ll make a great assistant one day.”

I blink. “What?”

His smile remains easy.

“I don’t want to be an assistant,” I tell him stubbornly. “I’m going to run the team one day.” I beam at him. “Just like you!”

For a second, he just stares at me.

Then he laughs. It’s not cruel, but there’s an edge to it, like he thinks I said something funny. But I didn’t.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

My stomach drops. I know that tone. It’s the one adults use right before telling you why your idea won’t work.

“What?”

He exchanges a quick look with the other man. Then he crouches slightly so we’re eye level.

“That’s Carson’s job.”

“My brother?” But all he does is skate. He doesn’t know anything about charts or diagrams or lists. Any time Dad drags him to a meeting, he complains about how bored he is. He doesn't care about the team, not the same way I do. “Why?”

“That’s just the way it is.”

That answer doesn’t make any sense.

My lower lip begins to wobble. “But… What about me?”

Dad smiles again. Patient. Distracted. Already halfway back to whatever he was doing before I interrupted him.

“You’ll be busy helping your husband and looking after your own little ones.”

I stare at him, unsure why my chest suddenly hurts.

“But what if I don’t want to do that?”

His expression softens. For a second, I think he might actually listen.

Instead, he reaches over and taps the end of my nose.

“You might not want to do it now, but you will when you’re older. You’ll see.”

Then he stands; the conversation over, just like that.

“Come on.” He starts walking again. “We have a meeting to attend.”

The man beside him follows.

Neither of them notices that I haven’t moved.

I look down at the papers still scattered across my arms. At the drawings. The plans. The ideas.

The page at the top is the one I spent the most time on. It’s a drawing of an office with a desk and a wall covered in Serpents memorabilia, and sitting behind the desk is a stick figure with curly hair and glasses.

Me.

Written across the top in thick purple marker are the words:

WREN WINSLOW - TEAM OWNER

My throat feels funny; I don’t know why.

I stare at the drawing for another second before quietly closing the folder. Then I tuck it under my arm and hurry after my father.

Because that’s what I always do. I follow him.

Even when I wish he would stop long enough to ask where I want to go.