19. BILSON

NINETEEN

BILSON

My phone goes off in the visitor cubby while I’m getting into my pads. When I look at it, I can’t help letting out an “Aww.”

“Staring at a photo of me? I am cute,” Miles says next to me.

“Nah, my baby.” I show him the text from his mom, where there’s a photo of Killer asleep on Miles’s dad’s chest.

“Jesus. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have them babysit our baby. We’ll never get him back.”

“I’m still confused as to when exactly Killer became our baby.”

“When I stole him for you. Duh.”

“Wait,” Stoll says on the other side. “You guys still have that dog?”

“It’s my dog,” I say.

“Our dog,” Miles corrects.

There’s no winning with him.

“Looks like you adopted an extra puppy.” Stoll nods at Miles.

Miles shoots me a sly look. “You hear that? Stoll thinks I’m cute too.”

“Did I say that? I might hate puppies. You don’t know.”

“What kind of monster hates puppies?” Miles does the sign of the cross.

We’re interrupted by Coach entering and trying to rile us up for the game with a pep talk and a ridiculous war cry he makes us do.

Coaches, man. Some of them are even weirder than goalies.

We’re in Colorado for the first of four away games, and I’m pumped. Especially knowing Killer won’t be alone for the next ten days. Miles was right. Having a dog-sitter check in on him twice a day for that long would be mean.

Without having to worry about my baby, I hit the ice with nothing but the W on my mind.

Some nights, I go out there with a clear mind, and everything clicks. Other nights, it feels like my brain and my body aren’t connected, and I can’t put one in the net no matter how hard I try.

Usually when that happens, I try to take a back seat, play both defense and offense and hope for an assist, but I can’t even pull that together tonight.

Colorado gets so many more shots on goal than we do, and we’re lucky that Miles is on his game. Unlike me.

It’s one of those frustrating nights where there’s no score for the entire first period, but both sides are fighting hard for it, so we’re exhausted by the time we head into the second.

It doesn’t get much better when we get back out there, but at least we’re increasing our chances. Even if we miss. Every. Damn. Time.

Halfway through the period, Connor Kikishkin intercepts a pass between Finch and me. I’d be impressed by the fluidity of the play if he didn’t cross the blue line like he’s going to shoot it but passes to his sniper of a younger brother, Easton, instead. Miles has no chance against Easton Kikishkin in a perfect position.

The lamp lights up, and it takes all my strength not to break my stick on the ice. I’m not pissed at Miles—that was an unstoppable shot—but I am pissed the Kiki brothers outplayed me.

That goal was on Finch and me for not anticipating the kind of move the brothers are known for.

Once the first goal is in the bag, it’s as if Nashville deflates and Colorado becomes more confident. They try riskier plays and pull them off, and we can’t strip them of the puck, no matter how much we try.

And try we do.

It’s a frustrating struggle, so when we close out the second period 3-zip, I want to scream.

During the break, we hydrate, shove down some carbs, and sulk.

Three nothing. It’s not impossible to turn this around, but it’s unlikely.

Miles has his head in his hands, his hair stuck to his neck from sweat.

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

“I know.”

I turn my head. “Do you though?”

“Logically, I know that. Colorado is all up in my crease, and you’re all playing shit. I’m on my own out there. But I still let those three in.”

“No, you’re right about us playing like shit. We should have your back, but they’re all over our asses.”

“This isn’t done yet,” Coach says.

We’re trying to keep our spirits up, but it’s next to impossible.

“We got this,” I say to Miles, even though I don’t completely believe it. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure they stay out of your crease.”

“Good.” He lowers his voice. “There’s only one man I want in my crease.”

I’d worry that one of the guys was listening, but they’re not. We’re all too depressed.

I nudge him with my shoulder and laugh.

Before we know it, the break is already over, and we have to head back out there.

The record is eight, I think to myself. We only need half that.

Easy.

Fucking easy.

And for the first few minutes, I believe we can do it. We take control of the puck. We own it and don’t let Colorado get possession. But after getting shut down on every damn attempt on goal, we get frustrated again.

Frustrated hockey players are sloppy hockey players.

So when big brother Kiki strips me of the puck, I know it’s all but over. No matter how hard I chase little Kiki and our defense try to trip him, he’s too fast.

So fast he can’t even control himself, and instead of stopping, he somehow trips himself and ends up slamming into Miles and taking out the whole goal.

Seeing Miles hit the ice makes me snap.

I catch up to them as they’re getting back on their skates, but I don’t stop. All I see is red. Frustration from the game fills me with adrenaline and rage. My promise to have Miles’s back has been blown to hell.

I collide with Easton, and we hit the boards. The sound is so loud I’m surprised neither of us drop to the ice. Instead, I pin him.

“Come after my goalie again. I fucking dare you.”

I’m suddenly hit from behind. Easton’s big brother, Connor.

“You hit my fucking brother, you have to deal with me.”

Hockey fights. Fun times.

I generally don’t engage. But sometimes, a situation calls for it. Picking a fight with one of the biggest defensemen in the league? Yeah, not smart, Bilson.

But here we are.

Our gloves are gone, and I’m just trying to get in any punch I can while staying on my skates.

The fucker hits me so hard my helmet flies off my head, but I get a good punch in too. Or I think I do until he barely flinches and is on me again.

I swear the fight lasts an eternity, and I’m tempted to drop to the ice to end it, but I’m too proud for that.

I am thankful when Stoll pulls me back and Easton does the same for his brother.

I’m not so thankful when both Connor and I are thrown in the sin bin for major penalties, Easton for a minor, and then I have to watch from the sidelines as Easton is released and immediately goes out there and scores another fucking goal.

I never had beef with them before, but now I can officially say I hate the Kiki brothers.