10. EASTON

TEN

EASTON

I can't remember the last time I had this much fun on the ice. I love hockey, and it's my entire world, but playing at an NHL level can become a chore. Like any job, I suppose. You can love what you do but still hate it at the same time.

This though … This brings me back to being a kid, playing with my brothers, smack-talking like the score matters when it really doesn't.

I can't stop smiling.

Even when Connor blocks a perfect shot of mine that ricochets off his pads and right into the blade of Ollie Str?mberg, a retired player I never thought I'd have the privilege to play with. Even if he's the enemy, I can't get over being on the same ice as him and Caleb Sorensen, the first two out men in the league. Their coming out press conference gave me hope as that young kid, knowing I could still have the hockey career I dreamed of.

I'm trying not to have hero worship and forget to play.

I take chase back down the ice while Ollie, West, and Foster pass the puck back and forth between them, trying to find a way for them to score on Miles. Good luck to them. Miles was the best rookie goaltender in the league last season .

Asher provides another big hit to his older brother, and Lachie's able to intercept the puck when West loses control of it.

Three-on-three play is fast and has quick turnaround of the puck because there are fewer people to be able to pass it to and fewer positions to set up shots on goal.

So when Lachie and I get on a breakaway, there's nothing between us and evening this score up except for Tripp Mitchell.

Or so I think.

It's not until I slam hard into someone that I wonder where the hell they came from. There are only supposed to be three of the other team on the ice.

As we both go down, I can't help yelling, "Fuck, Knox, call a damn penalty."

We hit the ice hard, and I wince. And that's when I open my eyes and see the person under me. Black-and-white stripes. A prison donkey.

Not any prison donkey either.

"You want me to call a penalty against you for knocking me over?" Knox's smooth voice short-circuits my brain. Being on top of him does even more. "Say the word, and I'll throw you in that sin bin."

I'm quick to climb off him. "Aren't you supposed to get out of the players' way?"

I glance around and up at the screen. In the chaos of the fall, Lachie managed to score, so that's something.

"You say that like I had time. Or that you were watching where you were going."

"I'm not the one who needs to watch where I'm going."

Others come to help us up, and even though this has all happened in about ten seconds, it feels like the crowd has been screaming for five minutes.

I dust myself off. "So, what's the call?"

"You're all good. Neither of us were watching where we were going. "

"I was," I snark. "I don't know what you were doing."

"On second thought?—"

I skate backward. "Nope, already called it. No take backsies."

Knox smiles and shakes his head at me. I really wish it didn't make my heart clench when he does that.

For the rest of the game, it's a struggle to get any more points on the board from either side. So when it ends in a tie, instead of going to overtime, there's going to be a shootout instead.

We decide amongst ourselves who's going to be the first three up. Anton because he's one of the consistently high scorers, Asher because he insists they're going to choose West and he wants to kick his brother's ass, and I'll go last.

No pressure or anything.

Foster goes first for their team, and the puck lands in Miles's glove. Miles stands and flips the puck in the cockiest way possible.

Anton attempts to deke out Tripp, but it fails.

No score so far.

West is next, and he may have been retired for six years now, but he's still quick and agile, and his puck flies by Miles's head and hits the net.

Fuck. One to them.

It's Asher's turn, and he's calm and calculated out there on that ice. It's as if I feel the pressure for him. For years, the media have speculated about which Dalton brother would come out on top, and here is their answer. This game isn't being televised live or anything, but there are cameras here. Media. And I'm sure at some point, it will become a special feature on subscription services or whatever.

Asher skates toward Tripp. Keeps skating. He gets so close I hold my breath because there's no way he's going to be able to get the puck up high enough if he's shooting from the blue of the crease. There's no way .

Asher lobs the puck over Tripp's pads, and it lands over the goal line.

One apiece.

Quinn is their last player up, and if he scores, I'm terrified I'm going to crumble under the pressure of having to even it up to go to a second-round shootout. I hope and pray to the hockey gods that Quinn misses, but if I thought the pressure of losing this game was bad, it's nothing compared to what I have to face when he does miss: the chance to win the whole damn thing.

I skate out to the middle of the rink while the crowd screams for me.

It's not a big deal. It doesn't mean shit if I get this or miss. It's only a charity match. For funsies.

But is it so much to ask the universe to give me this? To give me something outside of Connor, outside of being one of the three Kiki brothers destined to be big in hockey? Can't this moment be mine and mine alone?

I take a deep breath and head toward Tripp Mitchell, who seems wider than he did a few minutes ago. I could go through the five-hole or stick side high or low. There's no way I'm even attempting to go glove side. Tripp Mitchell could be a damn catcher for Major League Baseball with that thing.

I still haven't made up my mind by the time I'm twenty feet away, and I need to make a decision. Stick side. I'm going stick side high. No, low. No, fuck, I can't decide. I swing, changing my mind yet again mid-shot, and aim for right between Tripp's legs.

Whether it's because I was aiming elsewhere or Tripp can't read me, he drops into the splits a mere half second too late, and the lamp lights up.

My temporary teammates join me out on the ice for a group hug, and then we line up to thank our goalie with helmet taps.

When I'd watch hockey as a kid and saw this ritual, I used to always think, "Now kiss!" It never happened. Until now. Bilson, who's in front of me and is Miles's partner, goes that step further and kisses his man.

It's brief and just a peck, but it's this little boy's dream come true. Two professional athletes kissing in public without a care in the world.

Except now it's kind of awkward as I step forward and lower my helmet to meet Miles's, so I do the only thing I can think to do. "I suppose I can't give you kisses too."

Bilson, who's still hanging around, slaps my shoulder. "Of course you can. Miles only became a goalie so he could have physical affection from his teammates when they win. You should see the way he pouts when we lose. He's practically in his crease singing ‘All by myyyysellllf.' It's heartbreaking, dude."

"I'm a whore for cuddles, what can I say?" Miles says.

I laugh. "I'll pass anyway. Wouldn't want big bro thinking I'm engaging in scandalous threesomes."

"Ooh, good point," Bilson says. "That guy scares me."

Connor scares everyone. This is why I'm perpetually single.

I'm sure never having been interested in a relationship with anyone other than Knox hasn't helped my case, but I'm going to go with the Connor thing.

The others join us all on the ice now, and we line up for photo opportunities. Instead of standing with our assigned team for the event, we spread out and alternate, their team and ours to show what we're really here for. It's not for the glory of winning or money or any of that shit. It's for a good cause. The amount from the ticket sales alone will give the hockey camp enough to keep them afloat for a few years. Not to mention the special merch on sale outside.

It's rare that I feel like I've done something selfless, and I should make the effort to give back more, because this high? It makes the embarrassment of this weekend worth it.