33. KNOX

THIRTY-THREE

KNOX

Putting everything out of my mind except for tonight's game is harder in practice than it is in theory. How the hell do hockey players do it every single night? I'm not the one going out there and having my every move scrutinized by the crowd. No, just my bosses, who I'm sure will be watching me like a hawk.

It's no coincidence my first NHL game is reffing Connor's team. They're testing me.

Good for them, because it's a smart move to make sure I'm ethical before we get deep into the season. Bad for me though, because I really don't need the added pressure of an angry Easton out there.

Seeing him, hearing his voice, finding out about fucking Parker Duchene , who I might help Connor kill with my bare hands … it was all too much. I almost went after East and told him he's never leaving my side again, but while he might like that caveman attitude in the bedroom, it's obvious he didn't appreciate it outside of there, which is fair enough. If Easton started to dictate my life, that would be a hard line, and I'm not the one whose brother has been doing it all my life.

I miss him so much though, and as soon as this game is over, we're both going to be whipping out our schedules and seeing what we can make work.

Before we whip out our dicks.

Two things we should have done from the start.

That familiar it won't work panic tries to close over me, but I shove it in a box alongside my relationship and turn back to the one thing I owe my focus.

The game.

It's only been my dream for years, and now it's becoming a reality, I'm sure I'm not good enough. My mind is scrambling to come up with an excuse to get me out of here, but I've already done my pregame workout and changed into my uniform. Fifteen minutes and we'll be heading out onto the ice.

The moment to freak out and run is over.

Fuck.

Fuuuck .

"You look like you're ready to shit bricks."

I glance up at the other ref for tonight's game. He's been doing this for a lot longer than I have, and knowing there are four of us out there and not just me helps calm my nerves.

"Sounds painful."

Baker sits on the stool beside me. "The first few games are always the hardest. Probably the most exciting too. I know it's difficult to picture now, but in a month or two, you won't remember what you were nervous about to begin with."

"I hope so. I'm used to having fun on the ice. I'm used to knowing the players. Things are very different here, and I haven't figured out if it's a good thing yet or not."

"It is." Baker's voice holds all the confidence of a seasoned professional. "We've got the best job in the world, I really believe that. Thankless, yes. But we get to be around the sport we love and don't have to deal with the media scrutiny the players do. Sure, if we fuck up, it's remembered for a while, but if a player fucks up, it's remembered forever."

There's no way I could deal with that. It's hard enough knowing I could go out there and fail; I couldn't imagine the pressure of having that failure stick with me for my career. Connor and Easton make hockey look easy. Their fitness, their skill, their dedication.

That's not me.

"You know the best way to get to know the players?" Baker asks.

"How?"

"Do what you want to do. Have fun. Things get heated on the ice, but the players are good guys. They're always up for a chat, and the second the game is over, everyone moves on. If you take this gig too seriously, you'll get in your head, which is what leads to bad calls and missed penalties."

That's true. The games where I've felt at home on the ice have always been the easiest shifts for me. Maybe if I start building a rapport with the players, that will help me in the long run. Considering I already know East and Connor, I'm one step ahead.

Some of the tension leaves my shoulders as Baker nudges me. "Gotta head out."

Damn it. That ten minutes flew by.

We hit the ice a couple of minutes before the players. I use that time to get in the zone. The crowd is filling up, people are getting loud, and I'm in front of more fans than I've ever been in my career. The boos and jeers are hard to drown out, but I'm determined to ignore it all. Then I double-take as I get close to the center line and something catches my eye.

Black-and-white stripes.

Shit.

My mom and Mr. and Mrs. Kikishkin have all shown up, and they're wearing ref uniforms. Mom is holding a sign that says, "Knox it out of the park!" which … not hockey, but okay. I grin as I come to a stop in front of them.

"What the hell are you all doing here?"

"Supporting you," Mom says like it should be obvious. Considering she has to work so much, I can't believe she was able to get tonight off on short notice.

"You're basically my other son," Mr. Kikishkin adds. "So we're your cheer squad."

I didn't think something as stupid as my family showing up for me would hit me the way it does. Things with Easton are getting me down, but this reminder that I'm loved and I have people wanting to see me do well is what I needed.

I know Connor and East feel the same, but in some ways, they're obligated to. Connor's my best friend. East is my … well, we've sucked each other's dicks, so if he wasn't proud of me, that would be pretty fucked-up.

Even if he's frustrated with me right now.

The players hit the ice, and I wait out the formalities until puck drop, but the second that black disk is released, my anxiety disappears. The crowd falls away, the players become faceless bodies, and my only focus is on the game and the rules and working with my own team to make sure play stays clean.

The whole first period is a dream. Every time I pass my little cheer section, they holler out my name, but otherwise, I stay focused. I don't notice Connor or Easton; they're just any other players to me out here.

That all changes in the second period.

It's a no-score game, and New York is pushing for the first goal. We're in their offensive zone, and Colorado is struggling to take back control of play. For the first time all game, I notice Easton. He digs the puck out from the boards when Nielson Ishkanov flattens him into them in a hit that gets the crowd loud. It's technically a clean play, but the urge to skate over there and knock him off his skates is strong. Then, before East can get back into play, Ishkanov turns as though he's going for a puck and drives his stick up and backward. It slams into Easton's nose, and the second I see blood, that urge to deck this guy surges.

I'm on my whistle so fucking fast I've lost sight of the puck, but I don't care. My heart is pounding in my ears as East pelts toward the team bench, glove shoved up under his nose, trying to catch the bleeding.

All I can do is stand there and call a penalty—fucking gladly. I might not be able to prove it, but that asshole did that on purpose.

As he's skating to his naughty box, I follow.

"Kikishkin sleep with your dad or something?" I taunt. "Keep your stick under control."

"Just trying to shut that big mouth of his."

With Colorado on a power play, I try not to internally hope they score. New York really is the better team out here tonight, but I want to be able to celebrate after a hopefully successful NHL debut, and I want to be able to do it with my mom and the Kikis.

Plus, I want Ishkanov to be taught a lesson. Dick.

Easton is back, face strapped together and a nasty gash across his nose. The injury has lit a fire under his ass because after barely ten seconds on the ice, he puts the puck in the net. It shoots by New York's goalie so fast he doesn't see it.

I'm still impartial, but I can't lie that it doesn't feel fantastic.

"Ishkanov said he was trying to shut you up," I say as I skate by him. "If you'd been more focused on the game than weak chirps, you probably would have scored ten of those."

"My chirps aren't weak."

Con skates up to us. "Name-calling is pretty weak, bro."

Easton rolls his eyes and skates off, getting in place for the puck drop.

"You good?" Connor asks.

"I got this, hotshot."

He heads for the bench, and then the game is back on. Easton dominates the second period. He's a forward, but he's playing like a defenseman with how many big hits he makes. He isn't slowing down, and I swear he's had more time on the ice than most of the other guys on his team .

The game is a dream, and Baker's a great ref to work with. It's obvious he's had a lot of experience and doesn't miss much, and the best part is that whenever we deliberate over a call, he doesn't make me feel like a dumbass for getting it wrong. The longer the game goes on, the less I get wrong.

I'm loosening up, getting to know the players, and with Baker's voice telling me to have fun, I listen.

I call an icing and shake my head at Munter, one of Connor's teammates. "You're better than that," I tell him mockingly. "Instead of putting the puck out of play, why don't you try scoring some more goals?"

"Shit, is that what I'm meant to be doing?" he grumbles.

"Don't feel bad. It looks like everyone out here is confused."

"Turley's on his game tonight," Janning from New York grunts. "Can't get anything past him."

I hand the puck off to Baker for the face-off. "Apparently, Janning thinks Turley should step aside and let him win."

"Want him to sharpen your blades for you too, princess?" Baker snarks.

Janning glares as he gets into position. "Like to see either of you do better."

"Thing is, we don't need to," I say. "Out of the two of us, tell me who's doing their job tonight."

Connor fronts up to Janning, putting himself between the two of us. "You gonna run your mouth, or you gonna let Munter win this face-off?"

My best friend's protectiveness makes me laugh, especially when he has nothing to be protective over. I set my hand on his chest and push him back, his skates on the ice making it easier.

"We don't need another group cuddle puddle. Back up, boys."

Connor glowers as he drifts back to his position. Everyone looks impatient to get on the attack. Them and me both.

By the third, the game is fast and intense. Colorado fans are on their feet more than once, Easton looks like an avenging angel with a messed-up face every time he comes out for a shift, and the contact is high, but the score stays low.

A big hit sends Munter ass over the wall and into New York's bench. They heckle him as he struggles to his skates and back out here.

He gets right in my face. "How wasn't that a penalty?"

"Agreed. You could have hurt a lot of those guys."

"I mean a penalty for that hit on me!"

"I'm not going to penalize someone because you can't stay on your skates."

He mouths off as he skates back to his team. Like it or not, the hit was clean. I'm confident about that one.

It's probably the first time I've been able to say that all season.