6. EASTON

SIX

EASTON

How is it possible to be more hungover now than I was when I first woke up? Don't get me wrong, I wanted to die when I first woke up, but I can no longer tell if I want to vomit from the alcohol or the embarrassment.

Last night was a blur, still is in parts, but I do remember telling Knox that I've basically been obsessed with him since I was twelve. Now I have to sit here and face the media while Knox sits in the front row looking as green as I do. Yet, every time I look in his direction, he's fixated on me. He's probably trying to work out how to reject me even more spectacularly than he did in the elevator. Why couldn't that be one of the memories that died along with my brain cells?

Why do I have to feel the very real stab in my chest when I think of how he growled "No" at me.

It was only one word, but it said everything. No, he doesn't want me. He will never want me.

I need to accept that and focus on this charity event. Focus on putting on a good show.

The press conferences this morning have been split up into groups, and I've been put in a group of four with my brothers— of course, because God forbid we be independent from each other—and Foster Grant, who plays for Montreal.

I'm sure I look so horrible everyone suspects I'm going to puke at any minute, and the bloodthirsty journalists will probably ask why. It'll take everything in me not to snark, "Because I'm pregnant."

Lachie covers his mic and turns to me. "Dude, how much did you drink last night?"

"Shh, not so loud."

Connor leans in on my other side. "What's not so loud?"

"Nothing," I say while gritting my teeth. These fuckers can lip-read.

I remember during my rookie year, when I screwed up on the ice and Connor was in my ear on the bench, telling me to get my head in the game—like I wasn't hard on myself enough already—and I turned to him and said, "Get off my ass." The media loved splashing that all over the place and asking us if there was a feud between us.

We had the stock response prepared, that tensions are high when you're fighting for the W, but it's all left on the ice.

As much as I love Connor, I'm kind of jealous of Lachie. He's going to get the NHL experience I never had. Lachie gets to play for St. Louis. On his own. He's going to be in an entirely different state than the rest of our family, and he's only twenty. Lucky bastard.

But yeah, I'm not giving these monsters anything.

The person running these press conferences is the PR guy from Montreal's team. Cohen, I think his name is. He apparently works for Montreal but also has ties to the hockey camp this charity game is for.

"We'll open up the questions," he says into his mic at a podium beside the long table we're sitting at. He points at a reporter, who stands. I don't recognize him from any of the games I've played in Vegas, but he might not be a game reporter .

"Lachie, you've been drafted to St. Louis. How do you feel about teaming up with some of your competitors before you've even had a chance to play them?"

Lachie is laid-back but confident as he says, "Considering I've played against my older brothers since I could barely skate, I'm not scared. It'll be good to get to play with my role models before I can kick their a?—"

Connor clears his throat.

"Butts," Lachie finishes.

There are a few snickers around the room, including from Knox, who then winces like his head hurts from laughing.

Good ol' Connor though, pulling Lachie back before embarrassing the family. Always the diplomatic one with manners and proper PR training. He controls what Lachie and I say with a mere cough or clearing of his throat. He thinks he's being subtle, but he's really not.

Cohen gestures to another reporter, who asks, "The hockey camp this benefit is raising money for, how did that come about? When nearly all—if not all—queer players get together to play a charity game, shouldn't they support a queer organization?"

First, fuck you. And second, oh yeah, fuck you.

Knox catches my eye, and when I look at him, he points to his lips and smiles. Apparently, my face is speaking out loud.

I force a smile while Foster Grant takes the answer.

"The Beckett-Jacobs Hockey Camp for underprivileged kids is an amazing organization that two of my college teammates started after they graduated. As a lot of people know, hockey is an expensive sport, and they want to make sure everyone has the same opportunities available to them. But just because the charity doesn't specifically cater to the queer community, it is a queer organization. The owners are getting married, a lot of the staff identify as LGBTQ, and it's an all-inclusive space."

Damn, maybe Foster Grant has had some PR training too .

I luck out with only having one question to answer, which is, "Will we get to see all Kikishkin brothers on the same team during the game?" I simply smirk and say, "I'm sick of being on Connor's side. Lachie and I are going to team up with Asher Dalton against Connor and West so we can show our older brothers how to get the job done."

Lachie offers me a fist bump. "Game on."

The press conference drags on and on forever, and of course, once we're done, they'll bring in the next lot of queer hockey stars to answer more questions that are designed to get sound bites so the reporters can twist whatever story they want to write into their set narrative.

I wouldn't at all be surprised if there's an article tomorrow saying I hate playing on the same team as my brother.

Instead of focusing on this hockey camp and what the charity event is actually for, they're going to print gossipy trash to make the hockey world seem more interesting.

We're finally released from our interrogation—I mean, time in the spotlight—and Knox stands to approach us.

A memory of telling him I'm in my slutty era and that I want to have sex with all the men comes back to me, and I internally cringe while I tell my brothers I'll catch them later.

I probably should stay for the rest of the press conference; everyone else is, but I … can't. I can't look him in the eye after telling him all that juvenile bullshit.

All I can hope is that he thinks I was joking. Especially about the part where I basically threw myself at him. Totally joking. Not at all desperate for his dick.

I find myself making my way into the Vegas locker room. It's empty and quiet. Two things I'm not used to locker rooms being.

As I sit and hide from Knox, I realize that I don't really remember the moment I started to like him or see him as someone more than my brother's best friend. I remember being twelve and having that growing obsession becoming more intense, but there was no distinct memory of looking at him and realizing I wanted him. I just … did. Actually, I don't remember a time where I didn't want to be around him. I used to follow Connor and him around like a puppy since the time I could walk.

Maybe my feelings for Knox are as ingrained in me as my love of hockey is. I don't ever remember choosing hockey either. My love for it was always there.

I jump at the sound of someone else coming in here, really hoping like hell that it isn't Knox. Or Connor. I relax when Foster sticks his head around the corner.

"Here you are. I wondered where you disappeared to."

"I needed a break. Media, you know?"

"Oh, I know. How annoying was that question about not raising money for an LGBTQ charity because we're all queer? Sorry, I didn't realize we can only care about issues we relate to."

"You handled it amazingly, by the way. I was this close"—I pinch my thumb and forefinger together—"to telling him to fuck off."

"I was giving him the finger in my mind."

"Imagine if Asher Dalton was up there with us?"

"Oh, he'd for sure tell the reporter to eat shit and die."

I laugh, and it hurts my hangovered head. "How does he get away with that, but Lachie gets pulled up on almost saying ‘ass'?"

"Asher was put through PR training, so it's not like he's really getting away with it. I'm assuming he can't help himself."

"Ah, to have that kind of freedom."

"Or lack of self-control." Foster sits beside me. "Is that why you're hiding in here? Because out there, you don't have the freedom to be who you are? I actually came to find you to see if you wanted to talk about whatever is happening between you and the ref, but if you want to get all philosophical and introspective?— "

I screw up my face. "I'm way too hungover for philosophical and introspective. What did you mean about me and the ref?"

"The whole time we were up there, that Knox guy didn't take his eyes off you. Meanwhile, you're avoiding even glancing at him like he's the sun."

I hesitate to say anything at all because I really don't want it getting out that I practically threw myself at him and he rejected me, but at the same time, most of the Collective guys vaguely know I have a thing for Knox. When this whole charity game came up, I pointed out Connor was best friends with a ref, and when Oskar asked if I'd ever hooked up with him, I'd said, "No, because Connor would kill him."

I didn't take into consideration that we would all be in the same vicinity one day.

"Did something happen, and now you're terrified of Connor finding out? As someone who has been in your situation before, my advice is to tell Connor before he finds out another way."

"You've been in my situation?"

"Yep. My husband, Zach—you haven't met him yet because he has social anxiety and doesn't do well with big groups of people?—"

"And he's with a hockey player? How does that work?"

Foster smiles, and he doesn't need to answer because his face says it all. His expression is so full of love I can tell with one look that Zach is his everything. "He understands that hockey is my mistress. He comes to events sometimes. He's here in Vegas for this, but he doesn't have it in him to go to every single event, and I wouldn't make him do it either. Hockey is my world. He has his textbooks and science. Then, outside of that, we have a life together. It works for us. But this isn't my point. My point is that when we started dating, he was best friends with my brother."

"Really? "

Foster nods. "My twin brother."

"Damn. But you also said was . Did you getting together ruin their friendship?"

"Sorry. Wrong choice of words. They're still best friends. We're one big happy family, along with my brother's partner, Cohen. Who used to be my teammate."

I pull a face. "You all sound so incestuous."

"It is a bit."

"Did Zach or Cohen ever mistake you or your twin for the other?" That would make me feel a hell of a lot better about being a pathetic loser over Knox.

"No. Thankfully. Cohen once came up and hugged me from behind, but as soon as he saw my face, he knew. My brother and I aren't identical, so that works in our favor."

"Ah, so close. You almost got my embarrassing story out of me, but you and your family have your shit together too much for my liking."

Foster's lips press together. "Hmm, what if I tell you about the time my brother was keeping Cohen a secret, so when my parents used their key to get into his apartment to visit him one day and they got an eyeful of Cohen's naked body, Cohen tried to tell them he was a nudist and in a cult to cover that he was having sex with my brother?"

I laugh. "Yes! This is the type of stuff I need to hear. Did he keep it a secret from you too, or did you know?"

"They kept it from me too. I had told Seth up front that I was going to pursue his best friend because I thought he was cute, and I'm not going to lie, that caused issues between us because Seth's argument was I could have anyone I wanted, so why did I want his best friend? But I'm telling you, when I found out Seth and Cohen had been seeing each other behind my back, I was hurt . That's so much worse than fighting it out."

"You were hurt?"

"I didn't know why they didn't trust me enough to tell me. Thought it was an act of revenge because I was with Zach. I love both Seth and Cohen, and I love them together and was very accepting of their relationship, but a part of me was really disappointed they felt like they couldn't tell me. I'd take the argument over experiencing that again. I'll leave it at that."

"Ah. So when you say you think something happened, you mean something sexual happened between Knox and me. I wish I could say that is the issue, but no. My issue is more of the ‘drunkenly threw myself at him, and he rejected me' variety. I'm running from embarrassment, not guilt."

"Damn, I'm sorry. I must've misread the whole situation. Though, with how he's been staring at you today, like he's been on a diet and you're the only candy bar in the entire universe, I'd say the only reason he rejected you is because of your brother. Or because you were drunk. And we love a king of consent."

I bump my shoulder with his. "Aww, thanks for trying to make me feel better, but it wasn't that. I think he's only ever going to see me as a little-brother type. I need to accept that."

"That sucks."

I shrug. "Eh. It is what it is."

I just wish it didn't hurt so damn bad.