7. KNOX

SEVEN

KNOX

This charity event was a great idea until I realized how hard it is to be around East.

I run my hands through my hair; not sleeping last night has made my eyes all gritty, and once the press conference is over, I make my way to the coffee station Richard Cohen has set up and pour myself a large cup. East has disappeared, and I'm trying to keep my distance from Connor.

The coffee's not great, but it doesn't taste like dirt and will get me through the rest of the day, so?—

"You're refereeing this match, aren't you?"

I pause, cup at my lips, and glance at the woman who magically appeared out of nowhere. "Er …"

She laughs and taps her badge. "Press. I was hoping you could give me a line I could add to my article that every other publication in here won't already have."

"Right. I, uh …" I vaguely motion to my coffee while my head is screaming mayday, mayday. The fact the others could get up there and manage actual words while hungover and I can't even manage to human because I was up all night isn't lost on me. Maybe I need some PR training. Not that any form of media person has ever actually wanted to talk to me before .

She tries again. "You're currently a referee for the PWHL, aren't you?"

Oooh, goodie, a question I can answer. "Sure am."

"So do you think you're capable of handling a game full of men looking to get into fights?"

"Those women are no delicate princesses, let me tell you."

A line forms between the woman's eyebrows. "Because so many of them are lesbians?"

Wrong time to take a sip. I choke on my drink. " No . I mean because they can take a hit."

"Uh-huh."

I'm starting to panic that everyone will think a homophobic asshole is reffing this game when I blurt, "I'm bi. Love queer people. Especially lesbians." Then I realize how that could sound. "You know what? I'm making this whole thing worse, and I'm going to shut up now. Thanks."

She laughs and holds out a hand. "Amber."

"Knox," I grunt. "But you already knew that."

She hums, and her eyes pass over me in a familiar way. "I did my research. Didn't know you were bi though."

"Don't really advertise it."

"Well …" She pulls out a business card. "If you want to get away from the players this week …"

I numbly take the card and blink at her. Because yep, she is hitting on me. "Are you allowed to do this? Wouldn't it be a conflict of interest?"

"I'm not allowed to sleep with any of the players, honey. No one ever said anything about the referees." Connor approaches, and she casts a look his way. "Damn pity though."

Amber leaves before he reaches us, and we both stand there watching.

"Please tell me you got her number." He bites his knuckles.

I hold the card out to him. "All yours."

"Nah, man. I'm smarter than that."

"Bold of her to shoot her shot here. "

He sighs. "Direct women are the best. No fucking around."

"Right." I stuff the card in my pocket and look around for Easton again, but he hasn't come back.

"Wanna go grab lunch?" Connor asks.

"Slow down, hotshot. Let me get through my coffee first."

He takes the cup and sets it on the table. "We'll get you real coffee on the way."

Well, that's decided, then, isn't it?

Normally I wouldn't hesitate about getting lunch with him, but my conscience is niggling at me over how I really toed the line last night. From dancing to getting drunk to getting close to his brother and even indulging Easton's jokes about us sleeping together.

The really, really shitty part is that I don't even regret it.

I got to touch Easton and then spend some actual, real one-on-one time with him. We've never really had that.

As Connor drags me from the room, I take one last glance around, hoping I've just missed seeing East, but the place is close to empty now. He's definitely gone.

I remind myself that's a good thing.

And then I try to believe it.

Even with more Ezra-induced festivities the night before the game, I elect to keep my butt in my room. If I'm here, sitting on my hands, those hands can't be all over Easton. But after scrolling through pictures of the night that the other players are sharing—probably Lane-approved—it doesn't look like East went out either.

I'm tempted to message him a quick, friendly text, like ha, ha, last night is forgotten because I'm picking up on the awkwardness between us, and then see where it goes from there. But I know where it will go from there. A flirty back-and-forth, and then suddenly, I'm in his room down the hall, and we're making all kinds of mistakes we can't come back from.

I flop back onto my bed, wishing I could get his disappointed face out of my head. It really hit something deep in my chest that I have to ignore, or it will drive me crazy. I've got a protective instinct when it comes to him, but where Connor's is out of obligation, mine is … well, I want to protect him from all the terrible things in the world. I want to see him happy.

I need to stop torturing myself with this. I roll onto my side, and something digs into my thigh. It's the business card I'd forgotten about.

Damn. Amber was hot. She'd be a great way to distract myself.

I tap my finger against the side of the card as I toss up whether I should call and get this building want out of my system. Anything's got to be better than this stupid pining.

Apparently, my dick has decided with Easton so close, no one else is going to do, so I set the card on my dresser and go jerk off in the shower instead.

What a loser.

Jerking off over East doesn't make things easier the next day when Connor turns up at my door bright and early. He's holding out my coffee order, and I take it, not feeling anywhere near as refreshed as I should after a full night's sleep.

"You look like shit," Connor says helpfully.

I flip him off and go back to searching for a clean shirt. This morning is going to be a mess of warm-up skates, "team strategizing," and more interviews with whichever publications Lane Pierce and the players' agents have approved. They're bringing in a local junior team called the Rainbow Raiders to have a training session and photo ops with the players, and then, midafternoon, the game is on.

These guys are going to be wrecked before it starts, and I know it's a game for funsies—it doesn't matter who wins or loses because the main winner is charity—but I also know my hockey players.

There are no friends once that puck drops.

"Remind me why I have to be up this early?" I complain.

"Best friend obligations."

"But I'm not actually playing. I don't need to warm up until just before the game, I don't need to talk strategies, and I don't have to be there for any of the photo stuff."

Connor scoops up a clean shirt that's hanging over the back of the chair in my room and tosses it my way. "We can warm up together. Like old times."

Old times. Those times I'd still kinda hoped we'd be going pro together. I love that I have hockey in my life, but training with the elites? Having my ass kicked by Connor is one thing, but having multiple people remind me, over and over, that I'm not at their level?

I puff out a huge gust of air.

I'm not going to let all of that get to me today. I need to go out there and ref the game the way any ref covers one of these things. Make a good impression, add a highly publicized match to my resume, and not talk any more about lesbians.

Should be easy. I can totally do it.

I pull on the shirt Connor threw my way and keep repeating those three things to myself. I'm purposely not thinking about Easton, but every time I remind myself that I'm not thinking of him, it makes me think of him.

I'm a mess.

But at least last night, I made the right choice and stuck to my room. There was no pursuing the bestie's little brother. I deserve a gold star.

T-Mobile Arena is already decked out in banners for the charity match when we arrive, and there's a buzz of excitement in the early morning air. Queer and allied players coming together with queer and allied staff to create a match benefiting a hockey charity run by a queer couple? There's been backlash from the bigots who claim "hockey has gone woke," but outside of that stupidity, this is exactly what the community needs. Actual representation, not basic lip service.

And we sold out the whole stadium, so all those "ticket sales will suffer" assholes can go and suck a fat one.

Although, maybe not, because that sounds like too much of a good time.

Before I can stop it, my brain idly wonders whether Easton has a fat one.

There's no denying it. I have a problem.

We reach the locker room, which has unfortunately been decked out in way too many rainbows, where each of the players has their own cubbies with their name on it. The media will be in here taking photos soon, but for right now, it's only the players, their agents, and the PR guys.

Connor goes over to sit with his team, and I lurk on the outskirts of the room, knowing I don't belong here but was dragged along anyway.

"Is that everyone?" Richard Cohen says from the front of the room. "Awesome. First of all, this was an incredible idea, and I'm so honored I get to be a part of it. I'm sure everyone in this room feels the same. We're already trending across social media, so you guys had better have some killer pregame suits because your images are going to be everywhere. It's not only the hockey fans that have their eyes on today's game. We're opening this sport up to a whole community of people who have been traditionally excluded from men's sports, and we can only hope that this is the start of something big moving forward."

Around the room, there are murmurs of agreement. Lane squeezes Oskar's shoulder, and Oskar reaches up to cover his hand.

Damon King, one of the biggest sports agents in the business, clears his throat. "I think we all owe Caleb Sorenson and Ollie Str?mberg a massive thank-you for getting us to this point."

Cheers go up around the room for the first out players in the NHL, and Ezra can't resist jumping up and tackling them both in a hug. All I've seen from these guys so far is a bunch of party-boy man-children, but witnessing this moment reminds me it's so much more than that. Every player in this room has made sacrifices to get us to this point, and it sends a warmth right out to my fingers to remember that.

My gaze finally strays to Easton, where it's been wanting to go since I walked into the room, and he's laughing along with the others.

Eyes bright, grin taking over his face.

He's so pretty he makes my heart stop.

Then his gaze meets mine too. For a second. Two.

Before it snaps away again, and he spends the rest of the morning briefing with his eyes glued to the floor.