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9. KNOX

NINE

KNOX

I'm grateful I'm not a player. Grateful I don't have to walk out there in a suit, hiding the conflict I'm feeling.

And it's not all about the Kikishkins this time either. The Connor and Easton mess is background noise to everything else going on in my head. This might not be an official NHL game, but all the players are past, present—and, in Lachie's case—future NHL stars. This is a great addition to my resume, and I'm thrilled that East put me forward for it. It's crossed my mind a few times to do something for him as thanks, but it seems stupidly like tempting fate that I have no business tempting.

So instead of going out there, instead of having the media snap pictures of me with the players and agents and whoever else is involved, I head for the officials' locker room to change out of the stupid suit and get into my referee gear. Then I wait.

Away from the players, away from the action, I wait. Eventually, the linesmen show up—coaches from the Rainbow Raiders, who were here earlier—and we make a game plan together. We're not even out there, and this already feels different from any other game I've refereed before.

I'm used to being in my element, my comfort zone. When I go out there and watch the women play, it's fun because I know the players, the other refs, I'm in my element, and the crowd is passionate as hell.

I'm feeling the pressure, I think. A teensy bit. Just enough to get hot under the collar.

I know it's not that serious. I know that I'm all up in my head over nothing because at the end of the day, they were right. I'm here to look pretty. The chances of me calling a penalty are close to zero. They basically never call them at All-Stars. My whole job is to keep the game moving and make sure no one gets hurt.

There's unlikely to be any fights in this game either—unless Asher Dalton decides to fight his own teammate—so it should be the easiest game I've ever worked.

Should be. So why am I stressing?

Connor sticks his head in half an hour before puck drop. "You good, man? You disappeared on me earlier."

"Eh." I stand to join him so we're not shouting across the room and where my linesmen are stretching. "Wasn't feeling up to the chaos of all that."

"I get it. You can come and join us now though."

"Ooh, the ref with the players? I don't want to be accused of bias."

"Please. Like you would ever choose my brothers over me."

I'm not at all surprised he thinks that way, and for some reason, it pisses me off. Because I want to choose East over him, but I can't. I know what Connor has gone through to protect both Easton and Lachie, the pressure their parents put on Connor since they were kids. I can't break Connor's heart like that. Especially considering I still can't tell for sure if Easton was being serious or trying to tempt me. With our conversation out in the corridor, I'm leaning toward thinking he might have been serious, and that's why he's now so embarrassed he's avoiding me, but even if he really did have a crush on me when he was twelve, is that really something I'm willing to risk my brotherhood with Connor over? No matter how desperate I am to fuck Easton, I couldn't go there unless it was for something more than that. I'm not even sure if that's something Easton and I could give each other even if we did want it.

This is exactly why I never let myself think too much about Easton Kikishkin. Because the second I do, it moves way beyond getting him into bed and becomes too complicated. And that's only in theory. In real life, it would be a clusterfuck.

So I push it all from my mind and focus on what needs to be done out on that ice. "What do you think East would say if he caught us talking, and then you guys ended up winning? He'd accuse me of plotting with you."

"There's an easy work-around. If you don't make any calls, then no one can accuse you of anything."

"Comments like that don't make me feel pointless at all."

I don't mind being a ref. I mean, yeah, we're welcomed every game by being booed from the crowd, and God forbid we make the wrong damn call, but I get to stay close to the game. Other than actually playing hockey, I don't think I'd want to be doing anything else with my life.

Actually, reffing in the NHL and getting a significant raise would be a nice change.

"Don't be like that," Connor says. "We literally couldn't have done this without you."

"No, you couldn't have done it without all you players. Anyone could have been asked to ref." And because I'm starting to sound resentful, I add, "But I'm glad it was me. This is a big thing to be a part of."

"It is." Connor glances over his shoulder into the hall and turns back to me. It's shocking sometimes, how he can look so much like East but then nothing like him at the same time. His face is a bit broader, and his nose is messed up in the way East's slim one isn't. "I'm in my head a bit," he says. "That I'm the only straight one here. Playing with all these queer players, like, is it really my place?"

I don't think I'm reading into it that he's hinting at me being one of the queer ones. "Every queer group needs the token straight guy. Like a mascot."

He scowls.

"I'm kidding! In all seriousness, it's a good thing to see allies showing support too. We're in this together, and some days, it feels like the divide is getting wider and louder. Hopefully with you here, it'll help close that a bit. At least for some people. Besides, no one knows about Lachie yet, so if you're worried about how it will look, it looks like you and Lachie are supporting Easton. Nothing more or less."

"Thanks, man." He legitimately sounds grateful.

"You love your brothers. That's all that matters."

"And that includes you." He cuffs me on the shoulder and leaves, and I get to have those words echoing in my head until the game starts.

"Ezra, for the last time, you can't say that every time you're slammed into the boards."

He blinks at me angelically. "Say what?"

"I'm not repeating it."

"I'll repeat it," Lachie offers helpfully as he skates over for the face-off.

"Like hell you will," Connor snarls.

It takes every bit of my patience to be the adult out here when I'm the one who nearly lost his shit laughing the first time Ezra shouted the very inappropriate but most Ezra thing to ever Ezra.

Quinn joins Lachie, and they get into position. I check all the players have their heads in the game and aren't causing more mayhem, then turn to the face-off .

"You two ready?"

Lachie tightens his grip on the stick.

"And … now." I don't let the puck go.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Quinn asks.

"Language, Quinnie."

He snarls my way, and they reset.

"Okay, ready?" I call. "And go!"

They both go.

I don't.

It's killing me not to laugh.

"I'm going to make Connor break both of your legs later," Lachie threatens.

"Fine … fine. Now."

I drop it this time, and it takes them both half a second longer to react. The game has been faster and more aggressive than I was prepared for, but at the same time, that's helped me loosen up. I know what I'm doing out here, and since I know these guys and the game isn't serious, I can have my own fun.

They are too. It's clear they're enjoying seeing who can make and take the biggest hits, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if this game was foreplay for a two-team orgy later. I'd sell my soul for an invitation to that. Hell, even just to watch. Hockey players are supposed to be ugly, with crooked noses, scars, and missing teeth. How is it that every queer dude in the league is hot?

Asher Dalton flies past while Quinn and Soren chase him. His brother, West, is standing between him and Tripp in goals, and to my surprise—though really, the fact I'm surprised at all shows how dumb I'm being—instead of taking the shot, Asher redirects, so he and West collide hard. The crowd roars in approval.

I have no idea how they manage to stay on their skates, but they race after the puck, both of them elbowing and shoving the other out of the way, Dalton on Dalton, until Oskar vaults over the boards and takes Asher out. West clears the puck from their zone to Soren, who's waiting at center ice.

Almost as soon as the puck hits Soren's stick, it's stolen by Aleks, who takes off down the ice, Bilson and Dex on either side. Aleks passes to Bilson, and Oskar gets another good hit in before Bilson sends it sailing back to Aleks. I watch as Aleks dekes out Foster, gets around Oskar, and then flicks the puck out to Dex before Connor can take him out.

Dex comes face-to-face with his husband, not for the first time this game, feints right, shoots?—

And Tripp snatches that puck out of the air like a goddamn ninja, denying him again.

"Damn it!" Dex shouts. "Give me one , Trippy."

Play goes on. With only three of these guys as D-men, the forwards have to jump into the position on and off to give them a break and keep things moving.

Easton comes dangerously close to cross-checking Caleb Sorenson, and when he skates past, I warn, "Spank him with your stick like that again and I'll be forced to call it."

"Call a penalty on me and I'll sic Connor on you."

Oskar huffs. "I think it's because Knox wants to be the one doing the spanking."

"Next penalty's yours," I promise him, but Oskar only blows me a kiss before setting his sights on Anton.

Anton's fast, but Oskar's gaining on him. And when he's almost caught up, Ezra comes out of nowhere and slams Oskar off course.

I blow my whistle and head over there.

"You're really begging to be sent to the naughty corner, aren't you?"

"I thought he had the puck," Ezra says.

"He was nowhere goddamn near it."

Ezra shrugs, trying to look angelic and failing. "Oops?"

"Oops? Really? "

"I didn't want him to mess up Anton's pretty face," he says like that should be obvious.

Why did I agree to ref this game again?

"I'm mildly offended that you don't think I could take on Oskar," Anton throws back. "And of the two of us, you're the pretty one. Should I be protecting you?"

Ezra pretends to swoon. "My man is so romantic."

"Can we get back to the game?" Easton snaps, and I make the mistake of meeting his eye. He's hot and sweaty, looking rugged in a way he doesn't without all the gear, and as soon as our eyes meet, he's fast to snap his gaze away. After this game, I've got to figure out a way to clear all this awkwardness.

Foster and Bilson take the face-off, and then the game is back on again. The big-brother team—as I'm calling them in my head—is up four to three, but the little brothers are pulling out all the stops.

Everyone starts behaving themselves again, playing clean, fixed on that next goal, and I get a peaceful minute or two until Connor flattens Ezra into the boards right beside me.

"Harder, Daddy," Ezra taunts, and I facepalm.

This is going to be a long game.

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