Page 9 of Instigator

Sinclair is more of a loose cannon, but he’s grown up a lot in the last few seasons, and he’s become a voice of reason for the team. He isn’t afraid to get in their face when they fuck up. He also helps rein in the younger guys, like Jenkins and Reynolds, a bit. Sometimes, it’s a good thing if an aggressive, active defenseman who gets up the blue line wears the A.

Coach sits behind his desk, an ever-present scowl on his face. “The board needs your help,” he says. “Doc Whitney is working on a new project.”

“She’s back?” Sinclair asks. He sounds… happy at the prospect. I’m not sure why. We all like her, but his reaction seems to take it a step too far.

“She developed a new, more protective helmet with the blessing of the team foundation, and they’re ready for active involvement from the team. There will be sensors inside to gauge when a hit is too dangerous, and all sorts of science-y stuff that I don’t know the details of.”

Coach flips through some pages on his clipboard, then shakes his head. “As team leadership, you’re the guinea pigs. We’ll roll it out to the rest of the team after she gets the kinks worked out. She’s in a new office in the administrative wing, and I expect you to report there after lunch. Do what she says. Anything she asks, consider it a directive from me.”

“You’ve got it, Coach.” I don’t want to sound like a suck-up, but if someone in authority tells me to do something, I’m going to listen.

Unless it’s immoral or unethical, that is. There are reasons to decline a directive. But I have faith that Coach wouldn’t do that to us.

He runs through the rest of our leadership meeting, and by the time we’re done twenty minutes later, my mind buzzes with overstimulation, and not in a good way. While Easton and Sinclair head in to grab some food, I escape.

My skin itches with goose bumps, my heart is pounding, and I have the urge to throw things and punch someone. I’m not a violent person, I don’t get into fights on the ice, but I’m not afraid to stand up for what’s right and protect my friends and teammates.

I don’t want to do this.

There’s no good reason for me not to participate in this project. I don’t think Coach would steer me wrong, and more research into head trauma and the long-term impacts of concussions is a worthwhile endeavor. They’re all good things.

But why does it have to be me?

I know why. It doesn’t mean it’s any easier for me to deal with, though. What if the helmet doesn’t fit right? What if the sensors mess up my game? Or what if they fail at a crucial point, and all of this is for nothing? What if, what if, what if…

Two members of the athletic training staff are meeting in the PT bay, so I hide in the medical exam room. My hands shake, and my heart races, and I can hardly breathe. The lock sliding into place screams safety in the small room.

The silence echoes. It’s loud, almost deafening. I’m practically dizzy with the absence of all noise, and I set my back against the cold concrete wall, the physicality of it grounding me.

I want Annie.

That’s such a weird thought. Annie and I don’t have that type of relationship. We’re not friendly like that.

But fuck, I wish I could hear her voice right now. I don’t have my phone on me, so I can’t message her. And it would be weird to call her. She has a job. Sure, her hours are weird, and she’s got meetings and shit, but I’m sure if I needed her…

I blow out a breath. I don’t need her. I just want her. More specifically, I want her voice. It soothes me in a way nothing else does, even as it riles me up and gets my blood boiling.

My eyes fall closed, and I breathe in deep, filling my lungs until they ache, and then release a controlled exhale. I do it again and again and again.

Finally, when my heart rate steadies back to normal and I can stand to be in my skin again, I hit the lounge for some food. I joke with my teammates like nothing is wrong, and they thankfully don’t call me on my weird mood.

It’s an hour later that I find myself outside Dr. Whitney’s office. She’s on a call and waves me in.

“I think I fixed the bug,” a woman says over speakerphone. “Maybe test that sensor a few more times. It looks okay on my end.”

I blink. That voice is so familiar. It tickles something at the edge of my mind. Maybe it’s from being so off my game earlier? I’m still a little unsettled around the edges.

“Thanks, Ceci,” Dr. Whitney replies. “I’ve got a player here, so I’ll keep you posted.”

Ceci. That’s Hailey’s friend from the team foundation, a billionaire who does tech stuff beyond my understanding. I’ve met her once—she’s bubbly and effervescent, a little older, and hot as fuck.

And intimidating as hell.

I didn’t know she was working on this project. As if I weren’t uneasy about this as it is…

Dr. Whitney hangs up and turns to me. “Thank you for volunteering to test our new helmet sensors.”

I don’t mention that I wasn’t exactly given a choice. Instead, I simply nod.