Page 18 of Instigator

. . .

Aidan

Sinclair shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry to bother you, Cap.”

“Not a bother. What can I do for you?” I lean against the doorframe, taking in my defenseman. His sandy-brown hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his green eyes hold a tinge of panic.

He swallows loudly. “Can I come in?”

He lives down on the eighth floor. At least a third of the team lives in this high-rise. It makes it easy for us to spend time together, and it’s easy to rally the troops when shit goes down.

“Right. Of course.” I back up to let him cross the threshold, then close the door behind us. “Drink?”

“Sure.”

I cross the room to the small mini-fridge beside the bar cart, pulling out two electrolyte drinks. Unlikely what he expected, but if he’s thrown by my not serving him alcohol, I can’t tell. He takes the bottle and perches on the edge of the couch.

“What did you want to talk about?” I ask, settling on the armchair.

Sinclair joined the team maybe three seasons ago, but we don’t hang out much. He’s a good deal younger, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, and is still in the partying, playboy phase of his life. There’s nothing wrong with having fun as long as everyone is consenting and having a good time. From the outside looking in, he’s happy with his life the way it is, and I don’t need to know more.

I’m over and done with that. I don’t miss it.

But when my teammate comes to me, his captain, something is obviously wrong. He’s killing it on the ice, he has plenty of friends on the team, and he never has difficulty picking up women, so his reaching out to me is… worrisome.

“I’m not okay,” he says, voice hoarse. His eyes are glassy, and he rapid blinks a few times as if to clear them. “I’ve been trying to keep my chin up, trying to be strong, but I’m not okay.”

“What can I do to support you?”

“I don’t know.”

The pain in his voice makes my heart throb with sympathy.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

He shakes his head. “Jenkins a little. He told me to fuck it out. And I tried, I really did. But it’s not working. There’s this rock in the pit of my stomach, and I just… I don’t feel good. Nothing I do seems to make a difference. It doesn’t go away.”

Steadying my nerves, I rise from my armchair and cross the room to settle on the couch across from him. My hand lands on his shoulder, and I squeeze.

“Have you talked to Dr. Liz?” She’s our team’s sports psychologist and usually our first line of defense with anything mental health related.

“I… I think it’s beyond that,” he whispers, his pain clear as day.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Do you want me to offer support, or do you want me to try to fix it?”

Sinclair gulps. “I—I don’t know. I just know I can’t keep going on like this.”

“Okay. So here’s what’s going to happen.” Making a plan gives me a purpose. It gives me confidence. “We’re going to call Dr. Liz first and set up an emergency session. And then you’re going to ask her for a referral to a psychiatrist and a therapist. If this is a chemical imbalance, we’ll find a way to even you out. You aren’t the first or the last guy on this team in need of psychiatric meds. And you’ll establish care with a therapist who can get to the bottom of what you’re feeling and how to handle it.”

He meets my eyes, his gaze full of sorrow. “The first?”

“Not the first, and you won’t be the last,” I repeat firmly.

But I’m not about to divulge our teammates’ private medical issues. I only know due to my position as captain, and Coach is aware, but it’s up to each player who they want to reveal their personal issues to.

“Now, do you think you need to be treated inpatient?” I ask neutrally. “Do you need some time away from the team?”

Sinclair whips his head back and forth. “No. I want to stay with the team. I just don’t want to be traded. Or worse.”