Page 19 of Instigator

“It won’t come to that. I can’t promise there aren’t trades in the future, but for right now, you keep playing the way you have been the last few seasons, and you won’t be sent away for this. Our team doesn’t retaliate for seeking the help you need.”

He chews on the corner of his bottom lip and pins his gaze to the floor.

“If you were diabetic like Schwartz, you’d take insulin. If you tore your Achilles like McKittrick did, or fractured your wrist like Jenkins last season, you’d have surgery and rehab until you were back to normal. This is the same thing. It’s medical treatment. And it’s perfectly normal and shouldn’t be a stigma.”

“But it is,” he whispers, staring at his hands. “I don’t want the press to start⁠—”

“Nobody will tell anyone anything you don’t want publicized,” I cut in. “With your permission, I’d like to tell Coach, but all I’ll say is that we have a plan and you’ll be treated. He doesn’t need to know specifics. Management either. As long as you are in treatment, as long as you put in the work, it doesn’t matter if you take two steps forward and one step back. Forward progress is still progress.”

“I—” Sinclair swallows hard. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“If you’re okay with it, I’ll take the lead. All you have to do is show up.”

“I can do that,” he says. “I’ll show up. I’ll put in the work. I don’t want to feel like this.”

Gripping his shoulder again, I pour every ounce of my mustered confidence into it. “We’ll get you sorted out.”

He nods, a quick jerk of his head.

“Promise me one thing,” I continue.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“If things get bad, if you think it’s going to escalate, you get help. Come to me or to Coach or anybody in management. Don’t wait.”

“I will,” he swears.

“Okay. I’m going to make some calls. You’re welcome to hang out as long as you’d like.”

He finally cracks the lid on his electrolyte drink, gulping down a third of the bottle in one go.

I stand from the couch and grab my phone off the charger, swiping past a notification from Annie, and click on Dr. Liz’s contact.

In a few short minutes, she’s agreed to come to my apartment for an emergency session, and I leave a voicemail for Coach that we have something to discuss when he has a minute.

Sinclair moves to the floor-to-ceiling windows, lost in thought as he stares out at the city below, so I hit the kitchen to heat up a protein brownie with some frozen yogurt. When I stand in front of him, holding out the dish, he looks up at me, twisting his face.

“What’s this?”

“I can’t fix things. I can only help make you feel better right in this minute. And when I was a kid, my mom would make me an ice cream sundae.” A wisp of nostalgia has my stomach churning. I miss them so much sometimes I physically ache. “So I made you one. Fuck if I know what I’m doing.”

My teammate lets out a shaky chuckle. “Thanks, MacGregor.”

He takes the sundae, picking at the frozen yogurt until it melts all over the warm, gooey brownie. I make another one for myself, because fuck, I need a pick-me-up too. All this emotional shit is exhausting.

About half an hour later, another knock sounds on my door, and I open it to find Dr. Liz, a bag slung over her shoulder. Our sports psychologist is in her mid-fifties, with graying blond hair and kind blue eyes that see everything.

Outside of our mandatory bimonthly sessions, I don’t see her much. I have more physical aches and pains than mental.

I step aside, ushering her into my apartment, and she doesn’t react to Sinclair on my couch.

“Good evening,” she says. “Let’s chat.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” I offer. “I can head out for a bit.”

He shakes his head. “No. I—we can go down to my place, if that’s all right?”

Dr. Liz tips her chin. “I’m here to help. Wherever you’ll feel comfortable, Adam.”