Page 26 of Instigator

Six fifteen.

Six twenty.

Six thirty.

Finally, at six forty-five, I pick up my phone. There are no messages, no notifications.

I type out a text to Wish, holding my breath: Are you coming?

There’s no answer for a long time. It feels like an eternity before the little typing bubble pops up, then disappears again.

It’s at least fifteen minutes before my phone buzzes, and I blink at the screen, uncomprehending. None of this makes sense. Wish is the one who wanted to meet. He’s the one who suggested this.

Wish: I’m sorry. I can’t.

twelve

. . .

Aidan

The shrill blast of the ref’s whistle slices through the air, and play grinds to a stop. Breathing hard after chasing the puck from end to end to beat an icing call, I try to work air back into my lungs. I’m doubled over with my hands on my knees, my heart beating out of my chest.

Fucking hell, won’t they give us a fucking break?

We’re down 5–2 against Vancouver, Jenkins just took a monumentally stupid penalty, and their goaltender is a brick wall. Unlike ours. Henry has been a sieve tonight, mainly because our defense keeps folding in front of him at the slightest pressure, and our forwards can’t score.

I can’t score. I can’t right the ship.

I don’t know what words to say that will rally the troops and get them playing like a team. What magic bullet we need to take to turn this game around. We’re in the ugly slog of the season, that endless stretch that seems to last longer than time immemorial. The All Star break is an agonizing four and a half weeks away. At this point, it feels as far out of reach as the end of the season.

If we can’t get our shit together, our season will end in April, not in June. This group does not look Stanley Cup caliber. Fuck, we aren’t even in playoff contention at this point. Do we even have a shot this year? It’s not likely, and with every goal scored against us, that childhood dream of lifting the Cup is farther and farther away.

I want to lead my team to the Cup. I want to win it all. With how impossible every single game feels, I honestly don’t think we can do it. And that’s fucking depressing. I want to have faith, but I’m a realist who doesn’t enjoy having his heart broken.

And this team? They’re breaking my heart. Every fucking night, they destroy me.

We have a good group of guys in the room. Decent, dependable. Hard workers. They mean the world to me. But they can’t fucking pull it together on the ice.

And that fucking kills me. I’m their captain. It’s my job to lead them, to guide them. And I’m failing.

Sinclair, sitting beside me on the bench, jabs me with his elbow. “You’re in your head.”

“Fuck off,” I mutter automatically, then grimace. He doesn’t deserve my ire when he’s one of the only people on the ice actually doing his job. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “Just get your head in the game.”

A catchy pop song runs through my head. Hailey used to be obsessed with that made-for-TV musical when she was younger. She tried to get my hockey teammates and me to dance out the basketball players’ choreography, but it’s not the same on skates.

We tried, though.

Coach slaps the back of my helmet. “You’re up.”

Fuck. Right. The game. I clamber over the boards with Larsson and Easton as Gonzo and Jenkins skate off. I get into position as Ryan saucers the puck from the other end of the ice, and I receive the puck on my blade, a perfect tape-to-tape pass.

Vancouver’s defensemen bear down on me, determined not to let me through. Threading the puck between my legs, I send it over to Larsson, who sails it back to me, and I huff a breath of laughter as I pass it back. I want him to have the puck, for fuck’s sake.

But it’s a move Vancouver isn’t expecting. They’re so busy double-teaming me, they’ve left Easton wide open. And as Larsson dances the puck closer and fires a shot on goal, which their goaltender deftly bats away, Easton is there to clean up the rebound.