Page 28 of Instigator

As soon as we get the devices back, we’ll test to ensure everything is functioning, insert them into the helmet, and then start monitoring.

That’s where the fun begins.

The sensor will clock the speed at which a player is skating, the forceful impact of hits and checks, and should anything happen—knock on wood—we’ll have baseline information to compare against the new data.

The code was tricky. Fiddly. I questioned Bex extensively on what she needed to see, and I had to consult Colt a few times to talk through my thought process. I’ve created computer chips, but this is different.

There are lives at stake—real, human lives. Guys who I know personally, even if it’s from a distance. Hockey players are beautifully volatile, violent when called for, and tragically misunderstood. They aren’t paragons of perfection. They’re human. And they put their lives and health and safety on the line every fucking night for our entertainment.

Yes, sports are fun for us to watch, to attend live games or watch at home, to participate in fantasy leagues or dive deep into the fandom. At the same time, we’re spectators of an aggressive, fast-paced game where people can get injured—or worse.

And that’s not considering the aftereffects. Not only the concussions and risk of CTE. The wear and tear on the body. It’s not normal for a twenty-five-year-old to blow out both their knees and end their career. It’s not normal for a thirty-year-old to need a hip replacement. It’s not normal for someone to get hooked on painkillers from a lifetime of hard hits and harder partying.

It’s not normal.

And yet we accept it. Encourage it. Why? So we have entertainment. So we have something to focus on other than how miserable our lives are.

I blow out a breath. Okay, so maybe I’m down in the dumps right now, but that’s not the only reason people tune in every night to watch grown men beat the crap out of each other.

But maybe that’s the point of it too.

People don’t just watch hockey because they want violence. They watch because there’s something deeply human about it. About watching people push themselves to the absolute edge of what their bodies can handle. About watching teamwork and trust and resilience play out in real time. There’s beauty in that, too, even if it’s messy.

Especially because it’s messy.

Hockey players aren’t machines, no matter how badly fans or organizations sometimes want them to be. They’re people with stitched-up cuts and lingering injuries and superstitions and families waiting for them at home. They’re the first ones on the ice after a nasty loss and the last ones out there after practice, taking extra shots because they refuse to quit on themselves or their teammates.

There’s something admirable about that kind of devotion.

And that’s why this work matters so much to me.

Because caring about player safety doesn’t mean hating the sport. It means loving it enough to want it to be better. Loving it enough to believe these guys deserve more than being treated like disposable entertainment until their bodies give out.

The game doesn’t have to lose its intensity to evolve. It doesn’t have to stop being physical or emotional or hard-hitting. But maybe someday toughness won’t be measured by how much pain someone can ignore. Maybe someday a player admitting they’re hurt won’t be seen as weakness. Maybe someday protecting players will matter just as much as protecting the scoreboard.

That future feels impossibly far away some days.

But then I think about the conversations already happening. The new equipment we’re developing, and others like us. The doctors and researchers and trainers fighting the good fight for better protocols. The players who are starting to speak up for themselves and each other instead of suffering through it in silence.

Change is slow, but it’s happening.

And maybe hope lives there—in the small shifts people barely notice until, one day, the entire culture looks different from how it used to.

For all its flaws, I still love this sport.

I love the speed of it. The chaos. The way an entire game can change in seconds. I love the passion of the fans and the camaraderie in the locker room and the quiet moments nobody sees behind the scenes.

I love the people inside it most of all.

And maybe that’s why I refuse to stop caring. Because if hockey can teach people anything, it’s that getting knocked down isn’t the same thing as staying down.

I wrap up my presentation, and Coach Turner nods with satisfaction.

“Keep doing the good work, Ceci. I can’t believe you and Dr. Whitney have built this from… nothing. Just from your brains.” He chuckles awkwardly. “It’s still a little beyond my capacity to understand, but I trust you. What you’ve shown me is impressive. I can’t wait to see what comes from it.”

“This is only the first step,” I tell him. “We’re starting small. The goal is to help the organization first and foremost, but eventually, we’ll take this to the league. Then expand to other athletic organizations.”

Including youth hockey. Helping the most vulnerable athletes before they have any issues.