Page 3 of Instigator

He gives a full-on belly laugh. “Hell yeah, I am.”

“They’re all boring and in loving relationships and blah. It’s not as fun anymore.”

“I feel that. All of my… uh, my coworkers. They’re all getting married,” he says. “And yeah, I’m happy for them, but it’s hard to deal with. Especially since my sister is now engaged to my stupid, asshole best friend.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Stupid, asshole best friend?”

“I’m happy she’s happy, but why him? There are literally billions of people on this planet, and she took my one real-life friend away from me.”

“Oh, sweetie…”

“Shut up. You’re being condescending.”

I giggle. “You caught on, huh?”

Wish grumbles under his breath, the words indistinct but his frustration clear as day. “I have my… coworkers, and they’re fine. I like them, we hang out on road trips. But it used to be just me and him. We’ve been buddies since high school. And now…”

“And now he’s engaged to your sister, and you’re not his priority. Or hers.”

He grunts in agreement.

“I’m sorry. It sucks to be forgotten and left behind.”

A sound rumbles from deep in his throat. Pained. Drawn out. Until he finally whispers, “I really don’t like it.”

“Well, you still have me.” I try to inject some positivity into my voice, but I don’t know that I succeed.

“Thanks, Annie,” he says glumly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Poor guy. He sounds so down. It’s times like these that I wish I could wrap him up in a hug and comfort him in person.

But he thinks I’m StatisticalAnomaly—Annie for short. He doesn’t know me as Ceci Ramos, billionaire tech genius.

“Hopefully, you never have to find out.” I clear my throat. “Now, are we going to do this or what?”

We’ve been idling in the waiting room for so long the screensaver has turned on. I smash a button on the controller, and the game comes to life. I click to initiate a new round.

Wish’s gravelly chuckle sounds forced, but at least he’s trying. Sometimes just showing up and putting on a brave face is half the battle.

“Let’s do this.”

two

. . .

Aidan

I do not have the spoons for this bullshit today. The locker room pulses with the pounding bass and buzz of chatter filling the space. My fraying nerves have me overstimulated from the second I walk in, and although the promise of open ice calls to me, I’m not sure if returning to my happy place will be enough for me today.

I try to be the first one on-site each day, but after gaming with Annie until close to three o’clock this morning, I overslept my alarm. Getting out of my warm, cozy bed felt like a monumental hurdle, and I simply don’t have the capacity to pretend like I’m okay.

My sister is the one who introduced me to spoon theory. Hailey has multiple chronic illnesses, and sometimes she doesn’t have the ability to do everything that needs to get done. If she has a finite set of energy, and unloading the dishwasher takes 10 percent of her entire day’s capacity, that means things like folding the laundry and taking a shower and going to work might be within her scope, but anything extra, like cooking dinner, is not possible. And if she “borrows” from the next day’s spoons, she’s already shortchanged. On top of that, she never knows when any particular day will be a low-availability day.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t get it at first. Not until she moved in with me after our parents died in a freak car crash. I’d been off at college and then breaking into the AHL. She’d already been diagnosed with endometriosis by then—the POTS and Ehlers-Danlos labels came a few years later—and was struggling.

I’ve done what I can to alleviate her challenges, hiring a cleaner, organizing meal prep, and finding her the best medical care possible. And now that she’s engaged to Ryan, he hasn’t been shy about doing as much as he can to support her.

He looks up as I walk into the dressing room, already stripped out of his street clothes and in his tights.