Page 30 of Instigator

“I’m just working some stuff out,” I finally say. “When I’m ready to talk about it, I will.”

My best friend raises his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“Fuck off. Yes. I’m sure. Hounding me isn’t about to make me change my mind.” I snort, then shake my head. “All I need is some time.”

“As much as you need.” My future brother-in-law reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m here for you, Aid. We both are. All of us.”

“I know. I appreciate that.”

But I don’t need their help. Not for this. Nothing will change the fact that I’m a piece of shit who hurt someone who means the world to me.

After grabbing lunch in the lounge with the guys, it’s time for my helmet prototype fitting. I have no idea what it will entail, only when and where I show up.

Dr. Whitney moved offices at the start of the season when she transitioned from being our away-game concussion spotter to researching her helmets and consulting with the team. The new concussion spotter is fine enough. I hope to never catch his attention. But it was nice having her on the road with us. She’s fun.

She’s also engaged to Mitchell, so even if I were interested—which I’m definitely not—she’s completely off-limits.

It helps to have boundaries. Clear delineations between what’s okay and what’s not. What’s expected and what’s inappropriate.

The new office is deep in the administrative maze. It’s easily three times the size of the last one, with three desks that I can see, plus other tables and equipment. There’s only one person inside.

I can do this. It’s not scary. It won’t hurt.

I think.

Blowing out a breath, I knock on the open door. Dr. Whitney sits at her desk, doing something on her computer.

“Come in,” she calls, not looking up from her three massive computer screens.

She types for a few moments, her movements deliberate and forceful, before she sighs, pushes her keyboard away, and swivels in her seat to face me.

“MacGregor. Hi. How are you? Close the door.”

I swallow my hesitation. Is she genuinely asking, or is she making small talk?

“I’m fine. And you?”

“Let’s make this as painless as possible,” she says with a grin.

Small talk it is, then.

Still, I’m caught on one thing.

“Pain?”

“Existential pain. This won’t actually hurt,” she assures me. She rises from her seat and beckons me deeper into the office, where a laboratory bench covered in silicone molds awaits.

I squint at them, trying to figure out how this will work. If the end goal is to make a sensor for a helmet… What will they do, lop off my head and glue stuff to it?

“What are we doing?” My voice comes out rough, nerves audible, and I clear my throat.

“We’re going to start by taking a 3D scan and then life cast the contours of your head.”

A small black box sits on a stand, and she flicks a button on the side. I’m nearly blinded by a bright red light.

“Whoops. Sorry about that.”

She adjusts one of the knobs, and the light fades. Spots dance in my vision, and I blink a few times to clear it.