Page 47 of Instigator

Sinclair hasn’t told me anything about what prompted his mental health crisis, brushing off my check-ins. All he will say is that he’s fine. I’m not here to babysit him, but it is my job to worry about my teammates. That C on my chest isn’t for shits and giggles; it means something, and I take it seriously.

He digs into his breakfast, eyes on his plate and shoulders hunched like he’s trying to be invisible.

I’ll leave him alone for now… but one of these days, I’m going to get a straight answer out of him. It’s hard to know when to press for more information and when to back off.

I’m still hurt that Ryan didn’t confide in me about his depression or demisexuality. He actually thought I wouldn’t be supportive, and that fucking stings. We’ve been friends since high school and practically attached at the hip since he joined the team. He’s marrying my fucking sister. We’re going to be family. And he thought he couldn’t trust me.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t told him about being autistic. It’s hardly fair of me to point fingers when I’m hiding something as huge from him. But it’s because he didn’t tell me that I feel obligated to keep it close to my chest.

Being autistic doesn’t define me, but it does label me. I understand how some people can find labels limiting. I mean, I don’t, but I guess I do, in an abstract way. They don’t want to be boxed into a corner. They don’t want to be defined by their diagnosis.

But for me, the label sets me free. It’s an explanation for why I am the way I am. It’s comfort and identity. It doesn’t stifle me.

I’m a hockey player.

A brother, a friend, and a teammate.

A caretaker by nature.

A redhead with a temper as fiery as my hair.

A gamer with a healthy disregard for my sleep schedule.

And I’m autistic.

It’s just one part of me. It’s not my entire story.

After breakfast, the team buses to the arena, where we have a quick and dirty practice. Some teams hold day-of practices at their training facility, and others have it at the actual arena. Each team has their own protocols, and every city has its unique challenges. It’s consistently inconsistent.

And it drives me fucking nuts.

After my shower, I walk into the lounge and am greeted by Evan Baxter, an old buddy from San Diego. We played on the same line for two and a half years until he was traded to Buffalo, and then I came to Boston that offseason as a free agent.

“Hey, man.” Bax gives me an upward nod, then tugs me into a half hug. “How’s the season treating you?”

Although we don’t talk much day-to-day, when we’re together again, it’s like no time has passed. Even though we’ve both moved on, our friendship has stood the test of time. Every once in a while, we game online, but nowhere near as frequently as I do with Ceci or even the other guys I hang out with.

“Pretty good. I certainly can’t complain. You?”

He rolls his eyes. “Ivy is fucking killing me.”

His half sister. She’s a few years younger than Hailey and was starting undergrad at San Diego State when we all lived there. When he left, she stayed. She’s cute as a button and wicked smart. She’ll be running the world one day, mark my words.

“How is she? What’s she doing now?”

“She just got accepted to law school.” Baxter makes a face. “Harvard Law.”

“So she’ll be on our turf.”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. “You’ll look out for her, right?”

“Of course, man. Anything you need.”

He narrows his eyes. “And you won’t hit on her?”

I scoff. “Please. She’s family.”

“That wouldn’t stop some guys.”