Page 84 of Instigator

Tonight, though, my focus is shot.

The Cowboys aren’t helping.

They’re fast, physical, and relentless, and every inch of ice feels contested. We’re tied 2–2 late in the second period, and neither team has managed to gain much of an advantage. Every shift feels like it matters, and every mistake feels bigger than it should.

Which makes this the worst possible night for my brain to keep wandering.

Larsson picks up the puck along the boards and glances toward the middle. I’ve played with him long enough to know what’s coming before he even moves his stick, so I’m already cutting through the neutral zone as the pass leaves his blade.

It lands perfectly on my tape.

I’ve got space—not a ton, but enough I should be thinking of my impending shot. The defense backs off a smidgen, opening a lane I’d normally take without hesitation.

Instead, Ceci flashes through my head.

Not even a full memory. Just her standing in our kitchen before she left, stealing a sip of my coffee and insisting hers tastes better, like it’s some kind of scientific fact.

It throws me off just enough.

My shot misses the net and slams hard into the end boards.

“Damn it.”

The puck takes a bad bounce, and Edmonton is gone the other way before I can fully process what I’ve done.

I turn and sprint back hard, digging into the ice as their forward, Carr, jumps on the loose puck and accelerates through the neutral zone. I played with him in juniors. He’s fast when he gets going, the kind of quick that turns a small mistake into a real problem, and within seconds he’s crossing our blue line with speed.

Sinclair steps up to challenge him, Ryan sliding across to take away the passing lane, but Carr threads a pass through traffic anyway, and suddenly the play is unfolding too fast to slow down.

A shot comes off before I can fully get back.

Henry gets a piece of it, stretching across the crease to make a save that looks almost impossible in real time, and the rebound kicks out into the corner.

I’m the first one there, and I take it out on the nearest Cowboy, driving him hard into the glass. The hit echoes through the rink. It’s not pretty, but at least it’s something I don’t screw up.

The whistle sounds a few seconds later.

Sinclair is already skating toward me as I loop back.

“What the hell is going on with you?”

I pull my mouthguard out and shake my head like that answers anything.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t buy it.

“You missed a wide-open lane, and then you were halfway out of the zone while Carr came flying through like we weren’t even there.”

I let out a slow breath. “That obvious?”

“To everyone.”

Great.

I know what it looks like. I know what it feels like, too, and neither version is good.

I head back to the bench and try to reset, but Coach is already leaning forward as I sit.