Page 85 of Instigator

“MacGregor.”

Just my name. Nothing else.

“Yeah?”

“Wake up.”

That’s it. No shouting. No lecture. Just three words that land heavier than anything else he could’ve said.

A few guys on the bench glance over. I keep my eyes forward and take a drink of water like I’m not unraveling in real time.

Because I know exactly what the problem is.

I miss Ceci.

It shouldn’t hit this hard. We’ve only been apart for a few days. Not long. Not enough to mess with me like this.

Being on the road is a fact of life, but it usually doesn’t upset my equilibrium as much as it is. Routines steady me. I like knowing what to expect, and away games have a steady sort of unpredictability that, in itself, is predictable.

But this—this is different. I don’t like it. I’m off-kilter, unbalanced, in everything I do.

And apparently, that’s enough to throw me off my game.

The third period starts the same way the second ended—fast, heavy, relentless. Montreal pushes early, and we answer shift for shift, no one giving an inch.

Easton takes a massive hit behind their net but still kicks the puck loose. Larsson jumps on it, works it back to the point, and Ryan fires a shot through traffic that forces another save and another scramble in front.

Bodies pile up. Chances come and go. Nothing breaks.

Sinclair blocks a shot that stings even from where I’m standing, yet he still manages to limp back into position like it didn’t matter.

Everyone is fighting for every inch.

Everyone except me, at least until I force it.

The clock bleeds below five minutes, and the building feels it. The energy changes. Everyone knows what’s coming—one goal, one mistake, one bounce deciding the whole thing.

Ryan rims the puck around the boards. Easton wins the battle and nudges it into space. Larsson gets there first.

I’m already over the boards as the puck comes free.

“Go,” someone yells; I don’t even know who.

Larsson sees me and sends it forward.

The pass hits my stick in stride.

Suddenly, I’ve got open ice.

The crowd rises as I cross the blue line. One defenseman chases from behind, while another angles in from the middle, trying to close me down before I can get inside.

The goalie sets early.

Everything tightens. Everything slows.

And for the first time all night, my head is clear.

Not because I’ve stopped thinking about Ceci, but because I’m not fighting it anymore.