Page 8 of Instigator

My eyes narrow into slits as I glare at her. “I don’t love anyone.”

She giggles, her cheeks pink and eyes bright. “You love me, don’t you?”

And just like that, all the fight rushes out of me. She pulled out the big guns; she knows I can’t deny her anything.

“Fine.” I bite the word off. “I’ll do it. But I’m not going to like it.”

Hailey beams at me, and she reaches across the table to pat my head. Like I’m a fucking dog. “You’re not going to regret this.”

“I already do.”

Beside her, Ryan snorts into his breakfast. “You hate everything.”

“Well, I certainly hate you right now,” I mutter, shoving a spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth and wishing it were anything else. It’s hard to be menacing while eating soft, gooey oats. Why couldn’t it be a steak?

My best friend laughs outright. “Fuck off, no you don’t.”

He’s right; I don’t hate either of them. As much as I sometimes want to, I can’t. They’re all I have left in this world—my only family.

We finish breakfast and clean up. Ryan kisses Hailey goodbye, and I turn my head to give them privacy; then we drive across town to the practice arena. After our game tonight, we’re flying out on a road trip, and I’m already counting down the hours until Annie and I can get on our game again.

I’m not sure what it is about her. The way her voice soothes me, and the way she teases me out of my grumpy moods, immediately sets my mind at ease. The way she’s 110 percent enthusiastic about the things she’s interested in. She isn’t shy about giving me shit, either.

Sometimes I wish I knew more. That we could meet face-to-face and be friends, and her not be freaked out by the fact I’m a professional athlete.

But I don’t know where she lives. On the East Coast, I know, but not specifics. Who’s to say she lives in Boston? Or that as soon as she comes here and we meet in person, I don’t get sent elsewhere?

Being captain doesn’t protect me from being traded. If the team gets a good enough deal, I could be shipped out before I can so much as blink.

As usual, Ryan and I are the first ones in the door. The peace and quiet of a still dressing room never lasts long, though. We change out of our street clothes and into warm-up gear, then hit the weight room for activation.

Over the next half hour, guys start trickling in. Henry and Lewis, our two goaltenders, walk in trading stories about their infant daughters. Easton yawns as he ambles to the bank of treadmills, and Sinclair and Jenkins playfully shove each other around, mouthing off as they start to warm up. Larsson, my winger, settles into the corner and puts on his headphones.

It’s because of him that I figured out I was autistic. Three years ago, he confided his diagnosis to me, along with his everyday struggles, and I slowly realized that what I was going through has a name. That I’m not the only one who feels this way or thinks the way I do. I never knew there was a reason I am the way I am.

I’m autistic.

I don’t always get the jokes. Certain textures and fabrics can ruin my day. Routines and structures settle my nervous system. I eat the same four meals every day, and I never tire of them.

Putting a name to it has settled me. I’m not wondering what’s wrong with me. Why I struggle so much with the day-to-day. I’m completely normal, even if I’m not neurotypical.

Accepting this truth has made all the difference. When McKittrick retired and nominated me for captain, I wasn’t sure I could handle it. That I was capable of it. That my “quirks” would get in the way of leading the team the way they deserve.

I’ve never said the words out loud, but I didn’t have to. He assuaged my fears and convinced me I was capable of this.

And it turns out… I am. It’s my second season as captain, but I don’t think I’m doing a bad job. Not the best in the world. But certainly not terrible.

It’s hard when the team has been in such a slump. We scraped our way into the playoffs last year, earning a hasty first-round exit, and we haven’t made it past the second round in way too long. It’s not entirely on my shoulders; there’s an entire team to blame, but I feel the weighty pressure every fucking day.

This is the year we turn it around. This is the year we show the world what the Boston Grizzlies are made of.

After warming up, we hit the ice for drills and a scrimmage. Coach Turner doesn’t work us too hard since we have a game tonight, but it’s important to work out some of the kinks. Our power play isn’t producing enough points, and our penalty kills are allowing too many shots on goal. All in all, we’re struggling.

But somehow, we keep eking out points at the end of the night. The games are scrappy and rough. Decidedly not pretty. And that’s not good enough.

After practice wraps up and we shower and change, Coach Turner calls me, Easton, and Sinclair—my alternate captains this season—into his office.

Easton’s a capable center, anchoring my and Larsson’s line. We work well together, and he’s a steadying force in the dressing room. The guys look up to him, they listen to him, and he can relate to them in a way I can’t always.