Page 4 of Instigator

“Hey, man.” My teammate slips his undershirt over his head, his voice coming out muffled. “Thought you’d never show up. The world ending?”

Our cubbies are next to each other by design. We’ve been inseparable since he was traded to the Grizzlies a few years ago.

I grunt in acknowledgment as I whip off my soft cotton team shirt and replace it with my long-sleeved base layer. The tight, sweat-wicking fabric is a comfort, the familiar constriction welcome. I don’t like loose-fitting clothing. No matter how worn in and comfortable the material is, it never feels right on my skin.

Ryan sings along to the Simple Plan song blasting through the room. On my other side, Gonzo and Mitchell are chatting, and Easton and Sinclair are laughing at Jenkins’s antics as he retells a story.

This is my family. This is my home.

We suit up and head to the weight room to activate and warm up. Our schedule adheres to a fairly regular structure, depending on if we have a game that night or not, or if we’re on a losing streak or riding the high of a win. There are variables, but only a few. It’s predictable.

I like predictable.

The coaching staff keeps a tight lid on things. They don’t tolerate tardiness or disrespect. Most importantly, they encourage us to give our all—without abusing us, unlike some other teams. Sure, Coach Turner has a penchant for yelling, but he doesn’t belittle us like some of my previous coaches did. Coach McKittrick—fuck, it’s still weird to think of my former captain and teammate as a coach—finds ways to support us while keeping us accountable.

Despite giving up three unanswered goals and blowing our lead, we pulled off a win last night, thanks to Larsson’s lucky shot in overtime. Coach is unhappy and isn’t shy about making his displeasure known.

We have to do better. We have to be better.

I have to be better. I’m the captain. The guys look up to me for guidance. How am I supposed to lead this team when I can hardly handle myself?

I’m the one who let San Jose score on us. There was a scuffle, I lost the puck, and they scored. I’m now minus a point in the leaderboard, and our team suffered as a result.

That falls on me. It’s my fault. I celebrate every win, and I mourn every loss. The weight of the captaincy is a burden I’m happy to bear, but despite being genuinely happy to lead these men every night on the ice, I can’t deny the toll it takes on me.

Coach has us on the ice for two hours, and when the rest of the team heads to recovery, I stick around. Henry, one of the goaltenders, stays in net for me. I need the extra time to recalibrate. How the hell am I supposed to lead this team if I can’t put the biscuit in the basket?

I don’t think he’s trying, though. He lets in more pucks than he stops. And I’m not sure if he’s doing it to pump up my ego or if he’s too tired from the grueling practice. Lewis was on the ice last night, and if our defense hadn’t folded in front of him, we might have stood a chance at scraping out a W in regulation.

Two points is two points, even if they’re dirty, scrappy points. Even if we allowed San Jose to pick one up by forcing OT.

“Okay, MacGregor,” Coach calls from the bench when a shot goes rogue and nearly hits Henry in the mask. “That’s enough.”

I skate to a stop, breathing hard. “One more.”

He shakes his head. “Warm down. Don’t overwork yourself. We need you for tomorrow’s game.”

Maybe he has a point. Exhaustion adds ten pounds to each muscle, weighing me down, and sweat soaks through my base layers. I can already smell the stink radiating off me.

After helping Henry collect all the loose pucks, I trudge into the dressing room. Most of my teammates are done for the day, already changing into their street clothes.

I’m the only freak who changes out of my base layers and into new clothes for my warm-down. Dressed in a new long-sleeve and shorts, I hit the bike to work out all the lactic acid built up from practice, finishing with a brisk walk on the treadmill.

My post-workout shower resets my equilibrium before I visit our physical therapist, who works on my ankle. It’s been bugging me on and off for the last few years, and the only way to make sure I don’t get worse is by regular maintenance.

Thankfully, Amelia makes it as painless as possible, then sets me some stretching exercises to do. She monitors me for a bit before pronouncing me free for the day.

Some of my teammates have headed home to rest and relax. Others are in the lounge, eating and hanging out, the room thick with the industrial, pungent scent of locker room soap and the lingering traces of sweat and body odor that permeate the building. I grab a plate from the counter and fill it before heading to my regular table.

Ryan kicks out a chair for me. “You done torturing yourself?”

Letting out a grunt, I roll my eyes but don’t bother to defend myself.

“What are you doing after this?” Sinclair asks. “I was thinking of maybe playing some Madden.”

“I could play.” Football isn’t my favorite, but give me a sporty video game and I’m down. I’m not so crazy about shooting games or ones where things blow up.

“Hailey’s got a meeting this afternoon, so you can all come down to my place,” Ryan says.