Chapter 4
four
. . .
Aidan
“Please?”
“No.”
My sister sighs. “Aidan, please.”
“I don’t want to.” Glaring at her, I cross my arms over my chest. “And you can’t make me.”
Fuck, I feel like we’re back in elementary school.
This is what she reduces me to. We’re children again, squabbling over every little thing.
As much as I sometimes wish we could go back to those innocent days when our parents were still alive and nothing bad ever happened to us, I have to admit I like our relationship now as adults so much more.
Except when she tries to guilt me into doing things I do not want to do.
Still, Hailey is undeterred. “She’s super cute. And sweet. And nice. You’re going to love her.”
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.
Sinclair is more of a loose cannon, but he’s grown up a lot in the last few seasons, and he’s become a voice of reason for the team.
He isn’t afraid to get in their face when they fuck up.
He also helps rein in the younger guys, like Jenkins and Reynolds, a bit.
Sometimes, it’s a good thing if an aggressive, active defenseman who gets up the blue line wears the A.
Coach sits behind his desk, an ever-present scowl on his face. “The board needs your help,” he says. “Doc Whitney is working on a new project.”
“She’s back?” Sinclair asks. He sounds… happy at the prospect. I’m not sure why. We all like her, but his reaction seems to take it a step too far.
“She developed a new, more protective helmet with the blessing of the team foundation, and they’re ready for active involvement from the team. There will be sensors inside to gauge when a hit is too dangerous, and all sorts of science-y stuff that I don’t know the details of.”
Coach flips through some pages on his clipboard, then shakes his head.
“As team leadership, you’re the guinea pigs.
We’ll roll it out to the rest of the team after she gets the kinks worked out.
She’s in a new office in the administrative wing, and I expect you to report there after lunch.
Do what she says. Anything she asks, consider it a directive from me. ”
“You’ve got it, Coach.” I don’t want to sound like a suck-up, but if someone in authority tells me to do something, I’m going to listen.
Unless it’s immoral or unethical, that is. There are reasons to decline a directive. But I have faith that Coach wouldn’t do that to us.
He runs through the rest of our leadership meeting, and by the time we’re done twenty minutes later, my mind buzzes with overstimulation, and not in a good way. While Easton and Sinclair head in to grab some food, I escape.
My skin itches with goose bumps, my heart is pounding, and I have the urge to throw things and punch someone. I’m not a violent person, I don’t get into fights on the ice, but I’m not afraid to stand up for what’s right and protect my friends and teammates.
I don’t want to do this.
There’s no good reason for me not to participate in this project. I don’t think Coach would steer me wrong, and more research into head trauma and the long-term impacts of concussions is a worthwhile endeavor. They’re all good things.
But why does it have to be me?
I know why. It doesn’t mean it’s any easier for me to deal with, though. What if the helmet doesn’t fit right? What if the sensors mess up my game? Or what if they fail at a crucial point, and all of this is for nothing? What if, what if, what if…
Two members of the athletic training staff are meeting in the PT bay, so I hide in the medical exam room. My hands shake, and my heart races, and I can hardly breathe. The lock sliding into place screams safety in the small room.
The silence echoes. It’s loud, almost deafening. I’m practically dizzy with the absence of all noise, and I set my back against the cold concrete wall, the physicality of it grounding me.
I want Annie.
That’s such a weird thought. Annie and I don’t have that type of relationship. We’re not friendly like that.
But fuck, I wish I could hear her voice right now. I don’t have my phone on me, so I can’t message her. And it would be weird to call her. She has a job. Sure, her hours are weird, and she’s got meetings and shit, but I’m sure if I needed her…
I blow out a breath. I don’t need her. I just want her. More specifically, I want her voice. It soothes me in a way nothing else does, even as it riles me up and gets my blood boiling.
My eyes fall closed, and I breathe in deep, filling my lungs until they ache, and then release a controlled exhale. I do it again and again and again.
Finally, when my heart rate steadies back to normal and I can stand to be in my skin again, I hit the lounge for some food. I joke with my teammates like nothing is wrong, and they thankfully don’t call me on my weird mood.
It’s an hour later that I find myself outside Dr. Whitney’s office. She’s on a call and waves me in.
“I think I fixed the bug,” a woman says over speakerphone. “Maybe test that sensor a few more times. It looks okay on my end.”
I blink. That voice is so familiar. It tickles something at the edge of my mind. Maybe it’s from being so off my game earlier? I’m still a little unsettled around the edges.
“Thanks, Ceci,” Dr. Whitney replies. “I’ve got a player here, so I’ll keep you posted.”
Ceci. That’s Hailey’s friend from the team foundation, a billionaire who does tech stuff beyond my understanding. I’ve met her once—she’s bubbly and effervescent, a little older, and hot as fuck.
And intimidating as hell.
I didn’t know she was working on this project. As if I weren’t uneasy about this as it is…
Dr. Whitney hangs up and turns to me. “Thank you for volunteering to test our new helmet sensors.”
I don’t mention that I wasn’t exactly given a choice. Instead, I simply nod.
“We’re going to test impact and speed of collisions,” she says. “This sensor slips into your helmet. It’s so small you shouldn’t even feel it. We’ll be monitoring everything, and all you have to do is wear the sensor and allow us to examine you in the case of anything happening.”
“So the only thing different from usual is wearing this sensor.”
“You’ve got it.” She points finger guns at me, and against my better judgment, a begrudging smile tips my lips. “We’ll fit the sensor into the helmet using a silicone mold, and it’ll replace a bit of the padding. You shouldn’t feel it.”
I like that she repeats it. It goes a long way toward reassuring me.
“Thank you.” The words feel foreign on my lips, and I clear my throat. “You’re doing important work. I know it’s a thankless job, but I appreciate it.”
“I’ve got a vested interest in keeping your brains from splattering.” She smiles to take the sting out of her unique imagery.
Her fiancé and her brother are both players in the league; I don’t blame her for caring about our health and theirs. Add in her advanced neuroscience degrees, it makes sense that she’d devote her work to a cause she believes in.
“Today we’re going to take the measurements for the mold, and then you’ll come back after the road trip and we’ll make sure it fits into your helmet properly. We’ll schedule regular check-ins. And then you’re all done!”
I blow out a breath. “Okay, I can do that.”
Her nod feels definitive. “Yes, you can. Let’s get started.”