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M ax had blue balls. That was a complete sentence, full stop. It wasn't for lack of releasing said balls after Remi had left last night, no, he had absolutely done that. But these were perma-blue. Wanting Remi and not having her after dry humping like teenagers on the carpet of his closet was like craving your favorite burger joint at 1 a.m. knowing damn well they closed at midnight. It was like needing water when all there was to drink was milk. She had given him a taste of the appetizer, and now he wanted the whole damn feast.

He pushed the thought of devouring her away, desperately not wanting to have to hide a boner from the doctor. He tried to focus on the bigger problem at hand—the fact that he was finally waiting to see a doctor, or an optometrist, if he was being exact.

He had woken up on the couch with an ache in both his groin and the pit of his stomach. One of those things was because he was obviously still horny, the other was because he had been sent home early from the road trip and he still didn’t even know what was wrong with him.

While Max had every intention of finding out what was going on, he had decided he would only do it on his terms. He knew damn well if the team doctor found something wrong with him, he could end up benched for the remainder of the season, or worse. But after staying up way past his bedtime with a mild panic attack as he let the thought of hockey sneak back in, he decided to get help under the radar and go from there. He wanted his career to end on his terms, and he hoped like hell that it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

The optometrist knocked before entering the exam room, and Max’s anxiety instantly skyrocketed.

“What are we seeing you for today, Max?” the doctor asked, obviously clueless as to who he was in the hockey world, and for that he was grateful. He needed this appointment to go undetected by the NHL.

“Eye exam,” Max said.

The doctor typed something into the computer, then looked back over at Max. “The notes say you’ve seen some dramatic changes in your vision?”

“Yes,” Max agreed.

“Well, let's get you looked at, and go from there.”

“Okay.”

The doctor pushed his wire-framed glasses up on his nose. “How old are you, Max?”

“Twenty-six, sir,” Max said.

“It’s not uncommon for a man of your age to start seeing a decline in his vision. Often times it's something that can easily be fixed with a prescription for some glasses or contacts.” He pulled up the photos the tech had taken of his eyes earlier in the exam, then turned to face Max. “Have you ever been prescribed glasses?”

“No, sir.”

“And it says here that your mother does not need or wear any corrective lenses.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“And you said no answer for your father, do you have any knowledge of his medical history pertaining to vision?”

“No, sir. My father was never in my life.”

“And how was your vision growing up? Did you ever struggle to see the whiteboard at school? Or have you ever needed to pull a book closer when you read?”

“Night vision has been an issue for as long as I can remember. But other than that, I’ve never had any other issues with my vision until…” Max trailed off. Being diagnosed was one thing, but saying the symptoms out loud was something else. It was terrifying. Max felt like a dog with his tail between his legs.

“Until?” the doctor prompted.

“Until this summer, when I started to struggle adjusting to the change in lighting. It’s like I can’t refocus when it changes dramatically.”

The doctor's face fell just a bit as he looked closer at the photos of Max’s eyes, a newfound hint of worry lining his brow.

“I see. Any other challenges? Or is it just trouble adjusting?” the doctor asked.

“No, that's it,” Max lied, and his leg began to bounce. The doctor took notice of this, and Max stilled.

“Well, there is only one way to find out what you’ve got going on here, son,” the doctor said. “We’ll start with testing your visual acuity.” The doctor rolled over to the light switch and flicked it off. Max squinted at the sudden lack of light, trying to blink away the darkness that engulfed him as his eyes struggled to adjust.

“Ok, son. Go ahead and read me the first line.”

Max took a second, then another second, and then one more, allowing time for his vision to adjust before he began to read.

As the exam went on, the doctor's demeanor changed, the easy inviting smile he introduced himself with grew weary, and then, Max watched as all notes for a positive evaluation faded. The doctor looked into his eyes after dilating them, letting out a discouraged sigh.

“Max, have you by chance looked into the symptoms you’re experiencing at all?”

Of course he had. He had googled his symptoms. He had searched Web MD just like most idiots, realizing that the best-case scenario was that he needed glasses, and the worst-case scenario… cancer, because everything on WebMD had the possibility of being cancer. But it wasn't either of those things that scared him the most. The best or the worst he could live or die with. It was the in-between diagnosis that terrified him.

“I have,” Max said.

“So, as you know, I am just an optometrist. I deal with your more common health and vision issues like myopia, hyperopia, astigmatism, eye infection, and inflammation, to name a few. But what I’m seeing when I use this guy,” he said, holding up the ophthalmoscope, “is something I don’t specialize in.”

“What did you see?” Max asked.

“I’m seeing something we call pigment clumping, located in your retina, which is a characteristic of something called retinitis pigmentosa.”

“And what does that mean?” Max asked.

“It can mean a number of things, Max, some of which could be more severe than others.”

More severe than others.

He felt his entire body overheat.

Sweat gathered on his brow, and he felt all color fall from his face as panic flooded him.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry.

“So, before you panic,” the doctor said, but it was too late, Max was already panicking. “I want you to make an appointment with an ophthalmologist. They have better tools and tests they can run to narrow down what's going on and get you more concrete answers.”

“I thought you were an optometrist . Isn’t that an eye doctor?” Max asked, suddenly feeling angry at the lack of help he felt he was getting. He didn't want another appointment, he wanted treatment, and to hear what he needed to do to be okay. To make the save. To get the start. To win the game.

“You’re right, I am an optometrist , son. You need to see the guy above me I’m afraid. I can give you a referral to a good friend of mine if you’d—”

Max cut him off. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just…” Max stood to leave, but his head was fuzzy. He felt like he might pass out, or scream, or break something. Fuck, he felt like he might cry.

“Son,” the doctor called out, causing Max to pause, “can I make a suggestion?”

No.

No suggestions.

Just answers.

He wanted answers.

“Yes,” Max said.

“Talk to your mom. Try and find out if your dad has any history with his vision. You might get answers that way.”

Max gave the doctor a nod and left without saying another word.