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T he cool air of the arena hit Max’s face sending a chill down his spine. The smell of the building was so familiar, so refreshing, and so comforting—it was good to be back. His time off was up, it was time to face his coach and see where they went from here.

The words of his father felt like an anchor in his chest, securing his fate from drifting. This generational curse wasn't going anywhere, it was his to keep, his to share. It was his to carry, be it alone or with the ones who loved him.

He was going blind, that he was certain, and he didn’t know what he was going to do with that information just yet.

He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t fucking ready.

This was supposed to be his big year.

“Have a seat, son,” Coach offered, as Max entered the office. “How was your time off?” he asked. A dozen memories, good and bad, flooded Max's brain. Remi and closets, phone calls and doctor's visits, and the sound of his father’s voice that resembled his own.

“It was hard to be away from the team,” Max said.

“And do you feel like you sorted your shit out? Got some rest, got laid, whatever it was you needed to do to get back on your A-game?”

“I did.” Max lied.

“How are you feeling about hitting the ice today?”

“I feel ready.” He lied again.

Lies were becoming his entire identity.

“Good. Brody is out with an injury. That leaves Brown healthy, and you, well, I don't know, are you healthy?”

“I’m very healthy,” Max said, and it wasn't a lie. His vitals were good, and his body was in amazing shape. There wasn't anything wrong with his health per se. So, unless Coach asked for specifics, on paper Max was pretty damn healthy. He wasn’t going to drop dead on the ice or start bleeding from his ears anytime soon.

“I want to see you at practice. Suit up. If you don’t perform, you’re going to see the team doctor. And if you refuse this time, you can kiss your career goodbye. I’ve had enough of the runaround. I want you healthy, or I want you getting treated, but I won't settle for the unknown bullshit, Miller. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Max agreed, and the clock was officially ticking down to the end.

Max was greeted by his teammates with warm embraces and words of affirmation. They had missed him. He had been so wrapped up in his own shit that he didn't even realize he missed them too. They had been his only family since he was drafted. They were the first group of people that stuck around and showed up for him. He hugged them back and fought back the tears that wanted to make an emotional ass out of him.

While putting on his gear, Max could feel Brown staring at him from across the locker room. They were teammates, but they were also both goalies, so they spent a lot of time together in training camps and conditioning. Max realized that somewhere in all of this he had let resentment towards Brown seep in, causing him to distance himself from the young man. A man who at one time or another had called Max his hero and mentor.

Max met his gaze, and Brown's eyes dropped to the floor. Max wasn't good at this sort of thing, he was just as awkward as the next goalie, but he knew he needed to talk to the young player, tell him he was proud of him, and thank him for showing up for the team. Their team.

He made his way around the benches slowly. The commotion of pre-practice skate went quiet as Max broke his superstitious ways to go talk to Brown. Because what was superstition going to do for Max now? He was past the point of that. He needed more than good luck and a strong set of routines now. He needed a miracle, and he was pretty damn sure walking across the locker room wasn't going to change his destiny at this point.

“Mind if I have a seat?” he asked his fellow goalie, who immediately made room for him on the bench. Max scrunched up his face at Brown, realizing he was still a little superstitious. “Can I be on the other side?” Max asked, hinting to the left of Brown, “It’s a goalie thing.”

Brown quickly scooted the other way knowing all too well about goalie superstitions, and Max took a seat.

“I want you to know that I’m grateful for you,” Max managed.

Brown tensed at his words.

“It’s hard letting your team down.” Max went on, “But I think it would be a lot harder if I didn’t have you to take my place. If I can’t help the team win, I’m happy you can.”

“I don’t want to take your place, Max, not yet,” Brown admitted sincerely. “You’re still the number one goalie for this team, Millsy. I know my place.”

“It’s our place. There is no number one. Not anymore. It’s me and you, and one day, it's going to be you and Brody. And I need you to know that when that day comes, I’m good with it,” Max said, his voice cracking despite how strong he was trying to be.

“Yeah, but you’re just getting started, Millsy. You’re going to sign your big contract this year, and I’m going to wait my turn.”

Max lowered his head and ran his fingers through his thick red hair.

“Brown, I won't get the big contract this year,” he said under his breath.

The young goalie just sat there, unable to speak, unable to process what Max had just said.

“I won't get the big contract, but I’m also not ready to say goodbye,” he admitted.

“What are you saying?” Brown asked.

“I’m just saying what you're all thinking.”

“We all just want you to be okay. That’s all anyone wants.”

Max reached out and patted the young goalie on the shoulder. “Buckle up, man. Your time is coming sooner than you expected,” Max said, standing to leave.

“But what does that even mean?” Brown asked, his face lined with worry.

Max just gave him a knowing smile, brought his finger up to his lips. and gestured for him to keep quiet, because what he had just said was their little goalie secret—for now.