Page 27

“ O kay, boys. Listen up. As we head into the holidays, we have advantages and disadvantages. The holiday break in December means we get to see our families, have a few days to relax, fuck your girls, fuck your wives, hell, fuck yourself,” Carter said with a smug grin to his team after a quick practice in Colorado. The boys were amped up at the mention of getting their dicks wet, and Max found himself unable to deny the strain he felt in his cup at the mention of it as well. Seeing Remi and spending different holidays with her made him excited, it was uncharted water for him.

This road trip had been especially hard on the entire team with the Condors losing Levi Holland, the team’s top goal scorer this season, to an upper-body injury from a bad cross-check by Sergey Petrov, an asshole defenseman who played for Seattle.

The captain went on after they all settled down. “We have a lot of hockey left to play before Christmas, so we need to keep our heads in the game. Next week is Thanksgiving and we all know what they say, if you're not sitting in a playoff spot by Thanksgiving, your chances are not as high. Right now, I think we’re sitting pretty if we can keep playing our game and not get distracted.” His eyes roamed over the team, landing on a few players who were known to party a little too hard. “If we keep taking chances,” he said as his eyes fell on Marks, a rookie who had a four-game point streak, “and, if we stay healthy.” His eyes then fell on Max, and Max’s gaze fell to the ground; all the while, he could feel Brown glaring at him from across the locker room.

“Our advantage is that we’re playing good fucking hockey lately, boys. Our disadvantage is that so is everyone else. We’re all pushing to clinch a playoff spot. We’re also all ready for the Holiday break, but we don't take a break until we win that fucking Cup, you hear me?” he said, his voice growing louder, more intense as the team began to bang their lockers with sturdy fists as they agreed with their well-respected captain.

“Get some sleep tonight. Colorado may be on fire, but we’re taking the two points tomorrow,” he said, ending his little speech by patting Brown, who was sitting on the bench next to him, on the shoulder.

Max looked over at Brown, waiting for him to make eye contact. Things had been weird since their little talk. Brown avoided looking at Max as he began to strip down from his pads, and Max knew the only way he was going to get the chance to have a much-needed talk with his fellow goalie was to get him alone. Lucky for Max, with Brody being sent back down to the minors, it left them rooming together tonight in Colorado.

When Max got back to the hotel after the team’s practice skate, he stopped by the small convenience store to grab two tall cans of beer, way too many random bags of candy, and a bag of classic Doritos. It was a peace offering of junk food and a hope that Brown would hear him out and agree to keep his secret until Max was ready to tell the team.

In hopes that Brown would carry his secret while Max still had time left.

Normality left.

Vision left.

Hockey left in him.

Max knocked on the door before entering, waiting for Brown to give him the all-clear to come in. It wasn't a rule on the road, but it was common courtesy. After weeks of being away from loved ones, girlfriends, wives, and secret lovers, it wasn't unheard of for the guys to make a quick phone call or FaceTime or to even have a visitor over to the hotel room to help “relieve” some road stress.

“Come in,” Brown shouted, giving Max the okay to enter. When he did, he found Brown facing the opposite direction, talking on the phone under his breath. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “but if I get picked, I have to play babe. It’s the all-star game, you don’t get a choice.”

Max ran a hand along the wall as he made his way to his bed, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim lighting of the hotel room.

“Okay, babe. Yeah,” Brown went on, “I’ll let you know how it goes. I love you too. Bye.”

Max took a seat on his bed and waited for Brown to acknowledge him.

He wasn't good at this sort of thing, at talking, at starting conversations, and yet, here he was, in the same room as his friend and teammate, trying. While he knew what he needed to say, old habits die hard, and the words didn't come, as they often didn’t for Max.

He cracked open a beer and took a long drink, causing Brown to turn and face him.

“You bring me one?” he asked, his face uncertain, but Max was grateful the young player was the one to break the ice.

“I did.” Max reached into the bag and pulled out the other tall can.

“Busch?” Brown asked.

“Listen, it wasn’t a beer garden down there.”

Brown smiled, this made Max relax just enough to hold out the bag of junk food. “I brought snacks.”

“Why?” Brown asked, but not without reaching for the bag and sifting through the obnoxious amount of candy.

“Because I thought it might help me say what I have to say.”

Brown shook his head. “Do I even want to know?”

“No. You probably won't like it, and I’ll be asking you to keep it a secret from our team, so there’s that.”

“Then don't say it, Miller. That last talk we had got in my head, and it fucked with me. I feel like I’m keeping this big secret already, only, I don’t know what the secret is. It’s fucked up, man. It’s fucked because I know something isn’t right. I know you; I know your game. I know the way you play, skate, and make saves, and something isn't right , Max.”

Max took the bag of snacks from Brown after he settled on a bag of sour candy.

“Your thoughts are valid,” Max offered.

“Then what is it? Why do I feel like you're about to tell me you're leaving the Condors? Did you get a better offer for your bridge contract? Is it Coach? Was it the start of the season? Everyone has a few off games,” the young goalie argued.

“It wasn't just a bad start to the season, Jack, and you know it. I’m pushing dirt around out there, and I know you see it because you just said so yourself.”

“Yeah, but you’re still making the save.”

“ Some saves, Jack.”

“You can’t expect to save them all,” his fellow goalie argued.

“But it’s getting harder and harder. Every game feels like my last,” Max said, his voice trailing off.

“But you’re making saves, some saves. We’re winning. We’re on track for the playoffs,” Brown argued.

“This is all true, but it’s not if I’m making the saves, it's how I’m making them. And for how long? I don’t know, man. It’s not good.”

Brown brought his hands anxiously through his hair, his face distressed. “The candy, it's not making this any easier by the way.”

“I know,” Max agreed. “It was a stupid idea.”

“So, rip the Band-Aid off, Miller. Spill the beans.”

Max ran nervous hands over his sweatpants and his knee began to bounce. Words were what he always thought would end him, and now, he knew they might be all he had left one day.

“I went to a doctor,” he said, then specified, “an eye doctor, outside of the NHL.”

“Why?” Brown asked, and it was a question laced with so many different variations of that simple word. Why? Why an eye doctor? Why not the team doctor? Why are you telling me this? Why.

“Over the summer, I started to notice some drastic changes in my vision. At night, mostly, and now, looking back, it’s been my whole life really. I was just living in denial—”

Brown cut him off. “Yeah, because you're getting old. You can get Lasik, you’re a fucking millionaire.”

“That’s what I thought too, but it started to progressively get worse, and then it was time for the pre-season, and I was panicking. It was getting to a point where seeing the puck was hard. I didn’t want to see a doctor out of fear that he might tell me my worst-case scenario, but not knowing what was wrong was messing me up in front of the net almost as much as not being able to see.”

“But you were just in your head. Anxiety can make your vision blurry, man. I know. I’ve had that happen to me before in college.”

“I wish I could say it was that, that it’s just my vision getting worse with age. That a quick surgery, a pill, or some glasses would solve all my problems.”

“But?” Brown asked.

“But that's not the case… my case anyway. The eye doctor saw something bad; he wants me to see a specialist to confirm his suspicions.”

“So, you’re not sure then, right? You still need to see the specialist to confirm what he said? He could be wrong, Max.”

“No. He’s not wrong. I talked to my dad on the phone,” Max said.

“No way. How’d that go?”

Max cleared his throat, then went on. “As good as it could have gone considering he told me he’s blind and that I will most likely be too one day.”

Brown cracked open his beer and took a long swig, and Max did the same. They both took a second to process. It would have been an awkward silence, but this was two goalies; things were bound to be weird from time to time, it was in their DNA after all.

Max took another drink.

Brown spun the silver tab on the can over and over.

“So, what does that mean? What does him being blind have to do with you? What makes your situation so different from anyone else with vision loss? Why can’t you just get contacts or something?”

“Because,” Max said, “I seem to have inherited a disease from him, one that will inevitably make me go blind.”

“And you’re sure there’s nothing you can do to stop this from happening? I mean, modern medicine is wild. There have to be other options.”

“The only thing I can do is prepare for it. That’s why I’m telling you,” Max said.

“And then what? What happens next?” Brown asked.

“I have to tell the team that this is my last year.”

Brown stopped fidgeting with the beer can.

Max placed his hand on his knee to steady it.

“When do you plan to do this?” Brown asked.

Max bit at his bottom lip, his red beard longer than normal and in desperate need of a trim.

“When I stop making the saves,” Max said, his voice shaky, his words cracked and laced with a sad underlying certainty that this day would come, and it would be sooner than later.

“And what am I supposed to do with this information?” Jack asked. Max thought he sounded hurt, or confused, and Max could handle those things, he could handle anything as long as it wasn’t pity.

“Be ready,” Max said.

“Be ready for what?” he asked.

“Be ready to take my place when I can’t stop the puck anymore.”