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I t was game one of the playoffs.

His team had made the playoffs.

He wouldn’t be playing, not tonight in Anaheim, and not at the next game in San Jose against the Threshers. While it pained Max to be back in this arena in a suit instead of his jersey, he knew he had to be there. For his team, for his own mental health, and because he wanted to share this with Remi while it still felt like it was his.

She sat next to him, holding his hand, and he couldn’t help but love the way she looked in the fresh Condors hoodie he got for her to wear to the game. The other players and Condor’s affiliates in the box welcomed Remi with open arms, like a family member, while they expressed their condolences to Max. Some of them handled it better than others; they asked good questions and didn’t shy away from his situation. Some treated him like he was given a death sentence—those were the harder people to deal with. At the end of the day, he just wanted everyone to treat him normally and look him in the eyes when they spoke to him. He didn’t want his vision loss to be the main character in his life, not when only a month ago he was Max Miller, the goalie.

They all stood as the National Anthem was sung. Max closed his eyes to steady his breathing, to try and calm his heart rate, to prepare for what was to come. Puck drop. Brown in net. The timer showing fifteen minutes. Game one out of a possible seven-game series.

The Stanley Cup playoffs—it was the hardest trophy to win—and he would never know what it felt like.

This would be okay.

He would be okay.

The anthem ended, and everyone in the box clapped and cheered as the lights came up. Max blinked. He blinked again. If he was in the net at this very moment, he wouldn’t be able to see his own feet, let alone a tiny black puck. His stomach ached with longing to turn back time to when he still thought he just needed glasses for night driving, a time when he thought everyone struggled to make out sharp images in the dark, a time when he was unaware and na?ve enough to hide away in his denial.

The puck dropped and the game was officially underway, but Max couldn’t make out anything past the box.

“You, okay?” Remi asked, leaning into his ear, “You look pale.”

“Low blood sugar,” he joked, but both he and Remi knew that wasn’t the case.

“Blood sugar aside, how’s your heart? How’s your head?” she asked.

He wiped anxious hands on his deep blue suit pants. “Heart is very happy that you’re next to me. Head…” he said and stopped to think, “My head is a mess, Rem.”

“You know, we don’t have to stay,” she assured him. “Your team will understand.”

He looked around the box, some of the people affiliated with his team were standing and watching with plates of food in their hands, others sat in their seats, their focus intent on the game. He didn’t miss the way their eyes found his before darting back to the ice. Pity. He hated it.

“I want to stay,” he said.

“Okay. Is there anything I can do to make this easier?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me know if the other team scores,” he said, his voice a fine line between sarcasm and defeat.

The crowd was loud. Their cheers seemed to rattle the arena, and Max could feel the pulse of the building under his feet. A good save: they cheered. A goal: they jumped to their feet to sing out the Condor’s anthem. A bad call: boos, and chants that the refs sucked filled the air. And the win—the first win—of this round of the playoffs against a West Coast rival team, and Max could feel the excitement all around him. He could feel the victory. Even from the stands, even in his suit, even without being able to make out his teammates on the ice celebrating, he could feel it all.

Winning still felt good.

It still felt like this victory was his to celebrate.

His heart raced with joy for his team, and it felt really fucking good to win, even if he wasn’t the one in the net.

They drove down the Pacific Coast Highway back to his house in silence after the game. Max could feel Remi’s need for conversation, he knew her mind must be flooded with questions, and concerns.

“I need you to do something for me when we get home,” he finally said.

“Anything,” she agreed, she always did.

He pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay? What does that even mean? What did I just agree to?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

Remi laughed. “Max Miller, tell me right meow.”

Nope. Even with a cat joke, she would have to wait.

***

They got back to his house and as part of their new routine, their new lifestyle that had somehow fallen together so effortlessly, Remi led the way, flipping on each light switch as she walked through the house.

“Sit at the bar,” he said, disappearing into his room.

“If you don’t come out naked wearing only your hockey helmet, I’m leaving,” she teased, draping the floral print farmers market tote he had gotten her months ago over the back of one of the barstools.

“I don’t even have a helmet here, but it’s good to know I still have a reason to own one,” he shouted from his room.

When he returned, he held a little leather box with a zipper keeping it closed. He set it on the counter, then circled around the bar to grab the plastic wrap from the pantry. Piece by piece he lined a small portion of the bar top.

“Well?” she asked as he unzipped the black box.

“I need you to tattoo me,” he said, at the same exact moment that Remi saw the tattoo gun.

“My name?” she joked.

He looked up at her, his cheeks blushing, his eyes so green. “One day.”

“Ha,” she said. “Okay, for real, what am I tattooing on you, because I can’t even draw stick figures. Art is not in my wheelhouse.”

Max poured black ink into a small cap and then turned on the gun, testing to make sure it worked. It buzzed in his hand, then he turned it off and set it down. Button by button his dress shirt came off. Remi instantly knew what this was about the second she laid eyes on his naked ribs.

A tally mark.

“But you didn’t lose tonight, Max,” she said under her breath.

He lifted his right arm and exposed the bare skin there, not a single tally mark to be seen.

“I’m done keeping track of my losses Remi. I thought I would do one last tally mark, but this time, to signify my wins. I have you, I have this beautiful house, the beach, and my whole life ahead of me. I’m ready to lay my losses to rest.”

Remi climbed into his lap, straddling him, kissing him like this was the only way she knew how to celebrate him. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close as he kissed her back. At first, the kiss was rushed and messy, but realizing they had all the time in the world, it slowed to something sweet and reassuring.

A kiss can say so many things.

Tonight, it said, I’m proud of you.

As their lips slowed and his grip on her loosened, Remi pulled away just enough to take in the sight of him up close and personal. His beard and mustache were so perfectly trimmed. His hair thick and well-kept. His eyes were green and heavy. His cheeks flushed by just their kissing alone—the beauty of dating a ginger. He was handsome and wonderful, and she didn’t know how this man of few words had transformed into the one giving her the best conversations of her life, but she wouldn’t question it. No one questions the way the waves tease, threatening to move forward onto the shore only to pull back just when you thought it might touch your bare feet in the sand. So, she wouldn’t question how she got so lucky with Max.

Once her client, now her lover.

Life was weird and wonderful, and for the first time in a long time, Remi wished her mother were here to see this, to see her in love, successful, and thriving.

“So, how does this work?” she asked, eying the tattoo gun and fresh cap of ink.

“Just press the needle to my skin like a pencil.”

“What if I press too hard?”

“You won’t. It’s easy to grasp how deep you are the second you touch the needle to my skin.”

“Why can’t you just do it? You did all your other tattoos,” she asked.

“I’m not left-handed,” he teased.

“It’s a simple line.”

He leaned in and kissed her, pushing her hair behind her ears. “Exactly.”

Remi shook her head with a playful grin and leaned across the bar to get the tattoo gun. She turned it on, the buzz tickling her hand, then dipped the needle into the black cap of ink. Max sat back in the chair and lifted his arm above his head, his strong body elongated, his ribs exposed, the muscles in his arms stretched. She felt something stir deep in her stomach. Something about this exchange was so intimate, so sexy. His trust in her—it made her want him more than ever.

“Okay,” she said. “Here it goes.”

His eyes locked on hers. “To celebrating the wins,” he said.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek before bringing the needle to the soft skin of his ribs. Drawing the gun down, she felt the buzz and pull as she watched a single line appear there.

A tally mark.

A forever of wins.