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T he playoffs went by in a blaze as Max sat back and watched his team push forward win after win. Brown was mesmerizing in front of the net, making the hard saves look easy; Max found himself toeing the line between jealousy and pride. If he couldn’t be the one making the save, he would be happy it was Brown. Even the few games Brody, the backup goalie, played had left Max feeling like his team was in good hands. He could let them go knowing they would thrive in the future without him.

Free time between playoff games and cleaning houses was filled with visits to the Lighthouse facility. Max was learning how to prepare his home for the future with things like bump dots and playing with lighting options, as well as hiring a painter to paint all the door frames in the house to create a contrast of colors while that would still help. They had also done some simple fixes, removed area rugs that weren’t necessary, got special bump coded cutting boards, and even added floor and table lights to help with his night vision.

He found himself letting go of his denial towards his diagnosis little by little with each trip to Lighthouse. Being around other people with vision impairments helped him accept that he needed to start learning things now, because they would be even harder to grasp later when his vision was gone entirely. He signed up to learn how to use a cane, and how to navigate different apps and technology that would help along the way with things he didn’t even consider, things like telling time, and reading a dinner menu.

Since he found out about his retinitis pigmentosa, he had only focused on the loss of his career. He hadn’t even considered the day-to-day things he would eventually have to relearn to do without his vision.

The community of people he met through Lighthouse were slowly becoming his second family, Shepard the guide dog included. They offered encouragement and reminded him it’s okay to laugh and make jokes, because if you didn’t, someone else would, and why not laugh at your own expense.

Max had even let Remi and Nicole, the facility manager, convince him to sign up for counseling. At first, he was hesitant to accept the idea. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about going blind in a stuffy room with someone he didn’t know, when words were not his strong suit to begin with. But, after his first session with Dr. Hill, he realized this was bigger than going blind. He was going to have to rethink his entire lifestyle, so, why not get a head start on the overwhelming anxiety and deep bouts of depression before it got out of control?

He and Dr. Hill didn’t only talk about RP. Some days they talked about hockey. Those days Max left wondering what was harder, losing his vision or losing his spot in front of the net.

He couldn’t be sure.

The hockey season was almost over. Even from the box, with the cool arena air on his warm, anxious face, Max felt it coming to an end. If the Condors won tonight’s game against the Carolina Storms, they would secure the most coveted trophy in hockey, the Stanley Cup, ending Max’s career for good on the highest note possible.

He helped Remi pull the teal blue jersey over her head, his number thirty-one on the back along with his last name, Miller; it looked so good on her it hurt. He almost wished he had never seen her wear it, and he almost wished she had never known him in this season of life at all, never experiencing these two parts of his world overlapping: Max before RP and Max after.

Even with those thoughts swirling in his mind, he noticed how Remi handled it all so effortlessly, with simple jokes and greeting his fellow Condors with ease, like they were family. A few other players on injured reserve were in the box with him and Remi, and the overall mood was intense. This could be the night; the Condors could win their first Cup in sixteen years. As the arena filled with fans wearing jerseys, some with painted faces, some with his number on their back, Max could feel it, he could feel the win deep in his bones. He knew it was their night, he could feel it in the way the tips of his fingers tingled like they used to when he was in the net.

His goalie intuition had returned one last time.

They went to take their seats; the Cup was in the building and the game was about to start. Remi went to sit on the right side of him, and on instinct Max stopped her. “Not here. You have to sit to the left of me, if you sit to the right, its bad luck.”

Remi took the seat to his left, a small smile on her face, an understanding that only a goalie girlfriend got, even if she had only been introduced to this crazy world months ago. “We’re going to win tonight,” Max said.

“Yeah?” Remi asked.

“Yeah. I can feel it.” He looked out at the ice and it was nothing more than a blur. His stomach dropped. He blinked. He blinked again, and if he did it quickly, he might be able to wipe away the tears without anyone noticing.

Remi took his hand and in the palm of hers was a tissue. She gave him a comforting squeeze, then placed her head on his shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said, glad he didn’t have to lie to her.

“That’s okay,” she said, and he could tell by the way the voices in the box grew hushed that the puck had dropped.

***

The first period ended with the Condors up 1–0. Brown was standing on his head, and their captain, Patrick Carter, had the first goal of the night. Max felt his anxiety growing with every cheer and boo of the crowd on a play he couldn’t see, with every kiss-cam on the jumbotron—he would never know if it was him and Remi on the screen.

But the Condors were winning.

This was going to be okay.

“Max.” Clay Adams, a marketing director for the Condors, greeted him during intermission. “Any word when we’ll see you back on the ice?”

“Well,” Max said, “if they win tonight, it won’t be this season,” he joked, to avoid admitting the truth. Some of the team’s affiliates knew, some didn’t, and in those cases, he found himself bullshitting his way out of admitting his secret.

“Big bridge contract year for you,” he said, and Max could tell it was more a question than a statement, but Clay would have to wait like the rest of the Condors community to find out what the future held. Max wasn’t giving anything away, not here, not now. Not in the box at the Stanley Cup finals.

“I can’t talk about it yet.” Max lied again, remembering the time Remi gave him the green light to tell a lie, or hide the truth if he had to, and right now, Max had to. For his own mental health.

“Ah, right. Big hush-hush until the ink dries,” Clay said, playfully punching Max’s shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but Max instinctually brought his hand up to rub there.

“Something like that,” Max said, but he knew the only ink that would be drying was his signature on his resignation letter.

The lights in the arena went down, and before Max could panic at the sudden shift in lighting, Remi had his hand in hers.

“You’re anxious,” she said.

“I am.”

“Do you want to leave?”

He looked over at her and simply said, “I can’t.”

She leaned her head onto his shoulder. “I know. I don’t know why I offered that.”

“Could you maybe try and tell me what’s going on in the game?” he asked, his voice cracking as it came out.

Remi looked over at him, a single-dimple smile on her face, her eyes sympathetic and kind. “I can try.”

“I’d really like that.”

“I don’t know the proper terminology,” she said.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “That’s okay. I don’t think anything could make me happier right now than you trying to explain hockey play-by-play to me, in my jersey, at the Stanley Cup finals.”

Remi laughed, but not her happy-go-lucky laugh that he had gotten used to. This laugh was love, understanding, and the emotional depth that he never realized a single laugh could hold.

“Okay,” she said, steadying herself next to him. Her chest puffed up as she prepared to take on the role of his personal announcer for the remainder of the game.

He looked over at her, her eyes were wild and so blue, but then the lights came up in the arena.

He blinked.

He blinked again.

She was still there.

Nothing else mattered.

“Okay, so they are going at it behind the net, and the Storms player is like, pinning the Condor up against the wall-thingy,” she said, then laughed, “I’m going to butcher your sport, and you are going to dump me.”

“No way.” He smiled over at her. “Keep going.”

“Okay. So, the big dude finally eased up. Your guy has the puck and he’s going with it…”

He corrected her. “Is he skating it up the ice ?” he asked, giving her some proper terminology.

She looked over at him and pressed her finger to his nose. “Ding-ding-ding,” she said, booping him. “Those are exactly the words I was looking for.”

He laughed, the box around them was noisy, the drinks were flowing, and no one was focused on them, and even if they were he didn’t care. His secret would come out after the playoffs were over anyway, he might as well enjoy this last game on his own terms.

“Ohhhhh,” Remi shouted, “Brown just made a super good save.”

Max felt his body recoil. Remi leaned in and kissed his neck, and his skin heated instantly. “He’s good, but he’s no Max Miller,” she whispered.

The crowd was loud, a drumbeat played out on the speakers and the fans knew to clap and cheer, “Go, go, Condors. Go, go, go!”

Remi joined in, clapping and chanting. She looked over at him, her brows lifted, challenging him.

He rose to the occasion. “Go, go, Condors,” he shouted, clapping along. “Go-go-GO!”

They laughed, and Remi gave him her best play-by-play into the end of the second period. The Condors were up 2–1.

***

Remi leaned into Max, her hand in his, gripping it tight. The emotions in the box, hell, the emotions in the entire arena were high, and the excitement in the air was so thick you could cut it.

“Three minutes,” Remi said. Her play-by-play of the game had turned into a countdown. A loss of words swept over her as she experienced the best hockey there was for the first time in her life—playoff hockey—Stanley Cup hockey.

“Two minutes…” She paused, bringing her hands to her chest in panic. “Fuck, I thought they had that one.” She released a deep breath, and went on, “Two minutes, or less than two now.”

Max didn’t even try to watch the ice at this point. He didn’t even care what the blurry figures below looked like, not when he could watch the final moments through Remi’s facial expressions. Her deep inhale of breath, followed by a sharp exhale. She gripped his thigh and then dug her nails into his arm, then slapped his leg in excitement.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Max. Max. Max,” she said, bouncing up and down in her seat.

He knew exactly what she meant.

“Oh, my fucking… Max. Max,” she kept on saying.

He knew exactly what was happening.

She pulled him to his feet. His heart raced. His eyes blurred. He blinked.

“Five seconds.”

He blinked.

She began to jump up and down.

The whole arena counted down.

“Four-three-two…”

Remi jumped into his arms. She was screaming, “We did it, Max! We won the fucking Stanley Cup.”

He blinked.

And then he celebrated as tears fell from his eyes, down to his thick red beard.

They did it.

The Cup was theirs.

Only he wouldn’t be hoisting it, and he wouldn’t be getting his name on it. He wouldn’t be drinking lemonade from the farmers market from it with Remi, or eating hummus and pretzels from it. And he wouldn’t be skating on the ice with it held over his head, nervous he might drop it, too excited to care.

He blinked and pulled Remi into his arms.

“We sure did, Remi. We won it,” he said, because he was celebrating the wins, and despite all the things he couldn’t and wouldn’t do with the Cup, he still felt like he won.