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T he press room was packed with reporters. Max peeked in to see what he was up against, and despite having practiced his speech with Remi a million times, words were still hard, and press releases were harder, but announcing a retirement was the hardest of all.

His coach took a seat at the desk, a black tablecloth draped over it, a microphone and two bottles of water all lined up on the table. Max wondered if anyone ever drank the water they provided. The reporters’ phones, cameras, and recorders all shot into the air as a loud hush settled around them in the press room when his Coach leaned forward to speak.

“Thank you for being here today. After a big win this past week, the Stanley Cup is back home in the beautiful city of Anaheim for the first time in sixteen years. With spirits high surrounding this franchise, this is not the news I was hoping to bring into the press room today, but full transparency is the only way to go about what I have to share with you. It might be the hardest thing I’ve had to say at a press conference, so I’ll keep it brief so you can get more information from the source.

“Today, I am here in support of one of the greatest goalies to protect the net for the Anaheim Condors, Max Miller. I have been lucky enough to watch him grow as a player, and a person, and become a man I respect wholeheartedly as a friend, teammate, and son. Max Miller came to Anaheim a shy redheaded teen with a killer glove save and a lot of weird superstitions, and he will leave here today a Stanley Cup winner, even if he wasn’t on the ice that day. The work he put into this team in the years leading up to this big win played a vital role in why we were able to hoist the Cup last week. The extra hours he put into practicing and mentoring with our up-and-coming goalies was the foundation and future of men like Brown and Brody, and many goalies to come as Max Miller’s infinite wisdom, passion, and composure will trickle down to the next generation even after he is gone.

“There will never be another number thirty-one for the Anaheim Condors, and if I’m being honest, I doubt any player would feel worthy to wear that number again after today, as we say goodbye to the legacy of Max Miller and wish him a happy retirement.”

The press room went wild. Cameras flashed. Hands raised into the air. Reporters shouted out questions.

“Please allow me in welcoming Max Miller.”

Max blinked, wiped his nervous hands on his suit pants, and made his way to the press table.

Looking out, he scanned the sea of reporters, all of their faces distorted, the flash of the lights making his focus struggle. He knew Remi was out there, in the sea of strangers. He knew she was there giving him the go-ahead. She was there, with a double-dimple smile, encouraging him.

He blinked again, and then he began to talk.

“This wasn’t the press release I thought I would be giving this year. I think it’s safe to say this isn’t the press release any of you were expecting today. This was supposed to be my big contract, my gap year, locking in my time with the Condors, the only team I played for in the NHL and the only team I’d want to. But last summer, during training, I noticed a shift in my reality that would forever change the course of my life and ultimately my career.

“As you all know, after the events that took place on December 23 rd in Vancouver, I was put on medical leave, and not much information has been shared since. So, with full transparency, I’m here today to not only announce my retirement from the NHL, but to take this opportunity to use this platform, this moment, with all eyes on me, to bring awareness to my condition.

“I have an inherited eye disorder called retinitis pigmentosa. This disorder will eventually leave me legally blind, and there is nothing I can do to stop it or slow my vision loss. It’s out of my control, and I’m still working on accepting that fate. Some days I find optimism in the programs, technology, and support that I have been lucky enough to find in the vision-impaired community. And some days, I couldn’t buy a positive thought, even if I drained my entire life savings.

“This is one of the hardest moments of my life. Right now. Sharing this with all of you, with my fans, with my Condors community… my Condors family . But if I can, in this moment that feels so heavy and bleak, bring awareness and share the deep-rooted hope that I have found with others in the vision-impaired community, then that’s the only way I want to spend this press conference.

“I started to see signs of vision loss far earlier in life than I realized. Looking back now, I remember being a young boy and already struggling to see at night. Things that other kids did with ease, I struggled with, but my na?ve mindset told me this was normal, no one could see clearly in the dark. As time went on my night vision progressively got worse, but denial set in, and I continued to do things that could have jeopardized my safety along with the safety of others. I continued to drive, despite knowing how dangerous it had become, and continued to tell myself I just needed glasses to fix it.

“But still, I put off seeing an eye doctor. I think that was because deep down, in my gut, I knew there was something bigger that needed to be addressed. Over my years in the NHL, I continued to play and found ways to work around the symptoms that were slowly creeping in. My struggle with different lighting, floaters, contrast, and eventually the loss of my peripheral vision beat out my denial, forcing me to see a doctor. From that day forward, my journey with RP began.

“I know you are probably wondering how knowing you have RP can help if there is no way to stop it, and I want to say I sadly don’t have some magical cure. If I did, I wouldn’t be announcing my retirement today, but I can say there are steps you can take to prepare yourself for the future. There are tools, technology, and support groups that can ease you into your future with vision impairments. I’m here to encourage my community, both hockey and vision impaired, to get your eyes checked regularly. I want to encourage you not to hide your diagnosis from friends and family. I want to encourage you to see a counselor. It’s important to protect your mental health, because I will be the first to admit that while right now, I look composed and unbothered, I’m actually terrified. I am heartbroken, and I too, did not want to talk about it. But even as a man who has not always been great at words, I want my final thought today to be this:

"Vision impairment is not my entire identity now. I am still Max. I still want to sign your jerseys and talk hockey. I still want you to treat me like a person, look me in the eyes, make jokes, and most importantly, ask me the hard questions about the things you don’t understand, because the only thing that sucks worse than going blind, is being treated like you’re invisible.

“So, as I enter my retirement, I want to start it off with a donation to The Lighthouse Organization for the Blind. If you, or anyone you know, might be experiencing the symptoms I described today, there is a link at the bottom of the screen, as well as a link in the Anaheim Condors Instagram bio that will bring up eye clinics near you for exams and a resource link.

“If you want to help me celebrate my retirement, please donate to a vision-impaired charity of your choice, remember to be kind to one another, and go easy on Brown, he’s a good man, and he’s going to take good care of this team. Go Condors.”

***

When Max entered the family waiting room, he found Remi having what seemed to be a deep conversation with his captain, Patrick Carter. He was happy she had found her footing around his team. His captain pulled him into his arms in a brotherly embrace when he approached.

“I’m proud of you, Millsy. I know that wasn’t easy,” Carter said.

“Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Max admitted.

They broke the hug as a few more players surrounded him. “I donated to that foundation,” Brown said, patting Max’s back.

Max was surprised when several other players agreed that they had made donations as well.

“That’s great. Thank you all and thank you for being here to support me.”

“It’s what teammates do, Max. We show up for each other,” Carter said, and Max was almost certain his eyes were tearing up.

“I wish I could have been on the ice with you when…” Max trailed off, it was too hard to say.

“We all wish you could have been out there, man. It’s still your Cup, you know that right?” Brown asked.

“Yeah. It just would have been nice to actually be able to see this season through,” Max said with a laugh.

“ See this season through?” Carter asked, bumping Max’s shoulder, “Was that a vision joke?”

“It’s all I got these days,” Max said. “Vision jokes and a super cool cane,” he said, smacking Carter on the ass with it.

“You should put a skull on top of it,” Levi Holland said.

“A golden skull,” chimed in Brody.

Max laughed. “I’m going blind, not becoming a pimp.”

“So, what now?” Carter asked.

Max thought about it. He thought about his future, and a life full of new things to say yes to.

“I was thinking you all could come to my place. We could enjoy the beach and eat some food. Remi and I can stop and get some donuts from our favorite place,” Max offered.

The guys looked at each other in amazement at the invitation—this was new—and Remi looked over at Max, her expression both puzzled and excited.

“I guess we’re going to the grocery store?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “I was thinking hummus and pretzels, and maybe some donuts. A proper beach picnic,” he said with a wink.

Remi smiled up at him, it was a good fucking smile, two dimples, wild blue eyes, long sandy blonde hair tucked behind her ears, the soft glow of the sun on her cheeks, and his name on her back.

This was going to be okay.

He was going to be okay.