Page 1 of Out Of Time

News Break:

“Another loss in the books for the Anaheim Condors tonight, Lacey.”

“That’s right, Mark. Another devastating loss indeed. What started out as a hopeful pre-season for this team has very quickly declined and left the entire NHL to ask the question: Does Max Miller still got it?”

“Max Miller, who is easily considered one of the best goalies the Anaheim Condors have seen in front of their net, has found himself struggling to make the save as we start this NHL season. Some of the goals getting past him are amateur mistakes that result in professional consequences.”

“It just seems to me, Mark, that Max Miller might find it hard to sign his big contract at the end of this season if he doesn’t sort out his place in front of the net–and fast.”

“That’s right, Lacey, with Anaheim having a fresh, strong backup goalie in the brick wall that is Jack Brown, Miller’s days might be numbered as a starting goaltender for this Anaheim team.”

Max Miller sat shirtless on the expensive Pottery Barn barstool. Every light in the house was on. The buzz of a tattoo gun echoed off of the long, pictureless, sterile white walls of his San Clemente, California home. His team, the Anaheim Condors, had lost—again. They had lost because their goaltender couldn't save a puck if it were the size of a frisbee.

Hewas their goaltender.

He was the reason they had lost their fourth game in a row, causing the team to have their worst start to a season on record.

He dipped the needle of the tattoo gun into a plastic cap of black ink, causing it to splatter on the fresh plastic wrap he put down to keep his expensive marble countertop clean. After adjusting the small mirror he had propped up against a bowl of fresh fruit, he lifted his left arm over his head and proceeded to draw a line on the skin of his rib cage.

Not a line—a tally mark.

One for each game he had lost since his first game in the NHL with the Anaheim Condors.

It was the fourth time this season he had to do it—to tattoo a tally mark on himself. The last one had completed a grouping of five, slashing through the previous four lines. Now, another tally mark sat on his flesh, a permanent reminder that he had let his team down—again—this season.

He sat the tattoo gun down and ran a paper towel over the small black line. Droplets of blood gathered on his skin there; he had gone too deep. The loss was permanent now.

Was Max Miller’s time up?

Max knew, like any other goalie, that his time in the NHL was short, and the victories were sweet, but this was supposed to be hisbigyear. The last of his bridge contract. Hehadproven himself, breaking every record set by the goalies that came before him in Anaheim. This was the year he was set to seal his big deal with the Condors and stake his claim in the hockey history books.

Only tonight, he couldn't be so sure.

It was a job that was hard on the body. His knees, his back, his ankles, his groin… hisvision? It wasn’t the easiest being the last line of defense, it was physically and mentally draining, and for every goalie approaching his thirties, there was a new young player ready to take the start in front ofhisnet.

Packing up the tattoo equipment, he made sure everything was cleaned properly for the next loss, the next tally mark, the next time he went to make a save butcouldn’tfor reasons he didn't understand.

He didn’t know what was causing it—the floaters, the light sensitivity, and the inability to see sharp images in the dark. He was suddenly Alice in Wonderland, up was down, and down was up, and the green pill made you bigger and the red pill made you smaller, but where was the pill that helped you make the save? Where was the fountain of everlasting youth that kept you healthy and relevant? Where was the switch to turnoff the mind-fuckery he was experiencing? He couldn't focus on anything moving half the time. Hell, he couldn't focus on anything still. The world around him was out of focus, blurred, and drunken; only he hadn't taken a single sip.

He stood from the bar stool, the intense kitchen lights causing his head to ache.

He would be fine.

This would be fine.

Tomorrow he would hydrate. Maybe take a walk outside, get some fresh air. He could go down to the beach before practice, enjoy the city he paid a lot of money to live in… he didn’t do that enough.

He played hockey.

He ate.

He slept.

Repeat.

He clicked each light off as he made his way to the massive couch that filled the space of his living room. It was a couch intended for family, guests, game nights, Christmas movies, and lovers. But Max wasn’t well versed in any of those things, so for him, it was where he slept. It wasn’t because he didn’t have a bed of his own. He had a perfectly fine king-size bed in his king-sized bedroom, another king-sized bed in his spare room, and another in another room. It was a lot of rooms for a man with no family. It was a lot of space for a man with nothing and no one to fill it with.

Max slipped off his pajama bottoms and fell back onto the couch wearing only his boxer briefs. He closed his eyes, willing away the dread that overcame him after he shut the lights off, the darkness engulfing him. The cool October ocean breeze came in through the open window, making it just chilly enough to need the throw blanket that was draped over the arm of the couch. Hepulled the soft fabric up over his body, the sting of the new ink on his ribs barely present with the anxiety he faced in the dark.

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