Page 3 of Out Of Time

“Mr. Miller are you okay?” she asked, taking his hand in hers like a concerned old friend would do.

He blinked. And blinked. And blinkedagain. It didn't help.

She squeezed his hand. “Mr. Miller, should I call an ambulance? You don't look well. You’re really pale, and…”

He could feel her tiny hands sure on his body as she guided him to take a seat on the bed. It washisbed, though he couldn’t remember the last time he laid on the thing, let alone slept there.

“Mr. Miller,” she began, but he cut her off, hating how formally she felt the need to address him.

“Max. Just Max,” he corrected.

“Sorry. Just Max, okay,” she revised, her voice frazzled. “Just stay here, I’ll go get you some water,” she said quickly and then she was off.

Max stood; much too abruptly considering what had just happened, and his eyes strained against the dull lighting. Sitting back down, he accepted that he might need to stay put while this—whateverthiswas that was happening with his eyes—passed.

Sometimes when these “episodes” happened, he found it helped to close his eyes, take a few deep breaths, and re-center his equilibrium.

With eyes closed and his hands on his knees, he began.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

“Max?”

Her voice, soft and gentle, as if not to alarm him, still managed to catch him off guard. Slowly opening his eyes, he found the housekeeper crouched in front of him. Handing over the cup of water, she wore a worried look on her face. His finger trailed over hers as he took the cup and electric currents surged through his body at this slight dose of human interaction that wasn't hockey-related; his body heating with some kind of longing. A longing he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He took a sip of the water while the woman watched, her head tilted to the side in wonderment, like he was some kind of science project.

“Hi there,” she finally said, her worried expression lighting up just a bit, replaced with a simple, encouraging smile. “I’m the owner of Busy Bee Cleaners. I don’t have any medical background, but I think, by the looks of it, your sugar might be low. I get like this too, when I forget to eat.”

He waited for her to go on, but when she didn’t say anything else, the silence grew just awkward enough to force him to speak. “I got dizzy,” he lied.

And that was that.

Words often escaped Max when he was around people, hell, words escaped him when he was alone. His knee began to bounce with anxiety and his upper lip collected nervous sweat as he waited for the woman to respond.

“I can see that,” she said, hinting at the shattered lamp. “Do you want me to get you some food?”

His eyes avoided hers, looking down at the mess of broken clay and glass from the lamp instead. It was easier to focus onitthan the woman's piercing blue eyes. If he looked into them any longer, he might drown in the oceans of them.

“Protein bar,” he managed, and she nodded at his response. Following it up with a single word, he added, “Pantry.”

She stood quickly and left the room. Max looked up instantly to watch her leave, suddenly very self-conscious of himself, his home, and his cold, emotionless room. He looked around at the basic decor; everything about him, down to his bedroom was so uninviting.

She probably thought he was a creep.

When she returned, she had a protein bar in one hand and a broom and dustpan in the other. She handed him the bar and this time he made sure not to touch her—that felt dangerous—as she began to sweep up the mess the broken lamp had made.

Pulling down the wrapper on the protein bar, he began to eat, watching her anxiously as she cleaned up the mess he had created. He felt useless. Hewasuseless. Just like he had been last night in front of the net, and the game before that.

Panic flooded him.

Would his career end with him on the bench?

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