Page 6 of Out Of Time

“No,” he said under his breath. Not now. Not now. Notnow.

Harvey took the shot—top right corner of the net—and Max’s gloved hand snapped up to make the save on instinct. Heheard the roar of the crowd before he even looked down his nose to find the puck safe in his glove.

His heart rate slowed.

He took another deep breath and allowed himself a second to celebrate the save, then he let the moment pass, readying himself to keep his head in the game.

Save after save, Max felt hope for the future of his career creep back in. Save after save, even with his vision straining in the corners, struggling to make out the sharp lines of the goalposts, he felt optimistic. He considered the idea of playing like this, with his vision very obviously impaired. Maybe this would pass too. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, or such a big deal. Maybe, just maybe, his brain was fucking with him, and tonight, after a big win, he would see his world come back into focus as the stress of losing his career faded.

The game went on, and Max, surprising himself, continued to get his job done—no tally marks tonight to document another loss, another permanent reminder of his failures. The clock ticked down slowly, second by second, and Max was grateful for the final minutes being spent with the Condors completely dominating the puck in front of the Los Angeles net.

Three-two-one.

The horn wailed.

The Condors had won, and his losing streak was finally over. He would take the win, no matter how he got it done.

By the time Max got home from the game it was late. As he made his way through his big beachfront house, he switched on all the lights and opened all the windows to allow the night's breeze in to cool his warm skin. The excitement from the win had left his body on fire, ablaze with hope.

Does Max Miller still got it?

Hell fucking yes, he did. And the score tonight should be enough proof to shut the naysayers up for a while.

He flopped down on his couch and kicked up his feet, the adrenaline from the win making him feel invincible, hopeful, and excited for this seasonandthe potential of his big contract.

His mind raced, optimism flooding him, and oddly enough, his brain took him somewhere new. Not hockey, not the win, not the big contract. Instead, he thought of Remi.

Disappointment hit him as he looked around his living room, not finding anyone there as usual. There were no random cleaners in his kitchen, no Remi to be seen. No music blasting from the hidden speakers. Without overthinking it, he said aloud, “Alexa, play a punk mix.”

The music boomed throughout the house. At first, it was a little unnerving, but Max let it play. He let it blast. With nothing on the walls, the sound reverberated all around him. Even his chest rattled with the thundering baseline and gritty lyrics being sung on the track that played.

He hadn’t grown up listening to much music. There was no time for that sort of thing when you were at the rink all day. But he thought if he did, he might have liked whateverthiswas.

A text came through and it wasn't unusual for his teammates to shoot him a congratulatory message after a win. Usually, the messages made him feel half-human, like he meant something to someone. But he also found it hard to accept sincere acknowledgment for how hard he played in front of the net when the truth of it was, he hadn't done anything extraordinary, he had only done what he was paid to do.

Win.

Tonight, the messages felt different. They felt necessary because the win hadn’t come easy. Tonight, it felt like so much more than just him doing his job, it felt like he had overcome some crazy obstacle. It left him wishing he had more to look forward to than a few “good job” texts from his teammates. For the first time in a long time, these texts left him craving more.He wanted to share this moment with someone, face to face. He found himself craving the way his body reacted when he was inhercompany—Remi’scompany.

He couldn't stop thinking about the first time he saw her, which still managed to make him blush each time he replayed it in his mind. The look on her face when she found him half-naked, startled by his presence, was something he could never unsee, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He needed to see her again, apologize for scaring her,andthank her for taking care of him. She had managed to take up space in his life so effortlessly considering it was such a short encounter. She already felt significant to him, and he wondered ifhecould ever feel that significant to anyone else outside his hockey team. Maybe he was blowing it all out of proportion in his head, but she made him feel like he wanted more than a Stanley Cup for the first time in his life, which only managed to make him feel tiny in this big house. Meeting her in person that day made Max realize two things about himself: He was really bad at socializing, and that he might actually be lonely.

After responding to the whole damn team, Max put down his phone, shouted at the house to stop playing music, and switched on the TV to watch the highlights from tonight's game. His work in front of the net landed him the second star of the night. It had been a while since he had received a star. He pulled a pillow behind his head and settled in as he watched two of his big saves replay on the television. The sports announcers gave him praise, but not without mentioning his blunders from the past four games, causing sweat to form on his upper lip and panic to flutter in his chest at the memory of those losses. He ran his hand over his ribs—no tally mark tonight, but the skin there was still raw from the last four.

He clicked off the TV. His adrenaline from the win was finally crashing, leaving him struggling to keep his eyes open.Pulling his throw blanket off the back of the couch, he went to settle into his spot, only he didn't want to sleep on the couch tonight. He had a bed, and he was ready to start using it, ready to make himself at home. Something about meeting Remi had lit a fire in him, a longing for normalcy, a longing to settle in and make this space his, and one day, he could share it with someone else.

Heading to his room, he clicked off light after light. The blackness behind him grew more intense. The outline of his couch blurred, any real focus becoming nonexistent in the dark. His eyes strained in the sudden lack of light. The white marble countertops distorted in front of him; maybe he was just tired? This was normal, right? Night vision was an issue for lots of people, right?

“No.” He growled in frustration. “No, no, no! Please just give me one more good year. Please…” he said and trailed off, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes, willing them to focus. His own words sounded foreign to him as they echoed through the empty house.

He was so alone.

There was no one there to guide him. No one there to clean up the mess if he made one. No one there to hold his hand, to reassure him that this, whateverthiswas, would go away.

He stumbled back to the couch, gripping at the walls he knew were there but couldn’t see. Pulling the throw blanket up over his body in defeat, he settled on the massive couch, and even as he closed his eyes the room spun around him, his heart racing at the thought of what this could mean.

He would be fine.

Hewouldbe fine.

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