Page 60 of Out Of Time

“Then what is it? Why do I feel like you're about to tell me you're leaving the Condors? Did you get a better offer for your bridge contract? Is it Coach? Was it the start of the season? Everyone has a few off games,” the young goalie argued.

“It wasn't just a bad start to the season, Jack, and you know it. I’m pushing dirt around out there, and I knowyousee it because you just said so yourself.”

“Yeah, but you’re still making the save.”

“Somesaves, Jack.”

“You can’t expect to save them all,” his fellow goalie argued.

“But it’s getting harder and harder. Every game feels like my last,” Max said, his voice trailing off.

“But you’re making saves,somesaves. We’re winning. We’re on track for the playoffs,” Brown argued.

“This is all true, but it’s notifI’m making the saves, it'showI’m making them.Andfor how long? I don’t know, man. It’s not good.”

Brown brought his hands anxiously through his hair, his face distressed. “The candy, it's not making this any easier by the way.”

“I know,” Max agreed. “It was a stupid idea.”

“So, rip the Band-Aid off, Miller. Spill the beans.”

Max ran nervous hands over his sweatpants and his knee began to bounce. Words were what he always thought would end him, and now, he knew they might be all he had left one day.

“I went to a doctor,” he said, then specified, “an eye doctor, outside of the NHL.”

“Why?” Brown asked, and it was a question laced with so many different variations of that simple word. Why? Why an eye doctor? Why not the team doctor? Why are you telling me this?Why.

“Over the summer, I started to notice some drastic changes in my vision. At night, mostly, and now, looking back, it’s been my whole life really. I was just living in denial—”

Brown cut him off. “Yeah, because you're getting old. You can get Lasik, you’re a fucking millionaire.”

“That’s what I thought too, but it started to progressively get worse, and then it was time for the pre-season, and I was panicking. It was getting to a point where seeing the puck was hard. I didn’t want to see a doctor out of fear that he might tell me my worst-case scenario, butnotknowing what was wrong was messing me up in front of the net almost as much as not being able to see.”

“But you were just in your head. Anxiety can make your vision blurry, man. I know. I’ve had that happen to me before in college.”

“I wish I could say it was that, that it’s just my vision getting worse with age. That a quick surgery, a pill, or some glasses would solve all my problems.”

“But?” Brown asked.

“But that's not the case…mycase anyway. The eye doctor saw something bad; he wants me to see a specialist to confirm his suspicions.”

“So, you’re not sure then, right? You still need to see the specialist to confirm what he said? He could be wrong, Max.”

“No. He’s not wrong. I talked to my dad on the phone,” Max said.

“No way. How’d that go?”

Max cleared his throat, then went on. “As good as it could have gone considering he told me he’s blind and that I will most likely be too one day.”

Brown cracked open his beer and took a long swig, and Max did the same. They both took a second to process. It would have been an awkward silence, but this was two goalies; things were bound to be weird from time to time, it was in their DNA after all.

Max took another drink.

Brown spun the silver tab on the can over and over.

“So, what does that mean? What does him being blind have to do with you? What makesyoursituation so different from anyone else with vision loss? Why can’t you just get contacts or something?”

“Because,” Max said, “I seem to have inherited a disease from him, one that will inevitably make me go blind.”

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