Page 70 of Out Of Time

Only, the season had taken off since November, prolonging his delusion.

He had every intention of coming clean after he saw his father. After he got the backup seat. After he handed over his keys to Remi each night as they drove along the Pacific Coast Highway with the windows down, her music blasting, his hand on her thigh, her hands on the wheel, his vision nonexistent; the ocean breeze single-handedly keeping air in his lungs.

He was two clicks away from a mental breakdown and two steps away from falling over something he didn't see. He was a few wins away from clinching a playoff spot, and the thought of losing that chance because of his condition made the weight of it all unbearable.

Without Remi he would be lost, she was his siren song. She was his anchor. She was every generic ocean metaphor he could think of that said she was his everything, his lifeline, his safety vest,andif he asked, he wondered if she would be his forever.

The second he kissed her goodbye and made his way to a new arena, a new city, a new hotel, and found himself on the ice, the weight of it all came crashing down. He would never feel free again, light again, or confident in front of the net again. Darkness was closing in on him.

He blinked once. It was just enough.

He blinked and blinked again. It was hardly anything.

Soon, he would blink, and blink, and blink, until lights out.

He took his spot in front of the net. Practice had become harder than games. All eyes were on him as if they knew. They had to know. If they all looked closely enough, they had to see that he was faking it. He was fumbling his way into the starting lineup and was putting on the show of a lifetime. He might never hoist the Cup, but he sure as hell might win an Emmy for this performance.

“Miller! Wake the fuck up, man,” Carter yelled from across the ice as another puck made its way into the net.

He wished he could wake up, but this was the kind of nightmare that kept going even after your morning piss and cup of coffee. This was the kind that you didn't escape.

“Miller, get your ass over here,” Coach shouted from the bench.

Max did the skate of shame.

He blinked, and it was no help.

It was an off day. His ass would be cozy on the bench tomorrow night for sure.

“What the ever-living fuck is wrong with you?” Coach asked.

“Can’t focus.”

It was a half-lie. Or was it a half-truth?

“You’re telling me that you think a multimillion-dollar goalie thinks he gets to chase butterflies and sunshine onmyfucking ice, onmyfucking clock?”

“No, Coach,” Max said.

“Then explain to me what the fuck is happening in front of the net?”

Max looked out at the ice, and the boys continued running the drills. But he knew they were all watching from the corners of their eyes. He felt shame heat his body, and he knew all he had to do was be honest and tell his coach everything. Break the news. Lighten his load while simultaneously ending his career.

“I’ve had this bad headache all day. I took something earlier.” He lied for sure this time. “But it didn’t put a dent in it. It’s making it hard to focus.”

“Sounds like a migraine.”

“Yeah, I don’t know, it might be.” This wasnota lie; this was evading the truth. This was Max spinning it any way he could to save face for a game longer.

“Why didn’t you see the team doctor before practice?”

“I thought Tylenol would do the trick.”

Coach looked up at the timer to make out how much time was left on the clock. Max did too, but it was a blur.

His stomach dropped. How was he supposed to count down the minutes left of a game if he couldn’t see the clock?

“We got a good ten minutes left, I want you to go see the doctor, make sure you’re good to play tomorrow night.”

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