Page 73 of Out Of Time

“No,” he said under his breath as the game took off in front of him through a cloudy haze.

Sweat covered his body in a panicked cold chill. He blinked. And blinked. His heart hammered in his chest. The lights were up, he should be fine. He blinked again. His body felt heavy, and the ice moved below his skates. The cheers from the stands echoed in the distance.

He blinked.

“No,” he said again. His chest grew tight—could you die from panic? Could you die from sheer shock and fear?

No amount of blinking was helping, his peripheral vision was nonexistent.

The game raged on, the Vancouver team had the puck, and he could make out the shift of the battle. He could make out his team's colors—white away jerseys with teal blue condors on the chest—chasing the dark blue blur of the Vancouver team. He felt all sense of balance and equilibrium shift.

He blinked.

He readied himself for the puck and looked out at the game around him, only to see the end of his career in front of him in a blur of bodies, and movement without any real defining features.

Max dropped his stick and pulled his gloves off in a panic, he couldn’t breathe like this. He couldn't stop his heart from pounding. Could you die from this, from the weight of it all? Would he die? He ripped his helmet from his head and the quick movement was enough to send him to his knees, his body sliding along the smooth ice.

The whistle blew.

The game paused.

The crowd grew silent.

His team raced to his side, and he heard someone shout,“We need a medic.”

He rubbed his eyes, gouging at them, if he could just get them to focus, he would be okay. If he could just get his heart to slow down, he would be okay. If he could just get a few more minutes, a few more seconds, he would be okay.

“Max,Max, look at me,” the trainer shouted at him.

Max kept rubbing his eyes. “I just need to… focus… I just, it's my eyes. It’s my heart, I think I’m having a heart attack,” he managed.

“Max, we have to get you off the ice, we need to have you checked out. Can you skate for me? Can you make it off the ice?”

“I can skate, I just—” Before he could vocalize what he needed, his captain was by his side, with the team’s trainer on his other side.

“We got you, Miller, let us help you,” the familiar voice said.

They couldn't help him. No one could. This was it. Game over. Lights out.

Time’s up.

They helped him skate off the ice, the deafening cheer of the crowd, their encouraging clapping, and his team patting him as he passed by felt like the final nail in the coffin.

Max knew this was it. This was the last time he would skate off the ice in this uniform, and he didn't know what hurt worse—the way he was leaving or the fact that it wasn't on his terms.

***

Remi watched it all happen from the comfort of her home. She watched as Max completely lost his shit on the ice, onnational television, and she had no way to find out what the hell was going on. She realized Max had never introduced her to his team or given her emergency contact numbers, so she called the next best thing, the only person who might have some kind of advice—his dad.

“Hi, it's Remi Davis, Max’s girlfriend.”

“He’ll be okay, hon,” Max’s dad responded immediately.

“Did you see? Were you watching?” she asked as she paced her small living room. The game resumed now that Max was off the ice, but the team was worried. She could see it on their faces as the camera zoomed in to the bench while Brown took his place in front of the net, replacing Max.

“I watch all of his games,” Max’s father went on.

“What does it mean? What do you think happened?” she asked.

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