Page 74 of Out Of Time

He cleared his throat on the other line. “There comes a point in this disease when it hits you.”

“It’sbeenhitting him,” she shouted.

“Yeah, it comes on slowly… until it doesn't. We call them dips. You see gradual change, but then you blink, and—BAM—you experience a dip, a drastic change in your vision. It’s this moment where you realize it’s gotten worse, and there’s no going back. Maybe you realize you can't drive anymore, or you can’t watch a movie on the TV anymore, or in Max’s case, it was when those lights came up and he couldn't gain focus on his surroundings. When that happens, your entire body responds, because it’s the moment you really comprehend the severity of this disability. It’s the moment you realize you will never see more clearly than you did a split second ago, ever again.”

“But he fell, he looked scared,” she said more to herself, replaying the events she had just witnessed on the TV screen.

“Wouldn't you be scared too? If everything you ever worked for was nothing more than a blur in the blink of an eye?”

“I would be fucking terrified. I should have been there. I should be there,” she said, her voice slightly hysterical.

He went on, “Now picture yourself in Max’s shoes, or skates if we’re being detailed here. He went out there to play that game with the weight of his team on his shoulders, and just likethat,” she heard him clap his hands together on the other line, “he knew he couldn't. He knew his time in front of that net was over for good and the panic set in. What you saw tonight was his ‘oh shit’ moment, darlin’. He’ll be okay, might take some time, but he’ll get through this.”

Remi took a seat on the couch as tears began to stream down her face, because no, he wouldn't be okay. Not now anyway. Her heart broke for him as she watched the TV with her own blurred vision as tears filled her eyes—seeing things the way Max might see them. And the game went on, but he was nowhere to be found.

The flight back to Anaheim was quiet. The team was nervous, and Max knew the unknown was killing them, but he stayed silent. He let them wonder, he let them hurt for him because he was hurting too. Max sat with his head down replaying the night. Taking the start. Blinking. Panic setting in. Skating off the ice. Seeing the team doctor. Telling him the truth.

The boys knew something was wrong, they just didn’t knowwhatwas wrong. He had hidden it from them, and he hid it well. He had always been good at being invisible, not taking up any space, not bringing unwanted attention to himself, and all his years of practice, of being invisible around his mother, and invisible in his billet homes, had paid off. He had managed to skate by, unnoticed until tonight.

Coach made his way down the aisle of the plane, using the other seats to keep himself from falling over as it bounced around with turbulence while they flew over a storm in Oregon.

“This seat open?” he asked.

Max removed his iPad from the empty spot to make room for his coach.

“What did the doctor say? When I asked, they said you should be the one to tell me.”

Max ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t know how to say it. Words were always his worst enemy, and right now, they were hard to find, like a game of hide and seek in the dark.

“Max, whatever it is we can fix it,” Coach encouraged.

“No,” Max said, his voice low. “We can’t fix it, Coach.”

“And why’s that, son?”

“Because what I have isn’t treatable.”

“And whatdoyou have?”

Max looked over at his coach and it hurt to see such worry in his eyes, a man who was known for having thick skin—an unshakable man. Seeing him this distressed unnerved Max.

“What happened on the ice was just the start of something that only gets worse. I have something wrong with my vision, something that is essentially making me go blind. It’s called retinitis pigmentosa. My father has it and he is completely blind too. It’s hereditary, and there’s no stopping it.”

“Max, I—” His coach tried to articulate any kind of appropriate response, but Max wasn’t sure there was one, so he spared his coach the trouble of trying to find the right words. For the first time, Max said what came next.

“When the lights came up, I couldn't focus. It’s happened before. I’ve been selfishly playing knowing I wasn't capable of getting the job done anymore. But with Brody injured in the minors, and the Condors so close to clinching a spot, I just let my heart's deepest desire take over to maybe, possibly, play long enough to win the Cup, before I… before I have to hang up my skates for good.”

“I wish you would have told me sooner,” Coach said, and Max couldn’t be sure if it was disappointment or pity that lined his face. He didn’t want pity, anything but pity.

“I should have. I should have been honest with you and the team. I could have cost you the playoffs, but I couldn’t give it up. I just didn’t know how to walk away.”

“What’s next, Max? Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know. I need to be seen by a specialist. I need to take the steps to prepare myself for being vision impaired for the rest of my life, and I need to announce…” He didn’t know how to say it, they would be the hardest words to leave his mouth in his lifetime.

His coach cut him off before he finished the damning statement. “We can put you on leave. Injured reserved. That way you can still be on the roster until the season is over and then—” Coach paused, and Max worked up the courage to finish the sentence they were both trying like hell not to say.

“And then I can formally retire.”

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