Page 93 of Out Of Time

“I want to stay,” he said.

“Okay. Is there anything I can do to make this easier?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me know if the other team scores,” he said, his voice a fine line between sarcasm and defeat.

The crowd was loud. Their cheers seemed to rattle the arena, and Max could feel the pulse of the building under his feet. A good save: they cheered. A goal: they jumped to their feet to sing out the Condor’s anthem. A bad call: boos, and chants that the refs sucked filled the air. And the win—thefirstwin—of this round of the playoffs against a West Coast rival team, and Max could feel the excitement all around him. He could feel the victory. Even from the stands, even in his suit, even without being able to make outhisteammates on the ice celebrating, he could feel it all.

Winningstillfelt good.

It still felt like this victory was his to celebrate.

His heart raced with joy for his team, and it felt really fucking good to win, even if he wasn’t the one in the net.

They drove down the Pacific Coast Highway back to his house in silence after the game. Max could feel Remi’s need for conversation, he knew her mind must be flooded with questions, and concerns.

“I need you to do something for me when we get home,” he finally said.

“Anything,” she agreed, she always did.

He pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay? What does that even mean? What did I just agree to?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

Remi laughed. “Max Miller, tell me right meow.”

Nope. Even with a cat joke, she would have to wait.

***

They got back to his house and as part of their new routine, their new lifestyle that had somehow fallen together so effortlessly, Remi led the way, flipping on each light switch as she walked through the house.

“Sit at the bar,” he said, disappearing into his room.

“If you don’t come out naked wearing only your hockey helmet, I’m leaving,” she teased, draping the floral print farmers market tote he had gotten her months ago over the back of one of the barstools.

“I don’t even have a helmet here, but it’s good to know I still have a reason to own one,” he shouted from his room.

When he returned, he held a little leather box with a zipper keeping it closed. He set it on the counter, then circled around the bar to grab the plastic wrap from the pantry. Piece by piece he lined a small portion of the bar top.

“Well?” she asked as he unzipped the black box.

“I need you to tattoo me,” he said, at the same exact moment that Remi saw the tattoo gun.

“My name?” she joked.

He looked up at her, his cheeks blushing, his eyes so green. “One day.”

“Ha,” she said. “Okay, for real, what am I tattooing on you, because I can’t even draw stick figures. Art is not in my wheelhouse.”

Max poured black ink into a small cap and then turned on the gun, testing to make sure it worked. It buzzed in his hand, then he turned it off and set it down. Button by button his dress shirt came off. Remi instantly knew what this was about the second she laid eyes on his naked ribs.

A tally mark.

“But you didn’t lose tonight, Max,” she said under her breath.

He lifted his right arm and exposed the bare skin there, not a single tally mark to be seen.

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