Page 1 of Save the Game

PROLOGUE

1 YEAR AGO

Max

People are speaking and machines are beeping; I try to focus on the words that are being said, but they slip through my mind like water through cupped hands. I wish they would go somewhere else to talk, and maybe turn that beeping off on their way out the door. My body feels unbearably heavy, like the earth’s gravity is exerting extra force on me. I’m so tired, I don’t think I could open my eyes even if I wanted to.

The voices rise, like they’re coming closer to me. I try to open my eyes with the intention of asking them to leave, and discover that I can’t actually move. Panic cuts through my fatigue like a shot of pure adrenaline. My arm jerks upward—yes! movement! —and somebody grabs me, placing my arm back down on the bed.

“Max. Open your eyes,” a soft, firm and unfamiliar voice says.

I’m trying, I tell them, but no words come out. I try to move any other part of my body but it feels like I’m stuck in quicksand. A low moan echoes through the room, startling me. It takes me several long, fraught moments to realize it’s coming from me.

“Max,” another voice says, and I could weep to hear it. Marcos is here. Things can’t be that bad if my best friend is here. “Max, open your eyes.”

I open them, but immediately regret it. The lights are too bright and the room lurches. I gasp, and vomit rises in my throat. I squeeze my eyes back shut and feel moisture on my lashes. Am I crying? Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

“Max.” The other voice is back, the firm one; the one I don’t know. It frightens me—the presence of this unknown person. If I open my eyes again, will I see them or Marcos?

“I’m here, Max,” Marcos says from my right side, and I feel a hand touch my arm. He’s always had an uncanny knack of reading my mind and knowing what I need. This time, I open my eyes slowly: cracking them to let a narrow strip of light in and then working up to more. I turn my head to the right so my friend is the first face I see.

The room is still spinning and my eyes are still watering. Marcos looks wrong: his brown skin is pale and waxy, and his eyes are red. There is something fundamentally wrong but my brain isn’t able to make the connection. I feel sick. I feel like I might be dying. I want to ask Marcos if he’s okay.

A jingling noise catches my attention and I turn my head. There are two police officers standing in the corner of the room, watching, hands resting casually on their belts. I stare at them, uncomprehending. The beeping noise becomes more insistent and my foggy brain finally comes to my aid—hospital, you’re in the hospital.

“What—," I croak, and am startled by the sound of my own voice and the rawness of my throat. It feels like I’ve been screaming.

There is movement to my left but I can’t look away from the cops. Their presence is more frightening than confusing. I’ve never broken a law in my life, and yet here I am with no memory of how I got here and there they are, standing sentinel at the door. If I wasn’t already crying, I’d start now. A hand touches my arm and I flinch, violently.

“Easy now, love. Just checking your IV.” I turn my head with difficulty and see a young black woman. She has kind eyes and she smiles at me.

“Where am I?” I ask her, even though I’ve already ascertained I’m in a hospital. I can’t fucking think.

“You’re in the Emergency Room,” she says, and there is another jingle of keys as one of the cops moves forward. She glances up at him and back to me. The smile is gone.

I turn my head, trying to get a read on how many people are in here. As soon as I see a face, I lose it—my mind is a fucking sieve. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m surprised nobody else can hear it. Breathing hurts, and my vision swims. The panic blurs everything, voices and machines bleeding together in one nonsensical wave. I raise a hand, trying to find Marcos. What side of the bed was he on?

“He’s scared.” A voice cuts through the room, angrily, and I turn toward it, gratefully.

“Marcos,” I mutter, and the raw sound of my own voice terrifies me anew. His hand catches mine, warm and solid. If I were able to think clearly, I might realize what this means. Marcos doesn’t like touching people; he wouldn’t ever hold my hand if he could avoid it.

“Max, you need to calm down. Take a couple deep breaths. Everything is…you’re okay, all right? But you need to calm down,” Marcos says, voice firm. I tighten my grip on his hand, anchoring myself, and do what he says. Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out. Repeat.

“Where are we?” I ask, because I’ve already forgotten.

“The hospital,” he says. “Take another deep breath.”

I do. It doesn’t dispel the heaviness in my limbs or the sluggish pattern of my thoughts, but it does help the room stabilize. There is a man in a white coat standing next to Marcos; I don’t remember him being there before, and wonder if I’ve hallucinated him.

“Son, can you tell me your name? Your full name?” He asks, and I recognize his voice as the one from earlier.

“Max Kuemper.”

“What day is it?”

“It’s…it’s Thursday. No, Friday. Is it Friday?” I suck in a sharp breath, confused and afraid. I close my eyes and think. “It’s Friday. I had hockey practice because there wasn’t a game.”

Yes! That’s it! You must have gotten hurt at hockey practice. Opening my eyes, I look at the doctor, who nods. “Yes, it’s Friday. Can you remember what you were doing after hockey practice?”

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