Page 43 of Save the Game

He’s pissed, now, anger finally succeeding in drowning the hurt. He looks like the Max I’ve seen on the ice—the one who drops his gloves and fights for his teammates. I almost hope he does try to hit me. Anything is better than the betrayal in his eyes. I’m relieved when he looks away, pacing across the room and cupping his hand back over his nape before he whirls back around to face me.

“You asked me all those fucking questions, about what I liked and didn’t like. You…these last couple of weeks, you kept telling me we didn’t have to rush. I wanted to…I tried to get you to take things further and you kept telling me we shouldn’t. Oh my god,” he presses both palms to his eyes, mentally realigning everything I’ve done to fit in this narrative. “Pity can only get you so far, huh? Damaged goods aren’t so attractive when you’ve got your dick out, right?”

“Stop.” My voice is raised now, too, and I’m horribly aware of how out of control this conversation has gotten. He’s shouting at me, and now I’m shouting back; it’s time to walk away, Luke, before you say something that can’t be fixed.

“It’s true,” he spits, “it’s fucking true. I’m…I’m…”

Words fail him as he struggles to come up with a word to describe himself. I don’t want to hear it, anyway; I don’t want to hear any more about how he’s ‘damaged goods’ and worthy of my pity.

“You’re not,” I tell him quietly. “There isn’t a single fucking thing wrong with you, and of all the things I feel for you, pity isn’t one of them. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you, I’m really sorry.”

“I want you to leave,” he says, voice breaking on the last word. I nod, sadly.

“I know. I’ll go.”

He looks away as I pad quietly across the room, pausing with my hand on the door handle. I stare hard at my hand, feeling as though I’m standing on the edge of a precipice with my toes curled over the edge. He doesn’t understand, and if I leave this room without saying my piece, I might never again have the chance. I pull the door open, but stand in the doorway and look at him; he’s still resolutely looking away, hiding his face.

“You’re not broken, Max. You’re beautiful and kind; you make me fucking laugh, and it’s not like you’re even trying to do it, but everything you say always ends up being what I needed to hear. I wanted you the moment you walked into the diner that night—I wanted to know you, and touch you, and just be around you. None of that changed when I found out about the party. I know you’re mad at me, and I’m going to do what you asked and leave, but I’m not leaving for good, okay? I’m not walking away.”

Before I can do something catastrophic like try and touch him, I clench my hands into fists and step through the open doorway. I’ve said what I wanted to say, to the best of my ability; I tried to convey that I’m leaving because he asked and not because I’m leaving him. There’s nothing more I can do, and even though it makes me sick as I do it, I open the front door and leave his apartment.

12

Max

I haven’t moved since Luke quietly closed the door behind him on his way out of my apartment. I feel sick—skin too tight and blood pounding too forcefully through my body. Objectively, I know the walls aren’t moving, but it feels like they are; it feels like I’m being penned in from all sides, overwhelmed and unable to think beyond one single fact: Luke knows.

Shakily, I leave my room and stride over to Marcos’ door. It takes a full thirty seconds of knocking before I remember that he’s not here and my stomach plummets. Hands shaking, mind a tangled mess of confusion and shame, I sway dangerously as the dizziness becomes so intense my vision swims. I need to get out of here.

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to tug on my shoes, and I don’t even bother trying to tie the laces with my trembling fingers. Stepping outside, the pressure in my chest eases but my mind continues to spin. Barely aware of what direction I’m going, I put my feet to the pavement and just walk.

I feel disgusting and violated. I feel the same way I felt when I woke up in the hospital, disoriented and in pain, listening as somebody explained a trauma I couldn’t even remember. Disproportionately, this feels worse. Luke was supposed to be safe. Luke was perfect and now I wonder if any of it was even real. A small, barely there voice in my mind tries to remind me that I know it was real, that I know Luke, but it’s meaningless. A car horn sounds and I flinch, coming back to myself enough to look around at my surroundings.

I’m on campus. It’s dusk, and apart from a few stragglers leaving the library, I’m alone. I stand there, a ship unmoored and teetering on a choppy sea. Barely even conscious of making the decision, I turn until I’m facing north and continue walking. I don’t stop until I reach the house, raise my fist and knock. The pressure in my chest has increased, and the dizziness has returned tenfold. I’m just wondering if I’m going to be sick when the door opens wide and Coach Mackenzie’s tall form swims into view.

He says something, but it’s garbled like I’ve got my head underwater. Pressure on my arm has me looking down, shocked to find long, pale fingers wrapped around my elbow. I try to blink away some of the moisture in my eyes, but the world remains hazy.

“I don’t feel good,” I say, and the hand on my arm turns into one wrapped around my back. Coach raises his voice, shouting something indiscernible and I flinch, not expecting the volume.

I lean into him, letting him take my weight and then immediately feel bad about it. Coach is tall, but slight. I’m too heavy for him to carry comfortably. Somebody grips my other arm and I’m directed to the couch; my breathing sounds ragged.

“Is he hurt?” A voice I don’t recognize asks urgently. Coach crouches down in front of me, hands cupped around my face before running them down over my chest and arms.

“I don’t know, I can’t tell,” he says, voice tight. “Max, what happened? Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, still trying to breathe through painful lungs and think around my panicked brain. Distantly, I know what’s happening and that I need to calm down, but it feels impossible. I feel like I’m dying.

“I’m calling 911,” the other man says, and I shake my head, violently.

“Anthony, wait.”

“Nico,” the voice warns, but Coach Mackenzie looks up and over my left shoulder, silently communicating something I’m too wrecked to comprehend.

“Take a deep breath through your nose, Max, do it now,” Coach tells me, and I obey, immediately. “Hold it for one…two…three…good, breathe out through your mouth. Again. In through the nose, one…two…three…out through your mouth.”

I do what he says, listening to the familiar cadence of his voice as the pain in my chest slowly eases. His hands are on my face again, forcing me to maintain eye contact with him as he talks to me. There is a hand on the center of my back, big and warm, rubbing circles between my shoulder blades. I feel better, while also feeling like I might cry, because apparently this is the person I’ve become.

“One more time,” Coach Mackenzie says, and I do as he says, watching the room spin into view as the dizziness subsides. “Are you hurt, Max?”

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