Page 1 of Tainted Love

Prologue - “Champagne Supernova”

Sascha - Age 24, 1994

Look at me, Taz.

Thirty-six hours. I haven’t been able to reach him for nearly two days. Each hour has been progressively more agonizing as my mind wanders to dark, murky places. Sadly, these are the same places Taz has inhabited in his head over the course of his life.

The first day, I searched with our friend Landry everywhere around our hometown where he was last seen, calling my house to check my answering machine every hour, hoping he had reached out. Nothing. There was no indication of where he might be or what he might be thinking.

On the second day, I began to panic. Whenever I heard the robotic voice say, “You have no messages,” I unraveled one string at a time within the silence. By the time early afternoon rolled around, I hugged Landry and instructed him to let me know if he found Taz drowning somewhere while I hopped on a plane to Denver.

He has to be here. He would never miss a game.

Hockey is his life, or most of it, until very recently. Now, he must feel like this is all he has left. I wish I could tell him that’s not true. I wish I could tell him anything, but he’s gone to a place I can’t follow.

I perch on the edge of my seat, just a few feet from the ice—the frigid air blasts against my cheeks while my bottom lip quivers. The scent of metal from freshly sharpened skates mixed with sweat stings my nostrils, causing my eyes to water. Or maybe those are the tears I’ve been determined to keep at bay.

The players emerge from the tunnel onto the ice as the music blasts through the speakers. The crowd erupts in cheers as they skate to the center ice for introductions—my heart races in my chest as I scan the ice frantically to catch a sight of him.

Leaning forward, I brace my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands tightly under my chin in silent prayer as my legs bounce uncontrollably. To anyone else, I look like a nervous hockey fan, eagerly anticipating the battle about to take place.

I exhale as he takes the ice and skates with intensity in a smooth arc. I’m sitting in the first row on the other side of the boards, so I can make out every bead of sweat on the players’ faces and their eyes alight with determination, except for his. He won’t look up—won’t meet my eyes.

Look at me, Taz.

My gaze remains fixed on him, unyielding as I wait for him to acknowledge my presence. He moves robotically, focusing solely on the ice beneath his skates. This is not the man I know—the one who lives and breathes for this game, who thrives on the thrill of showmanship.

The man before me is distant and detached. There is no spark in his movements, no fire propelling his skates. Part of him has been stripped away. The radiant essence of the boy I met and the man I’ve come to know is absent. He shouldn’t be on the ice tonight.

Look at me, Taz.

His teammates zip around him, unaware he’s self-sequestered on an island. His body is present, but his heart and head are far away. I want to scream at him, cradle his face in my hands until he hears me. I would give anything to see his cocky grin right now, his flirtatious wink. Michael Tazman is an undeniable force on hockey skates. He stands on them like a deity on a pedestal, looking down on mere mortals. But not tonight.

Look at me, Taz.

As if finally deciding to answer my silent pleas, he looks up, and our eyes meet for a split second before he breaks the connection. Even though it’s brief, I notice the moment his eyes darken, going from vivid turquoise to deep blue bordering on black. That brief exchange says more than words ever could - pain instantly turning to anger. It’s a defense mechanism he’s perfected over the years, his armor against the hurt inflicted by those who were supposed to love and protect him. It both defines and haunts him. Only a few people know about his past—the real Michael Tazman. I’m one of them.

I hold my breath as the first puck drops, watching intently as they fight for possession. Sticks clash against each other, creating the sound of battle that is synonymous with hockey. The Mountaineers win the face-off, and the puck is passed to Taz, who takes off with determination in every stride. The sold-out crowd roars around me, but I can sense something different in Taz’s movements. He may look like he’s putting on a show for the fans, but I see the recklessness in his play—a sign that he’s letting his emotions get the best of him.

He should pass the puck, but he doesn’t. He takes a careless shot at the net, which the goalie easily stops and passes to his teammate. “Fuck!” I can hear the disappointment and anger in Taz’s voice as he takes off after the puck.

For several minutes of back-and-forth, the puck moves from one end of the ice to the other, but no one is able to take a shot at the goal. Taz tries to intercept the puck, but his angle is off, and he falls forward, splaying out onto the ice.

He gets up, and his frustration is evident as he slams his stick down, breaking it in half. With another curse, he skates toward the bench and hops over the board as his line is replaced. He’s handed a new stick and shakes it in his gloved hand until his line is called out again.

He bounces over the wall and races off after the puck. As soon as he gets close to battling for possession, his opponent passes it off, but Taz checks him into the boards a second too late, hard. It’s a punishing blow meant for the world, meant to express the pain he’s feeling. I shake my head as he’s sent to the penalty box for two minutes. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and stare across the ice at the penalty box.

Look at me, Taz.

He vibrates with barely restrained anger. His face is crimson as he screams at the action on the ice, screams at the storm brewing in his chest. His teammates manage to kill the penalty, but it’s of little consequence.

At the end of two minutes, he flies out of the box. The puck sails behind the net, where he intercepts it, skating toward the net with single-minded determination. He doesn’t see it coming or have time to brace for impact.

The minute it happens, I know it’s bad. I let out a scream as Taz slams into the boards, sandwiched by two opponents. His head and neck hit first, the impact unable to be absorbed by his shoulder. One of the opposing players gains possession of the puck and sprints toward the goal.

Their bodies were the only thing keeping Taz upright. As soon as they skate away, he drops onto the ice, unconscious, with nothing to stop his fall. His back hits first, and a second later, his head bounces off the ice. I jump up with my hands covering my mouth, silencing the pain trying to escape from my chest. No, no, no, no, no. He’s okay. He’s got to be okay. Just move, Taz.

But he doesn’t move.