By Lisa Timpf

At first, Dorian Gray found it intoxicating, being the eternally youthful, dashingly handsome hockey star. Fans mobbed him after games, eager for his autograph.

Competitors who slammed him into the boards, only to see him jump up unscathed, didn’t understand how he did it. Nor did his teammates, who knew he stayed out long after curfew, drinking and heaven-knows-what-else. Dorian always showed up for practice the next morning as fresh as some innocent kid right off the farm.

The veteran players tried to warn him. They knew bad karma always caught up eventually.

But it won’t. Not with me.

Dorian had made a deal with the devil. The pact allowed him to commit any transgression or undergo any tribulation—all without showing signs of harm.

The veterans were right about one thing, though. Somebody had to pay the price, and in Dorian’s case, that duty fell to his rookie card. The image, which had depicted Dorian in the peak of his glowing youth, displayed thinning hair thanks to steroid use. The pot belly bore witness to the effects of excessive beer consumption. Open sores near the mouth were souvenirs of illnesses Dorian picked up during his nocturnal exploits.

If fans had noticed, the rookie card might have caused a stir. But Dorian had bought up the rookie cards shortly after making The Deal. He advertised online, the earliest buys coming cheap, the later ones costing more than he would have liked. He knew how many cards had been produced, and he tracked them down and destroyed them—except for one, which he kept in a locked drawer in his home office.

As he understood the bargain, if something happened to the last of the rookie cards, he’d be done. Kaput. Dead.

Dorian guarded the last card because his life literally depended on it. Witnessing the toll his lifestyle took on the image turned his stomach, but it fascinated him, too. The sunken eyes stared back accusingly, and every time he saw the drooping beer gut portrayed in the photo, he put a hand on his own belly, seeking reassurance that the picture differed from reality. See, see, the card whispered. This is what you really are.

Some days, he yearned to tear it to shreds.

He didn’t dare.

Instead, he brooded over it, unable to stop watching as it mapped out his twisted life.

***

Basil Hallward Jr. sighed. His wife had declared this to be the weekend for a long-deferred decluttering.

Despite Basil’s grumbling, he knew the exercise was necessary, like going to the dentist. He puttered along grumpily at first, then with higher spirits as he ran across certain mementos. When supper time rolled around, he asked himself, Where did the time go?

He glanced at the top shelf of his closet.

Not quite finished. I’ll get to that later.

***

As Dorian watched Mike Rilson being carted off the ice on a stretcher, he bent over, hockey stick braced against his knees. Without that support, he might have fallen to the ice.

I did nothing wrong, he protested.

Except he knew better. He’d run Rilson from behind, hit him right in the numbers and flung him headfirst into the boards.

It’s the steroids. I didn’t know my own strength.

What if somebody did that to me?

He knew the answer. Nothing would happen. He’d bounce right back.

But what if one day, I don’t? What if somebody up there has a big ledger, keeping track of everything we do…

Beads of sweat rolled off Dorian’s forehead as he sat in the dressing room. Every time he replayed the check on Rilson in his mind, he wanted to throw up.

That day, he resolved to do better. To be better.

By the midpoint of the next season, Dorian had stopped the steroids, cut out the late nights, and doubled down on his weight and cardio training.

He pulled the rookie card out often, desperate for signs of redemption. There were, he had to admit, a few promising indicators. The image had slimmed down. The bags under the eyes lightened.

But progress was too slow!

Stupid card!

With a cry of rage, Dorian ripped the card in half, then sat, trembling.

“What have I done?”

Cowering, he waited for a bolt of lightning or some other horrific mode of destruction to descend.

Nothing.

Dorian sat up. Maybe he’d imagined it. The Deal. The card. All of it.

Dorian checked his reflection in the mirror.

I’m still the same.

Karma, pah! Nothing can touch Dorian Gray. He laughed.

***

Basil returned to his closet cleanup and reached for the final box.

These are the things I gathered from Dad’s apartment, after the funeral.

Basil opened the box and gasped. Dad’s original photographs, from the hockey cards he worked on. He must have gotten these after the company folded.

Those photos—Basil Senior had wanted to do an art exhibition featuring his hockey cards. When he heard that Dorian had the only remaining copy of his rookie card, he’d headed to Dorian’s house to see if he could borrow it for his display.

That day, Basil’s dad disappeared. Dorian denied seeing him, but Basil often wondered…

He sifted through the pile and scooped up Dorian’s photo.

Basil recoiled. The photo looked like Methuselah in shoulder pads. And those eyes were creepy…

Basil shook his head. It’s just damaged due to age, that’s all.

Decluttering involved relentless decisions.

This one’s not worth keeping.

Basil ripped the photo in half, then tore it again.

A blaring screech tore through the air. Basil dropped the pieces and clapped his hands over his ears.

***

Dorian Gray clutched at his chest.

When he crumpled to the sidewalk, bystanders called 9-1-1.

The first responders did their best, but Dorian Gray, the ageless wonder, had died. Only—he didn’t really look ageless, did he?

Strange, how the television screens hid the truth…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa Timpf lives in Simcoe, Ontario, where she writes poetry, book reviews, short stories, and creative nonfiction. Lisa’s speculative poetry collections Cats and Dogs in Space (2025) and In Days to Come (2022) are available from Hiraeth Publishing. Lisa is a member of SF Canada and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association.

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