Kiss and Don't Tell(2)

I stand from the lounger and say, “I’m going to grab a drink.”

“If you’re going to do that, be a gentleman and grab everyone a goddamn drink,” Hornsby says.

Eli Hornsby, our team pretty boy. Hell, our league pretty boy. Perfect teeth, perfect nose, perfect face. He’s strong as shit, thighs for days, and the horniest motherfucker I’ve ever met. I think he’s slept with every single woman in Vancouver, plus or minus a few. He trains like a badass, parties as though it’s his job, eats as if food won’t be here tomorrow, and then does it all over again the next day. His lifestyle gives me anxiety, and he’s the one always trying to get me to “loosen up.”

“You want a chocolate milk?” I ask him.

He rubs his hand over his thick chest. “Milk does do the body good, as you can tell, but bring me a brewski.”

Rolling my eyes, I head into the house proper from the indoor pool. Taters says the space is called a natatorium, but that’s just a fancy word for a patio enclosed with sliding glass doors. It is nice, though, because you feel like you’re outside when the doors are open, but when it’s cold, you can turn up the pool heater, close the doors, and still swim.

I enter the kitchen just as Posey closes the fridge. Caught red-handed, he has a piece of bologna hanging out of his mouth and a beer in each hand.

Levi Posey, the dedicated bruiser of our group, and an absolute beast. Known as a teddy bear on the inside but a brutal devil on the ice, you don’t want to be smashed into the boards by this guy because it’ll feel as though a freight train just took you out.

“Why do you eat that shit?” I ask him.

He takes the bologna out of his mouth and says, “Honestly, I think I have a problem, and I don’t even think I want help with it.”

Posey is the king of bologna. Before every game he scarfs down a bologna sandwich with mustard. It’s vile, and how he can skate the way he does with that churning in his stomach makes me queasy just thinking about it.

“Is one of those beers for sharing?”

He glances down at the drinks and then back at me. “Uh, no. They were both for me.”

“Do me a favor and bring Horny and Taters one as well.” I move past him and open the fridge. Every shelf is stacked with beer, even the deli drawer where Posey keeps his bologna. We always have a chef come stay with us while we’re here. He’s really chill and ends up hanging out with us in the evenings. But he’s supposed to show up tonight, therefore, the fridge is currently stocked only with beer.

Loads and loads of beer.

So much beer that someone might walk in and think there’s a problem in this household. But taking down one can at a time is how we decompress from a long-ass season.

How we relax.

And how we forget.

I grab myself a can and then shut the door. I glance around the living room of the open-concept floor plan and ask, “Where’s Holmes?”

“I think on the balcony, that’s where I saw him last,” Posey answers.

“He have a drink?”

“Nah, not yet.”

I reach back into the fridge, grab a beer for Holmes as well, and head upstairs to the balcony, because if I know anything to be true, misery loves company.

“I think he wants to be left alone,” Posey calls out to me.

“When does he not want to be left alone?”

I take the steps to the second floor two at a time.

As the only single guys on the team, we, the guys here in the cabin, made a pact to come here during the off-season while our other teammates are off with their families and girlfriends. It works for us.

Especially for Holmes, who prefers to be alone.

I spot him on the balcony, just like Posey said, leaning back in a rocking chair, shoulders slumped, his eyes trained on his lap rather than the majestic view of the mountains in front of him.

Halsey Holmes, center, the best hands on the ice, can snap a puck off the stick so fast you don’t even realize he attempted to score until the buzzer is sounding off. He holds the record for most goals and assists. He’s the glue that holds the team together on the ice, even though he’s falling apart off the ice. Two years ago, he lost his twin brother, Holden, in a car accident. Being one of three Holmes boys playing hockey professionally, Halsey has completely separated himself from his family, ignored life, and has focused on hockey and nothing else. He comes to Banff because we force him. When we leave, we all trade off on helping him through the off-season.

I open the screen door to the balcony. He doesn’t even bother to look to see who joined him. I hand him a beer, and he takes it.

“Care if I join?”

“Nope,” he says while cracking his beer open.

“I can’t be down there right now, with them acting as though we didn’t just blow the fucking playoffs.” When Holmes doesn’t say anything, I continue, “It’s been a week and I’m still rethinking that last goal, over and over again.”

“You froze,” he says, lifting the beer to his lips.

“What?” I ask.

“I saw it happen. The minute Frederic planted his foot to shoot, your body stiffened and you froze.”

“I didn’t—”

“You still have fear,” Holmes continues, not making eye contact with me. “As the goalie, you need to be fearless. Your body isn’t yours in the game, your body belongs to the team. You act as if it’s still yours, and that’s why you missed that block.” When I don’t say anything, he says, “Prove me wrong.”