Kiss and Don't Tell(3)

And that’s the shit part, I can’t.

It was one fucking hit. One shot . . . and I blacked out.

As a goalie, that’s not supposed to bother me. But when I realized there were specific problems, that’s when shit got real.

I bring my beer to my mouth and say, “I can’t prove you wrong.”

And it’s true, I can’t.

He’s fucking right.

If I think about it, I did freeze.

In that moment, when I saw Frederic plant his foot, fear crept up the back of my neck, just like every other time I anticipated a slap shot. But this time, I wasn’t quick enough. I let the fear consume me.

Off in the distance, a crack of thunder echoes through the mountains. The once blue sky quickly shifts to gray, the clouds moving a mile a minute.

A storm is coming.

Feels about right.

Because a storm is brewing inside me as well.





“I don’t think Stephan is making it up here tonight,” Posey says as he sits at the bar of the kitchen, another piece of bologna in his hand.

“He has to,” Hornsby says, looking in the fridge. “We don’t have anything to eat besides Chips Ahoy cookies and Cheez-Its.”

“Don’t forget my bologna,” Posey chimes in. “I can make bologna sandwiches for everyone.”

“No one wants your goddamn bologna,” I say as my stomach rumbles just as loud as the thunder.

The storm picked up quickly. The cell service is spotty at best, the Internet is out, and the windows are being pelted by rain while lightning lights up the dark night sky. It’s a rough storm; with every crash of thunder, you can feel the house shake beneath your feet.

Stephan is our chef—the best there is—and unfortunately, I think Posey is right. There’s no way he’s making it up here. The house is at the top of a steep dirt hill. When it rains like this, that hill turns into a muddy slip and slide. Even Stephan’s truck doesn’t stand a chance.

“I can live off cookies until morning,” Hornsby says while picking up the package. His eyes narrow, he pulls out the plastic sleeve, which he discovers is empty, and turns a furious glare at Posey, who steadfastly refuses to meet his eye.

“What the actual fuck, Posey? You ate all the cookies?”

“How do you know it was me?” He tosses his hand to the side. “It very well could’ve been Holmes for all we know.”

“Wasn’t me,” Holmes says from the couch where he’s reading a book.

Posey could’ve picked on someone more believable. Holmes is a hermit; he’s not going to spend his time in the kitchen scarfing down cookies.

“You’re the only one who’s been hanging out in the kitchen all day,” Taters says, snagging the package from Hornsby. “And who the hell puts the package back like this? That’s just a dick move.”

“How was I supposed to know there was going to be a storm? If anyone is to blame, it’s YOU, Taters. You’re the host, you were supposed to provide us with food.” Posey has a very valid point.

“I did. I provided you Stephan.”

Posey folds his arms over his chest. “I think we know how well that went, you fuck.”

Thunder crashes around us, causing us all to sink into our shoulders from the forceful booming sound.

“Think it’s too bad to drive into town?” I ask.

Taters laughs. “Unless you’re excited about sliding down a dirt road, I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to stay put.”

It was worth a shot.

“My bologna sandwich is looking more and more delicious, isn’t it?” Posey asks with a grin.

Just then, there’s a knock at the door.

We all look at each other in surprise.

“Holy shit, Stephan made it?” Taters jogs to the entryway. When he opens the door, he reveals a short, drenched figure. Raincoat on, hood over their head, they stand there shivering as lightning shoots off in the distance. The scene could be picked straight from a horror film, and yet, we all look closer.

“I don’t think that’s Stephan,” Hornsby whispers.

At that moment, lightning strikes what sounds like the roof. There’s a brilliant flash of blinding light and a deafening crash, and the stranger’s head jerks up, the lightning illuminating the lower half of their rain-soaked face while leaving the rest in hollowed shadows. The velocity of the storm, along with that sudden movement, startles us all backwards. And I can probably vouch for every man in this house when I say our balls just curdled from the horror.

“Jesus, fuck,” Posey says, falling out of his chair. “Satan.” He points toward the door.

Satan is right. What the actual fuck is this? Why is Taters still holding the door open? Does he not watch horror films at all? This is how people receive an axe to the skull, because they don’t slam the door.

The person flips their hood down and collectively we hold our breath while a timid voice says, “No, I swear I’m not a murderer.”

That’s a girl’s voice.

“Turn on the outside light, for fuck’s sake,” I say.

Taters flips on the light, and the girl’s face comes into view, but this is no girl.

Nope, our visitor is a woman with drenched blonde hair, scared eyes, and a perfectly heart-shaped face.