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.”
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.”