Chapter 4: Sunday Dinner

My mother opened the front door before Rhett finished knocking.

"You must be Rhett," she said, and hugged him like he was a returning soldier.

He stood stiff for one second, then patted her back with a taped hand.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for having me."

"Ma'am," my mother said to me over his shoulder. "He called me ma'am."

"I heard."

"Keep him."

I wanted to crawl into the coat closet and die.

Rhett looked down at me with perfect calm and squeezed my hand once.

It was the first time we had touched since the arena, and it felt different in daylight.

Warmer, and less like a business deal.

The house smelled like pot roast and rosemary.

My stepfather sat at the head of the table, a big gray-haired man who had played defense for Larkfield thirty years ago.

He looked Rhett up and down the way he looked at a new puck.

"Eleven fights," he said.

"Eleven, sir."

"Why?"

Rhett took a breath.

"Six were because somebody went after a rookie. Three were because somebody said something about my sister. Two were because I was stupid."

My stepfather's eyebrows rose.

"Honest, at least."

"It's cheaper than lying. I'm bad at it."

My mother made a small delighted noise.

Jase was already at the table, a beer in front of him, and Zara sat close to his side.

She wore the white coat even indoors, and she smiled at Rhett.

"So how did you two meet?" she asked sweetly. "I never saw you together before August."

"We sat next to each other at the stats table," I said. "He kept stealing my pen."

"She stole it back," Rhett said, "and wrote on my hand."

He turned his hand over and I almost choked.

There was an actual faded blue ink mark on the heel of his palm, a little number seven.

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