Chapter 6: Cold Ice

On Friday after school Rhett was waiting at the rink doors with two coffees.

He held one out without a word.

I looked at it.

"It's hot chocolate," he said. "Gazette runs on ink and spite. I figured you'd need sugar."

"That is a very specific insult."

"It's also a very specific hot chocolate."

I took it.

It was warm, and it smelled like cocoa and cinnamon, and I hated how good that felt.

Inside, the Harbor Ridge rink was empty and echoing, with rows of blue seats going up into the dark.

The ice had just been cleaned, so it shone.

"We have to plan the layout," Rhett said. "Where the kids' tables go. Where the hospital volunteers stand."

"I brought a map."

"Of course you did."

"Of course I did. Stop talking."

He almost smiled.

We walked the boards together, and I marked things on my clipboard.

He knew every inch of the place.

He knew which door stuck and which light flickered, and which corner of the bleachers got cold first.

"Why do you care about this game?" I asked.

He stopped by the penalty box.

"They fixed my arm there when I was seven," he said. "The hospital.

I fell off a bike and it broke in two places.

I don't remember the surgery.

I remember a nurse who let me keep the bracelet."

"That's sweet."

"It's a bracelet, Lindahl."

"It's still sweet."

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