Chapter 6: Cold Hands

After the game, Colby was waiting for me at the east exit with his hands in his pockets.

I saw him through the glass doors from the staff corridor, standing under a streetlight.

An usher touched my elbow.

"Ma'am, Mr. Callaghan says he'll walk you to the south lot, if you want."

"He said that?"

"He said it twice."

I followed her down a quiet hallway lined with team photographs.

Rhys was at the end, in a dark wool coat, with his hair still damp.

He had a hockey bag on his shoulder and a split on his lip from the third period.

"There's a man at the east door," he said. "I can take you out the south side."

"You scored two goals tonight."

"One. I got an assist on the other."

"I don't know hockey, but I'm sure that was bad."

His mouth almost moved again. "It was fine."

He led me through a service door into a cold, empty parking lot.

His car was a dark gray truck with a dented bumper, and it started on the third try.

I sat in the passenger seat with my hands folded in my lap, shaking so hard that my teeth clicked.

"It's not that cold," I said, embarrassed.

"It's not the cold."

He turned the heater on, and a smell of old coffee and pine drifted from the vents.

I tried to flex my fingers, and they wouldn't open all the way.

Rhys looked at my hands.

Then he took both of them in his, and held them between his palms.

His hands were big and rough, with a scrape across one knuckle.

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