Page 30 of Playing Her Game

"Good to know." He opens the passenger door. "Get in before you freeze."

I step closer, and for a second he doesn't move, and we're standing near enough that I can see the faint tiredness around his eyes. He's coming from somewhere, and not a hockey game. He smells clean, with a trace of cologne beneath the cold air. He steps aside, takes my bag and opens the passenger door.

I climb into the vehicle. The seat is heated. The upholstery is top-grain leather, rich and pale, with a clean geometric stitch so precise it could have come from a fashion house. The dash glows with muted blue and white, a constellation of dials and digital displays. There’s a subtle scent lingering in the cabin—cedar, ozone, and something faintly metallic— both a luxury spa and the cockpit of a pre-flight spaceship.

My carry on sits on my knees, barely dusting the immaculate interior. Rez closes my door with a precision that feels deliberately slow. He opens the rear passenger door, sets my suitcase inside, and then I watch him round the front like a wolf circling its own shadow, figure cut clean against the fluorescent streetlights and the low, ragged blur of falling snow. His stride is efficient. No wasted movement. There’s a sharp, almost military neatness to the way he flicks the snow from his sleeves and brushes the moisture out of his hair before getting in.

I expect him to look at his phone, or sigh with the patience of someone doing a favor. He doesn’t. Instead, a brief scan of the surroundings—mirrors, windows, me in the passenger seat, my latched seatbelt. His presence fills the cabin. Not just the size of him, though he is large; it’s the gravity, the instant quiet, that surrounds him. As if everything around him is waiting for him to make the first move.

The silence stretches for a beat. My own pulse is louder than the engine. I realize, absurdly, that I’m waiting for him to say something ceremonial, like a pilot announcing takeoff.

Instead, he turns to me directly—no half-measure, no checking the mirrors or the road. His eyes meet mine and hold there, steady as a level. There’s a flick of concern when he sees me rubbing my temple, and underneath it, a distinct strain of uncertainty, as if he is not sure to ask about it again, or spare me.

"Seat okay?" he asks.

"It's perfect. Thank you." I clutch the fabric of my coat tighter, aware that I’m more than likely giving exhaustion and nervous energy in equal measure. I want to say something to reset the balance, to put us both on firmer terrain. But everything I can think of—thanks for the ride, or this is very generous of you, or even just a joke about the storm—sounds brittle and insufficient.

In the blue light of the dash, his profile is stunning angles—jaw, nose, brow, all slightly severe, softened only by a day’s worth of stubble. His hands settle on the wheel, and I see a small fresh scar on the back of his knuckle, puckered and white against the veins.

He doesn’t say anything until he’s checked the empty side streets and pulled into the flow of traffic. It’s only then, with the world rushing past in a blur of snow, that he speaks.

"I appreciate you trusting me enough to get in," he says. "I know the internet thing wasn’t ideal. I figured you’d rather not be stuck at the airport with a hundred people live-tweeting your life."

The way he says it—unvarnished, but with a kind of reluctant care—makes the words land somewhere between confession and apology.

I take a breath, trying to calibrate a response that is both honest and not too revealing. "You didn’t have to do this. Most people would have just sent a DM and called it a day.”

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, a sharp little gesture of self-deprecation. "Most people aren’t me.”

He’s not wrong. I can count on one hand the people in my life who would do what he’s doing right now. Fewer, if I’m being honest.

I realize, abruptly, that I have no idea where he’s taking me.

"So," I say, keeping my voice light, "are we going to your place, or is this just a very scenic tour of the greater O’Hare metropolitan area?”

The flicker in his eyes says he hadn’t considered that I might not know. "My place isn’t far. You’ll have your own room, and if you want to lock the door behind you, I promise I won’t take it personally."

I almost laugh. The honesty is refreshing, if slightly unnerving. "I don’t think you’re a serial killer.”

He cracks a smile, small and lopsided. "That’s exactly what a serial killer would want you to think.”

The tension breaks a little, and I let myself relax against the seat. I watch him drive, watch how his knuckles whiten on the wheel when the slush gets bad, how he checks the mirrors with obsessive frequency, how every glance at the rearview is a quiet calculation of risk. I wonder if he’s always like this—hyperaware, protective, running numbers in his head—or if it’s a holdover from the last few days, from Brooklyn, from everything that happened.

We ride in silence for a few miles. My brain, still bruised, tap dances between jetlag, exhaustion, and a low-grade hum of curiosity.

Finally, I find the words that have been orbiting since I saw him outside. "Thank you. For going to all this trouble. You didn’t have to."

"I know."

I turn toward him. "You know, you could at least pretend to be modest about it."

"Would that make you feel better?"

"Probably not."

He laughs under his breath.

It's a low, easy sound, and I find myself wondering what else he sounds like when he's not talking to someone he barely knows. The thought is entirely unhelpful.