Chapter Three Ava
Ava Lane had done many questionable things for money, including wearing a foam hot dog costume during a minor league baseball promotion and once pretending she knew how to operate a cotton candy machine.
Voting in a hockey team’s emotional downfall poll was not her worst choice.
It was, however, climbing.
Especially because Nate Brennan was still standing by the storage shed looking at her like she had personally stolen his ability to form sentences.
Ava tried not to enjoy that.
She failed.
Spectacularly.
“You voted,” he said.
“I believe in civic participation.”
“You voted against me.”
“I voted for accuracy.”
“You picked option three.”
Ava shifted the flattened cardboard box under one arm and gave him the sweetest smile she had available, which was not very sweet. “Snack Shack Girl ends him by July?”
His eyes narrowed. “You enjoyed saying that.”
“I enjoyed reading it.”
“That option should not exist.”
“Democracy is messy.”
“That was not democracy. That was Tyler with Wi-Fi.”
“Then you should choose better friends.”
“I’ve been trying to trade him for years. No market value.”
Ava laughed before she could stop herself.
Nate’s expression changed immediately.
Not smug.
Worse.
Pleased.
Like her laugh was not just a sound but a point on a scoreboard.
That sobered her fast.
She lifted the cardboard box between them. “Don’t look so proud. It was a small laugh.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You didn’t earn it.”
“I carried trash.”
“Bare minimum labor does not earn emotional rewards.”
“Noted.”
“And do not put that in your group chat.”
His mouth twitched. “That you have a strict rewards program?”
“That you did one useful thing and survived.”
“I’m not going to put anything about you in the group chat.”
The humor slipped a little from his voice.
Ava hated that she heard it. Hated even more that she believed him.
Which was stupid.
Believing charming men was how girls ended up sitting on bathroom floors at midnight deleting text threads and Googling whether they could transfer colleges because one guy with good shoulders had not meant for it to get serious.
Not that Ava had done that.
More than once.
Recently.
She tucked the cardboard box against the side of the shed and reached for another.
Nate stayed where he was, giving her space but not leaving.
Annoying.
Helpful.
Both.
“You really can go,” she said.
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“You to tell me whether I’m forgiven or just temporarily tolerated.”
Ava looked over. “Those are different?”
“In my experience.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
“It often is.”
That was too self-aware.
She did not care for it.
Ava liked when men stayed in their assigned categories. Smug. Boring. Dangerous. Unavailable. Nice but secretly exhausting. If they started moving around inside the labels, a girl had to pay attention.
Ava did not have the budget for attention this summer.
Financial or emotional.
“You’re forgiven,” she said.
His posture eased.
“A little,” she added.
His eyes came back to hers. “A little?”
“Tiny amount. Trial size.”
“Generous.”
“I’m known for mercy.”
“You wrote Probably Annoying on my cup.”
“You were probably annoying.”
“Past tense?”
Ava regretted walking into that.
Nate’s smile was right there. Waiting.
She refused to reward it.
“I’m not prepared to update the file.”
“Under review?”
“Don’t get comfortable.”
“Too late.”
She pointed at him. “Banned phrase.”
He held up both hands, laughing under his breath. “Sorry. Forgot.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t.”
That was the problem with him.
He did not lie about the small things. He let the joke land, then told the truth underneath it. That made him harder to dismiss than if he was just a walking jawline with skates.
From the deck, Tyler yelled again.
“CALLAHAN! THE POLL UPDATED!”
Nate closed his eyes.
Ava perked up despite herself. “Updated how?”
He opened one eye. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“I am in customer service. Other people’s problems are my vacation.”
“This problem has your name in it.”
“Only my first name. Legally survivable.”
Tyler appeared around the corner of the snack shack before Nate could answer, followed by two other players Ava did not know and one blond guy with a face that suggested he had never once arrived quietly anywhere.
Tyler held up his phone like a trophy.
“Nate,” he said solemnly, “I regret to inform you that Snack Shack Ava is currently leading the poll.”
Ava frowned. “Leading?”
Nate’s jaw flexed. “Tyler.”
“Option three has thirty-eight percent.”
“How many people are voting?” Ava asked.
Tyler beamed. “Enough.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is spiritually an answer.”
The blond guy leaned around Tyler. “Hi. I’m Beckett. I voted option three, but respectfully.”
Ava stared at him. “Respectfully?”
“I believe in your ability to destroy him.”
“That is not respectful to him.”
Beckett glanced at Nate. “He’ll grow from it.”
“I hate this team,” Nate said.
The third player, taller, quieter, with a serious expression and captain energy even without a captain patch, looked at Ava. “Griffin. Sorry about them.”
Ava nodded once. “You seem tired.”
“I am.”
“Valid.”
Tyler pointed between Ava and Nate. “See? The people feel chemistry.”
Ava made a sound of pure disgust.
Nate stepped slightly in front of her.
Not dramatically. Not like she needed rescuing. Just enough that Tyler’s attention shifted off her and onto him.
“We’re done,” Nate said.
Tyler’s grin dimmed. “With what?”
“The Ava part. Take her name out.”
Ava blinked.
Tyler blinked too. “But she voted.”
“She can vote and still not be content.”
The sentence landed in Ava’s chest before she could stop it.
Not content.
Two words.
Simple.
Bare minimum, probably.
And yet.
It had been a while since a guy had understood the difference between a woman joking back and a woman agreeing to be made public property.
Ava did not know what to do with that, so she did what she always did when a feeling became inconvenient.
She became sharper.
“I mean, I am very engaging content,” she said.
Nate looked over his shoulder. “I’m aware.”
Bad.
Bad answer.
Wrong tone.
Too low. Too direct.
Ava’s pulse kicked.
Beckett made a small sound. “Oh, he’s cooked.”
“I am standing right here,” Nate said.
“Yes,” Beckett said. “Near her. That’s the issue.”
Griffin took Tyler by the back of his shirt and turned him toward the deck. “We’re leaving.”
Tyler resisted. “But the public demands updates.”
“The public can hydrate,” Griffin said.
Beckett pointed at Ava. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing great work.”
“Thank you,” Ava said. “I respect your commitment to chaos from a distance.”
“High praise.”
“Go away.”
“Fair.”
Griffin dragged Tyler back around the building while Beckett followed, walking backward for several steps just to wiggle his eyebrows at Nate.
Nate waited until they disappeared.
Then he exhaled.
Ava tilted her head. “Are they always like that?”
“No.”
“Oh good.”
“They’re usually worse.”
She laughed again.
Traitor.
Nate’s eyes warmed.
She immediately picked up another box, because cardboard was emotionally safer than eye contact.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Tell him to take my name out.”
“Yes, I did.”
Ava shoved the box into the recycling stack. “I can handle Tyler.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
He held her gaze.
“I didn’t do it because you couldn’t handle him,” he said. “I did it because you shouldn’t have to.”
Oh.
Ava hated that.
Not the words.
The words were fine. Good, even. Annoyingly good.
She hated the little internal pause they caused. The moment where some guarded part of her looked up like a stray cat hearing a can open.
No.
Absolutely not.
She was not doing that.
She was not softening because one hockey player had performed baseline decency behind a snack shack.
Men had been getting awards for basic competence since the invention of doors. Ava refused to contribute.
“You are very good at sounding decent,” she said.
His mouth tilted, but his eyes stayed serious. “Is that different from being decent?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Sounding decent is what people do when someone is watching.”
“No one is watching back here.”
“I am.”
The words left her mouth before she fully understood them.
Nate went still.
Not visibly to anyone else, maybe. But Ava saw it. The tiny shift, the focus, the way he absorbed the sentence like it mattered.
“You are,” he said.
She swallowed.
This was becoming strange.
Too quiet.
Too close.
Too much like the air had changed its mind about being normal.
Ava stepped toward the shed door and grabbed the empty crate she had come back to retrieve in the first place. “I have to get back.”
“Right.”
“You should too.”
“Right.”
Neither of them moved quickly.
Which was irritating.
Ava pushed past him toward the side path, careful not to brush against him because she did not trust her own skin to behave.
Nate fell into step beside her.
Not too close.
Still too present.
“You don’t have to walk me back,” she said.
“I’m going to the deck.”
“Convenient.”
“It is where my lemonade is.”
“Emotionally attached to it already?”
“It has been through a lot with me.”
“You should write it a poem.”
“I’m more of a notes app guy.”
“That is tragic.”
“My poetry is mostly grocery lists and threats to Tyler.”
“I respect one of those.”
As they rounded the corner, the noise of the deck rushed back over them. Laughter. Kids shouting. Plastic chairs scraping. A whistle somewhere. Someone yelling, “No, that is not how cornhole works,” which seemed like a troubling sentence at a charity event.
Ava stepped back behind the snack shack counter. Safety. Barriers. Register. Deep fryer. All good things.
Nate stayed on the customer side.
The service window framed him like an unfortunate promotional poster for summer mistakes.
Ava set the crate down. “Apology tour complete?”
“Not quite.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What now?”
“I still need to buy another lemonade.”
“You finished the first one?”
“No. Tyler spilled it while trying to reenact your verbal takedown.”
“That sounds like him.”
“You’ve known him six minutes.”
“And yet.”
Nate pointed at her. “You use that too much.”