Chapter Five Ava
Ava Lane had always believed in the healing power of walking away before a man could ask follow-up questions.
Unfortunately, Lake Briar was small, Nate Brennan had long legs, and her phone was still burning a hole through her hand.
No one.
That was what she had told him.
No one had texted her.
No one had seen the photo before it posted. No one had a talent for appearing exactly when Ava was trying to become a person again. No one had once kissed her in the passenger seat of his car, told her she was different, and then treated her like a summer playlist he had outgrown by August.
No one was named Trevor Hale.
And no one needed to be discussed with a hockey player she had known for one afternoon, especially not a hockey player who already looked at her like he noticed where the bruises were.
Ava hated being noticed.
Correction. She hated being noticed accurately.
She pushed through the side door into the snack shack and nearly collided with Ellie, who was holding a tray of napkins and wearing the expression of a person who had been waiting for a body to return from a dramatic battlefield.
Ava pointed one finger at her. “No.”
Ellie froze. “I did not say anything.”
“You inhaled with questions.”
“I have lungs.”
“Use them quietly.”
Ellie looked over Ava’s shoulder toward the deck. “Is Nate still alive?”
“For now.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“That sounds like I know where the fryer oil is stored.”
“Also romantic, in a threatening way.”
Ava set her phone facedown on the counter with more force than necessary.
Ellie’s gaze dropped to it.
Ava covered it with a stack of paper boats.
Ellie lifted both hands. “Not asking.”
“You are asking silently.”
“I am concerned silently.”
“Do less.”
Ellie studied her face. The humor dimmed, which was how Ava knew things were getting dangerous.
“Was it him?” Ellie asked.
Ava started rearranging condiment packets. “There is no him.”
“Okay.”
The gentleness was worse than teasing.
Ava would have preferred teasing. Teasing was easy to parry. Gentleness made a girl feel like her ribs were made of paper.
She shoved ketchup into the wrong bin.
Ellie quietly moved it back.
Ava sighed. “I am fine.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” Ellie said. “But I know you want me to act like I do.”
Ava looked at her.
Ellie gave a small shrug. “I have sisters.”
“That should be illegal. Having more than one of you.”
“Technically, there are three.”
“Terrifying.”
Ellie smiled, but it stayed soft around the edges. “Want me to delete the group chat from my phone?”
“You have access to a private hockey team group chat. You should delete yourself from society.”
“I got added last year when I dated a goalie for eleven days.”
Ava blinked. “You dated a goalie?”
“Briefly. Emotionally, it was like arguing with a locked filing cabinet.”
“Was it Soren?”
“No. Soren scares me.”
“Good. He has standards.”
Ellie’s smile sharpened back into place. “Look at you remembering Soren’s name.”
“I’m remembering which one is less likely to set a table on fire.”
“Low bar.”
“It is a hockey program.”
The side door creaked.
Ava’s body reacted before her brain did. Spine straight. Shoulders tight. Face blank.
Nate stepped inside.
Of course he did.
Not through the service window. Not from the deck where people could perform curiosity. He came in through the side door like someone trying not to make a scene, which was deeply unfair because Ava was prepared for scenes. Scenes had volume. Scenes had exits.
Quiet concern was trickier.
He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle. “I’m not following you.”
Ava folded her arms. “Compelling opener from the man who followed me.”
“I was coming to ask Denise about the photo post.”
“Denise is not in here.”
“I see that now.”
“Strong detective work.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then his eyes flicked to the paper boats covering her phone, and the smile did not arrive.
Ava hated that too.
She wanted the smile. The smile was easier. The smile could be mocked, resisted, categorized, filed.
This version of him, careful and quiet, had no obvious handle.
Ellie looked between them, then grabbed a bucket of ice from the freezer. “I suddenly have to be elsewhere.”
Ava turned. “Coward.”
“Survivor.”
Ellie disappeared out the back with enough speed to qualify as evacuation.
Ava and Nate stood in the sudden quiet of the snack shack.
Outside, the deck roared with distant laughter. Inside, the fryer hummed, the slushie machine churned, and Ava’s covered phone sat on the counter like a live grenade in a paper boat disguise.
Nate stayed near the door.
Smart.
“Paulson is changing the post,” he said.
Ava frowned. “What post?”
“The team assignment photo. He is using the board graphic instead of the picture.”
She hated the relief that moved through her.
It was instant.
Embarrassing.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because the picture made you uncomfortable.”
“That is not what I said.”
“No. You said Tyler would turn it into evidence.”
“Same thing.”
“Pretty much.”
Ava leaned back against the counter. “Did you ask him to change it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nate looked at her like the answer was obvious. “Because you looked like you wanted it changed.”
That was too simple.
Too irritating.
“You are not my public relations manager,” she said.
“No.”
“Or my bodyguard.”
“No.”
“Or my emotional support hockey player.”
His eyes warmed a little. “Is that a real position?”
“Not for you.”
“Good to know.”
She waited for the joke.
He did not make one.
Instead, he looked toward the covered phone again, then back at her face.
“I’m also not going to ask who texted you.”
Ava’s stomach tightened.
“That is excellent,” she said. “Because I was not going to answer.”
“I figured.”
“Then why mention it?”
“Because I want you to know I saw your face change, and I am not going to use it.”
The words landed with awful precision.
Ava had no defense ready.
She could joke about forearms. She could mock his lemonade dependency. She could call the entire team a lawsuit in matching shirts. But that sentence had moved too fast and too cleanly, straight past the banter and into the place she preferred to keep locked.
I saw your face change, and I am not going to use it.
Men used things.
Not always cruelly. Sometimes they used them lazily. A detail offered in trust became a punchline later. A soft confession became leverage during a fight. A fear became something to soothe until it became inconvenient.
Trevor had used almost everything.
Her ambition. Her money stress. Her jokes. Her willingness to be cool so no one would call her clingy. Her silence after he had started pulling away.
Then, at the end, he had used her embarrassment too.
Ava looked at Nate and felt the sharp panic of wanting to believe him.
That was unacceptable.
She straightened. “You say very polished things for someone who claims not to be a public relations manager.”
His jaw shifted.
Not anger.
Recognition, maybe.
“You think that was polished?”
“I think you are good at making things sound good.”
“That’s not always the same thing.”
“Exactly.”
For a second, he looked like he might argue.
Then he nodded once.
“Okay.”
Ava hated that word from him.
Not when it was easy. Not when it ended things. Okay from Nate sounded like he was respecting a boundary while quietly remaining on the other side of it.
She did not know what to do with respectful persistence.
She had a lot of experience with selfish persistence.
This was worse.
The front bell jingled, saving them.
A mother with two kids stepped up to the service counter, each child already pointing at opposite sides of the menu.
Ava moved into work mode with too much gratitude. “Hi. What can I get you?”
The kids began shouting.
One wanted a blue slushie.
One wanted a hot pretzel.
The mother wanted caffeine and a new personality.
Ava handled all of it. Nate stayed out of the way, which was another mark against him because she preferred men who made themselves easy to resent.
When the mother left, Nate had picked up a rag and was wiping down the far prep counter.
Ava stared. “What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“Do you know how?”
“It’s a counter, Ava. Not a space shuttle.”
“You say that now, but men get very confused around sanitation buckets.”
He looked down at the bucket. “This is sanitizer?”
“Miracle.”
“I can read labels.”
“Proud of you.”
His mouth twitched. “Is this what earning a name feels like?”
“You already have a name.”
“Probably Annoying.”
“That was a title.”
“Do titles outrank names?”
“In your case, yes.”
He kept wiping the counter.
Ava should have stopped him. It was not his job. It was unnecessary. Worse, it was effective. The counter looked better. He looked better. Helpful men were a trap, especially when their shirts stretched across their shoulders and they respected sanitizer protocol.
She grabbed the rag from his hand.
Their fingers brushed.
Again.
This time, it was not accidental in the same way. Not intentional either. Just close enough for both of them to register it.
Nate went still.
Ava did too.
The snack shack was not quiet. A machine buzzed. Someone outside laughed. A child yelled about a dropped popsicle.
Still, for one stupid second, all Ava heard was her own pulse.
She pulled the rag away. “You’re bad for workflow.”
His voice lowered. “I was improving workflow.”
“You’re distracting.”
The truth slipped out before she could make it sarcastic.
Nate’s eyes lifted.
Ava’s brain immediately attempted to resign.
“I mean,” she said quickly, “in a health-code-adjacent way.”
“Of course.”
“Because you are standing in a staff area.”
“Right.”
“With your hockey germs.”
“Very dangerous.”
“And your arms.”
His smile barely appeared.
Ava closed her eyes. “Forget that part.”
“I will make an effort.”
“No. You will succeed.”
“I am known for discipline.”
Her eyes snapped open. “Do not bring that sentence into my workplace.”
He laughed.
There it was again.
That real laugh.
Ava was starting to hate how much she wanted to earn it.
Denise pushed through the side door before Ava could say something worse.
“Excellent,” Denise said, looking at Nate with approval. “Athletes who wipe counters. I knew this program would produce miracles.”
Nate set the rag down. “Happy to help.”
Ava muttered, “He’s auditioning for management.”
Denise handed Ava a folded shirt. “Your relay shirt.”
Ava looked down.
White cotton. Pink lettering. Ridgeview Challenge logo. Team One printed beneath it.
She unfolded it against her better judgment.
The back read:
TEAM ONE
CALLAHAN
VALE
LANE
Ava stared at it.
“No.”
Denise smiled. “Yes.”
“My name is under his.”
“It is alphabetical by player, then staff.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It sounds administrative.”
Ava turned the shirt around and pointed at the back. “This is basically a public document.”
“It is cotton.”
“It has implications.”
Nate leaned closer to see it.
Ava yanked it against her chest. “Do not admire the implications.”
His expression went bright with effort. He was trying very hard not to laugh.
That only made it worse.
Denise handed him two folded shirts. “Yours and Soren’s.”
Nate accepted them. “Thank you.”
Ava stared at him. “Do not thank her for this.”
“I was raised with manners.”
“You were raised in a lab that produces problems.”
Denise patted the clipboard against her palm. “Saturday check-in is at nine-thirty. Team photo at nine-forty-five. Relay begins at ten.”
Ava’s head snapped up. “Team photo?”
“For each team.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“We just avoided a photo.”
“You avoided an unscheduled photo. This one is planned.”
“That is worse.”
Denise gave her a look. “Ava, you are not being asked to marry the hockey players. You are being asked to stand beside them for a charity relay.”
Nate made a choking sound.
Ava turned on him. “Do not.”
“I didn’t.”
“You thought it.”
“I thought many things.”
“Think fewer.”
Denise’s eyes moved between them.
Ava did not like the way her manager’s mouth curved.
Not at all.
“Also,” Denise said, “the sponsor list has been finalized. Saturday will be busier than expected.”
Ava went still.
It was the casualness of it.
The way Denise said sponsor list like the universe had not just placed a cold hand on the back of Ava’s neck.
“What sponsors?” Ava asked.
Denise flipped a page on the clipboard. “Local businesses. Briar Bean, Mason Auto, Hale Development, Ridgeview Orthopedics, the usual.”
Hale Development.
The room tilted slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, probably.
Nate noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Ava focused on the shirt in her hands.
White cotton. Pink letters. Team One. Brennan. Lindqvist. Lane.
Safe details.
“I thought Hale pulled sponsorship last year,” she said, keeping her voice casual.
Denise looked up. “They came back. Trevor Hale is handling their table this year, I think. Nice boy. Went to Ridgeview, didn’t he?”
Nice boy.
Ava almost laughed.
Trevor had always been good at nice boy. Nice boys took mothers’ coats, remembered professors’ names, and destroyed girls privately.
Nate’s attention was on her now.
Too sharp.
Too quiet.
Ava could feel it without looking.
She folded the shirt with careful hands. “Great.”
Denise smiled. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
The lie came out smooth.
Too smooth.
Nate shifted beside her.
Denise, mercifully, was already checking the next item on her clipboard. “Well, Saturday should be fun.”
Ava looked toward the deck, where Tyler was pretending to stretch while clearly trying to read the snack shack energy from fifty feet away.
Fun.
Sure.
That was one word for it.
Denise left again, taking her clipboard and most of the oxygen with her.
Nate did not speak.
Ava wished he would.
Then she wished he would not.
Then her phone buzzed under the paper boats.
Both of them looked at it.
Ava reached for it before Nate could politely look away.
The screen lit.
**Unknown:** Don’t worry. I won’t make it weird Saturday.
Ava’s throat closed.
A second message arrived.
**Unknown:** Unless your new hockey boy does.
Nate read it.
He did not mean to. She knew that. The phone was angled between them, the text bright, the moment too fast to hide.
His face changed.
Not curiosity this time.
Not concern.
Something colder.
Controlled.
Ava locked the phone so hard her thumb hurt.
“Still no one?” Nate asked.
The question was quiet.
No judgment.
That made it worse.
Ava lifted her chin, because pride was sometimes the only thing standing between a girl and collapse.
“Still none of your business.”
Nate held her gaze.
For one second, she thought he might push.
He did not.
He stepped back.
“You’re right.”
The words should have been a relief.
They were not.
Then he picked up his folded Team One shirt, looked toward the deck, and said, “But if he makes it weird Saturday, Ava, it becomes his problem.”
Her pulse stumbled.
Nate walked out before she could answer.
Ava stood behind the counter with her phone in one hand and the relay shirt in the other, watching him cross the deck toward a team that had no idea the bet had just stopped being the most dangerous thing about Saturday.