Chapter Eighteen Nate
Nate Brennan had heard a lot of terrible phrases in his hockey career.
Bag skate.
Optional conditioning.
Team accountability meeting.
Tyler has an idea.
But couples relay for bonus points might have moved straight to the top of the list.
The announcement rolled across Lake Briar like someone had dropped a match into dry grass.
Players turned. Staff turned. Parents smiled in the way adults smiled when they sensed free entertainment.
Somewhere near the snack shack, Ellie had both hands over her mouth and looked like she had just discovered live theater.
Ava stood beside Nate, phone in one hand, Trevor’s text still glowing on the screen, her expression flat enough to make lesser men seek shelter.
Nate was not a lesser man.
He was, however, learning.
So he did not step in front of her.
He did not tell Paulson the couples relay was a bad idea, even though it was, objectively, one of the worst ideas ever placed near a lake and a microphone.
He did not look at Trevor Hale, who was standing by the sponsor table with the relaxed posture of a man who had absolutely known this announcement was coming.
Nate looked at Ava.
Her jaw was tight.
Her eyes were on Trevor.
Not scared.
Angry.
Good.
Anger gave a person footing.
Fear took it.
Tyler’s voice carried from the deck. “CALLAHAN, YOUR FAKE GIRLFRIEND HAS A BONUS ROUND.”
Nate turned his head slowly.
Tyler, to his credit, appeared to understand he had made a poor choice. His smile froze. Miles took a very pointed step away from him. Beckett closed his eyes like a man praying over a fallen soldier.
Griffin said, “Tyler.”
Tyler lifted both hands. “I am learning in real time.”
“Learn quieter,” Griffin said.
Ava’s fingers tightened around her phone. “It’s fine.”
Nate did not like the sound of fine.
Fine from Ava was not fine.
Fine was a paper towel over a grease fire.
“We can walk,” he said quietly.
She looked at him. “From the relay?”
“From the relay. From the deck. From the entire state if necessary, though I only have half a tank.”
Her mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then her gaze slid back to Trevor.
Trevor lifted his cup in a small, smooth salute.
Nate felt his shoulders go still.
Not forward.
Not aggressive.
Still.
There was a difference.
Probably.
Ava slipped her phone into her back pocket. “No.”
Nate kept his voice low. “No, as in no walking?”
“No, as in I am not letting him turn every public space into a room I have to leave.”
There it was.
The clean anger.
Nate respected it so much his chest hurt.
“Okay,” he said.
She looked at him sharply. “Do not sound proud.”
“I sound neutral.”
“Your neutral has shoulders.”
“That feels personal.”
“It was meant to.”
The corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Ava saw it and shook her head. “This is not funny.”
“No.”
“This is a logistical nightmare with witnesses.”
“Yes.”
“And if Tyler makes one more fake girlfriend announcement, I am putting him in a kayak without a paddle.”
“I will help with dock clearance.”
She exhaled through her nose.
Not a laugh.
Close enough.
Paulson’s microphone squealed again. The entire deck flinched.
“Sorry,” Paulson said, which had become his emotional resting state.
“Correction. The Wednesday family cookout will include an optional couples relay for bonus points. Couples may be romantic partners, siblings, friends, parents, or any two-person pair willing to complete the course. Sponsor tables will be open, food starts at six, relay at seven.”
Nate watched Ava absorb the word optional.
It should have helped.
It did not.
Trevor was already looking at her like optional was a dare.
Ava lifted her chin.
Nate knew that chin lift now.
It meant her pride had taken the wheel and was driving without checking mirrors.
“Lane,” he said.
She did not look away from Trevor. “Don’t.”
“I only said your name.”
“You said it like a stop sign.”
“Maybe it was a yield.”
“I don’t yield to men in boat shoes.”
“Strong policy.”
“Thank you.”
Nate glanced toward Trevor’s shoes.
Boat shoes.
Of course.
His hatred gained texture.
Ava turned toward him. “We can do a relay.”
“We can.”
“We just won one.”
“We did.”
“This one is optional, but bonus points matter.”
“To the challenge.”
“To the kids’ scholarship fund,” she said, pointing at him. “Do not make me sound competitive.”
“I would never.”
“Your eyes did.”
“My eyes are becoming unfairly expressive.”
“Control them.”
Nate smiled despite himself.
Then he forced it down, because Ava’s face shifted toward something more serious.
“Rules still apply,” she said.
“No kissing.”
The words came out too fast.
Ava’s eyebrows lifted.
Nate felt heat hit the back of his neck.
Tyler, who apparently had the hearing of a bat when romantic self-destruction was involved, shouted, “WHO SAID KISSING?”
Griffin grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him physically toward the lake. “Look at water.”
“But I heard key evidence.”
“Water,” Griffin repeated.
Tyler stared obediently at the lake. “It’s wet.”
“Good. Stay with that.”
Ava closed her eyes. “I hate your team.”
“Understandable.”
“No kissing,” she said, opening them again.
Nate nodded. “No kissing.”
“No improvising romantic history.”
“Technically true statements.”
“No letting Trevor bait either of us.”
“Follow your lead.”
She studied him.
He let her.
The sun bounced off the lake and caught in her hair. Staff visor crooked. Mouth tight. Eyes too bright with frustration and something under it he wanted to protect without turning protection into control.
Be steady.
Soren’s voice had not left him.
Ava pointed at him. “You are doing the emotionally responsible face again.”
“I’m trying to be steady.”
The words got out before he could stop them.
Ava’s expression changed.
Softened.
Not much.
Enough to make him wish he had lied and enough to make him glad he had not.
“That’s inconvenient,” she said.
“I know.”
“For both of us.”
“Very.”
Denise appeared at the snack shack door with a clipboard and a smile that made Nate’s entire nervous system stand at attention.
“Ava, your shift starts in ten minutes. Nate, Paulson wants player captains by the board.”
Ava looked at Nate. “Are you a player captain?”
“Not officially.”
Denise smiled. “You are now.”
Nate sighed. “That feels like punishment.”
“Leadership often does,” Denise said.
Ava’s mouth twitched.
Nate pointed at her. “Do not enjoy my suffering.”
“I am enjoying Denise’s efficiency.”
“Same weapon, different hand.”
Denise looked delighted. “I like him.”
Ava immediately said, “Don’t.”
Nate turned toward the challenge board before he accidentally made it worse by feeling pleased.
He made it three steps before Ava called, “Brennan.”
He looked back.
She stood near the staff door, one hand on the frame, visor still crooked.
“Wednesday,” she said. “We are not losing.”
There she was.
Competitive Ava.
The one who pretended she was only participating under protest and then looked at a scoreboard like it had insulted her family.
Nate’s smile came slowly.
“No,” he said. “We are not.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do not make that romantic.”
“I made it athletic.”
“Barely.”
Then she disappeared into the snack shack.
Nate turned toward the board and found Soren waiting beside it with his arms folded.
“You are in worse trouble than yesterday,” Soren said.
“Good morning to you too.”
“It is almost noon.”
“I missed your warmth.”
Soren looked toward the snack shack. “She is still competing.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy winning.”
“Not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Nate stared at him.
Soren stared back, calm as a closed bank.
“Goalies are unsettling,” Nate said.
“Forwards are noisy.”
“Fair.”
Paulson waved Nate and Soren toward the challenge board, where Griffin was already standing with a marker in one hand and the expression of a man who had volunteered for order and found out order hated him.
The Wednesday cookout planning meeting lasted twenty minutes and stole years from Nate’s life.
The couples relay, officially called the Sponsor Partnership Showdown, had five stations.
Station one: picnic basket pack.
Station two: three-legged cone walk.
Station three: compatibility questions.
Station four: water balloon toss.
Station five: sponsor surprise.
Nate immediately hated station five.
“What is sponsor surprise?” Griffin asked.
Paulson looked at the sheet in his hand. “Hale Development proposed it. Details to be announced at the event.”
Nate felt every player near him turn his way.
He kept his face still.
No jaw crimes.
Griffin said, very carefully, “We should know the station in advance for safety.”
“It has been approved,” Paulson said. “No physical risk. Apparently it is more of a crowd engagement station.”
Tyler appeared from nowhere. “Crowd engagement is where dignity goes to drown.”
Griffin looked at him. “For once, not wrong.”
Beckett leaned over the board. “Compatibility questions? Are we talking favorite color, or which person would survive longer in a corn maze? Because the second reveals more.”
Miles nodded. “Ava would survive the corn maze.”
“Obviously,” Tyler said. “Brennan would get distracted trying to charm the scarecrow.”
Nate pointed at him. “Water.”
Tyler turned toward the lake automatically.
Griffin’s eyebrows lifted. “That worked?”
“New command,” Nate said.
“Useful.”
By Wednesday evening, Nate had learned three things.
One: Tyler could not be trusted near a signup sheet.
Two: Ava Lane looked good in a sundress, in staff shorts, in a Team One shirt, and in irritated suspicion under string lights.
Three: sponsor surprise was going to kill him.
The cookout spread across the main lawn at Lake Briar with summer chaos in full bloom.
Picnic tables were covered in gingham cloths.
Sponsor tents lined the grass. Kids ran with paper plates.
Parents hovered near coolers. A local band played near the deck, loud enough to cover most conversations and not nearly loud enough to cover Tyler.
Ava stood near the drink station with Ellie, wearing denim shorts, white sneakers, and the same Team One shirt knotted at her waist.
Nate saw her before she saw him.
That was becoming a habit.