Chapter Twenty-Four Nate #3
The lawn erupted.
Tyler screamed. Beckett lifted both arms. Griffin actually smiled. Soren nodded like math had behaved well. Denise updated the sign with a thick black marker.
CURRENT TOTAL: $3,025
LEFT TO GO: $1,975
Ava looked at the numbers.
Then at Nate.
“Scoreboard,” she said.
He grinned. “Scoreboard.”
The fundraiser ran until the lake lights came on.
By nine, the total reached thirty-seven hundred.
By nine-thirty, Ruthie had personally guilted three grown men into donations by asking whether they believed in youth athletics or merely in standing near signs.
By ten, Tyler’s mock-Beckett booth had become an unexpected success and Beckett was charging extra for dramatic collapses.
At ten-fifteen, Coach Doyle declared the night done before the college athletes turned generosity into injury.
Final total for the day: four thousand two hundred and ten dollars.
Only seven hundred ninety left.
Ava stood in front of the sign after everyone left, arms folded, hair loose from her ponytail, exhausted in a way that looked more alive than defeated.
Nate approached with two waters.
“Logistical hydration,” he said.
She took one. “Persistent brand.”
“Strong market performance.”
“Do not talk like Hale Development.”
“Sorry. I felt gross immediately.”
She laughed softly.
For a moment, they stood side by side in front of the sign.
No crowd. No cameras. No Trevor.
Just the numbers.
“Seven hundred ninety,” Ava said.
“We’ll get it tomorrow.”
“I know.”
He looked at her.
That was new.
Not I hope.
Not maybe.
I know.
Ava looked back at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
He smiled. “You sounded sure.”
She considered that.
Then her expression softened.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
She took a sip of water.
Then, quietly, “That feels nice.”
Nate’s throat tightened.
“Good.”
“Do not make good sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you care.”
He turned toward her.
The air changed.
Ava noticed.
Of course she did.
He could dodge. Joke. Wait for the better moment.
But Coach Doyle’s voice was still in his head.
Be honest with the girl before you get honest in public.
Nate looked at Ava Lane, the girl who had turned a sponsor withdrawal into a scholarship sprint, who had laughed at personal distractions until the words lost power, who was still holding a water bottle like she might use it as a weapon if emotions moved too fast.
He was done being late to his own truth.
“I do care,” he said.
Ava went still.
He stepped closer, not touching.
“Not because of the bet. Not because of Trevor. Not because you needed me to stand beside you. I care because you are you, and somehow that became the thing I look for first in every room.”
Her eyes shone.
“Nate.”
“I know. Bad timing. Big week. Fundraiser. Your rules are probably staging a revolt.”
A broken laugh slipped out of her.
“But I need you to know,” he said. “Not for tonight. Not for a decision. Just because it’s true.”
Ava stared at him.
Then the old fear moved across her face.
Not Trevor’s fear.
Hers.
The one that said if she wanted too much, the room would change.
Nate did not move.
He let her have the space.
Ava looked down at the water bottle.
Then back up.
“I care too,” she said.
His heart stopped being useful.
Her voice shook, but she kept going.
“I am not ready to make it neat. I am not ready for labels that everyone else can grab and shake. But I care. And I am tired of pretending I don’t because it might protect me from being disappointed.”
Nate reached for her hand slowly enough that she could refuse.
She did not.
Her fingers slid into his.
No audience.
No scoreboard.
No cover story.
Ava squeezed once.
Then her phone buzzed on the table beside the sign.
They both looked.
Ava sighed. “If that is Trevor from a new number, I am throwing myself into the lake.”
Nate picked it up and looked at the screen.
Not Trevor.
Ridgeview Gazette notification.
A new comment had appeared under the article from a verified account.
HALE DEVELOPMENT: Hale Development will match all public donations made by Friday at five, up to five thousand dollars, in support of youth scholarships.
Nate stared.
Ava leaned over and read it.
The quiet snapped.
“What?” she whispered.
Another notification appeared.
MARTIN HALE: Our earlier withdrawal should not distract from the cause. We remain committed to youth athletics.
Ava’s face went blank.
Then hot.
Then furious.
Nate understood instantly.
Martin Hale had seen the story moving without him.
He had seen the community fill the gap.
Now he wanted back in, not as the problem, but as the hero.
Ava looked at Nate.
All the softness from one minute ago was still there, but fire had joined it.
“Brennan,” she said.
“Lane.”
Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
“How do you feel about making sure the kids get every penny without letting that man buy the ending?”
Nate looked at the sign.
Seven hundred ninety left.
A matching offer up to five thousand.
A public narrative trying to rewrite itself in real time.
Then he looked back at Ava.
“I feel,” he said, “like we need a better scoreboard.”