Chapter 21Avery
Chapter Twenty-One
Avery
"You're just sitting here glaring at him," Samantha remarks, elbowing me gently as we perch on the cold metal bleachers. My gaze sticks to the ice below where Victor Stone glides effortlessly among a flock of children, his laughter echoing off the walls of the rink. It's disarming. I'm trying to fit this version of him into the cutthroat developer box he came in, but it's like trying to jam a square peg into a round hole.
I huff, crossing my arms tighter across my chest. "I can't help it. There's something about him that doesn't add up."
"Like what?" Emily chimes in, her brows knitting together in concern.
"Look at him. He's Mr. Popularity down there." I gesture toward the ice with a nod of my head. "Since when do corporate sharks play babysitter?"
"Maybe he’s not all bad," Samantha offers with a shrug, but she's watching me more than the scene on the ice.
"Or maybe he's using the kids for a good PR shot," I counter, feeling the familiar twist of skepticism in my gut. I've seen charming men before, and they usually have an angle. "Tonight, I'll find out what he's really after."
"Tonight?" Samantha's voice pitches higher, surprise etching her features. "What's happening tonight?"
My mouth goes dry. I didn't mean to spill that. "He... uh, asked me to dinner."
"Victor?" Emily's eyes go wide. "As in a date?"
"No, not a date," I quickly correct, though my cheeks flame with heat. "It's just dinner. To talk about... community stuff." I fumble over my words, feeling cornered.
Samantha's lips twitch like she's fighting a smile. "Sure, 'community stuff.' That's why you're going to dinner with the enemy."
"Exactly," I insist, my voice flat. But my heart races, betraying my composed front. "Emily, would you mind watching Olivia for a couple of hours after practice?" I ask, my eyes not quite meeting hers. It's one thing to need help; it's another to admit it.
"Sure, Avery," Emily replies with a smile as warm as the coffee cup she's holding, steam rising and fogging up her glasses. "Ethan will love having her over."
"First breakfast, now dinner. What's next, a weekend getaway?" Samantha chimes in, elbowing me playfully. But the humor doesn't reach me—not today.
I shake my head, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "It's not like that, Sam. No one's showing up to these meetings. We're going to lose the vote with the board." My voice is tight, each word laced with the fear of what losing really means. "And when we do, Victor will disappear just as fast, and our community..." I trail off, the outcome too bleak to put into words.
"Hey," Samantha says, her tone softening, "we'll figure this out. We always do." She reaches out, squeezing my shoulder in solidarity.
"Victor's not going to win this, Avery," Emily adds, but her reassurance feels like a band-aid on a bullet wound.
I don't want comfort; I want action. I want to save my home, our neighborhood. I nod, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat.
The whistle blows, signaling the end of the practice.
"Come on, let's go see the kids," Samantha suggests, and together, we move toward the lobby where laughter and chatter fill the space like a holiday jingle.
Olivia spots me first, her ice skates slung over her shoulder, cheeks flushed with the chill and exercise. " Mom!" she calls out and rushes over, nearly colliding with me in her eagerness.
"Hey, sweetie," I greet her, crouching to meet her at eye level. "I've got to run an errand, okay? You're going to have dinner with Emily and Ethan tonight."
"Can we have mac 'n' cheese?" she asks, hopeful as only a kid can be.
"Of course, honey," Emily assures her. "Your favorite kind."
"Thanks, Em," I say, standing back up. "I'll pick her up before bedtime."
"Take your time," Emily responds, and there's an unspoken promise in her eyes—that she's got my back, no matter what.
"Mom, you don't have to pretend," Olivia's voice cuts through my act as I look around the lobby and spot Victor. "I know you're having dinner with Coach Victor."
I freeze, my face flushing hot with annoyance—why would Victor tell her? It wasn't his place to do so.
But when I spin around to confront him, he's already striding towards us, his tall figure cutting through the thinning crowd like a ship through calm waters.
"Victor, why would you tell her—" I start, but Olivia tugs at my shirt, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"He didn't tell me. I saw it on your phone." She pulls the device out of my pocket and holds it up like evidence, and my heart thumps a guilty rhythm.
"Oops." My voice is a whisper of chagrin .
"Hey, it's okay," Samantha jumps in, winking conspiratorially while shepherding Sophia and Olivia toward the exit. "You guys have fun, alright?"
"Yeah, don't worry about a thing," Emily adds, her tone light as she nudges Ethan forward. "We've got this covered. Enjoy your evening!"
My grateful smile is tight at the edges as they disappear with a gaggle of kids in tow, leaving me alone with Victor Stone—only now there's an awkward space hanging between us.
"Thank you," I manage, aware of how stiff I sound.
"Good to know you can be polite," Victor remarks, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. His blue eyes hold mine for a moment longer than necessary before he continues, "I'm glad you agreed to dinner."
"Let's get one thing straight," I say, crossing my arms defensively. "I'm here to talk about what you plan to do for the community, not small talk."
"Of course," he replies, unfazed by my standoffish demeanor and gesturing toward the automatic doors. "Shall we?"
I follow him, determined to keep my guard up, but there's a part of me that can't help but notice the way the cold air seems less biting around him. We step outside, and sure enough, his sleek car idles by the curb, its engine a soft purr against the evening chill. The driver stands by the rear door, a respectful distance away, a silent sentinel awaiting command. I hesitate for a moment, the warmth from Victor's gaze doing nothing to thaw the frostiness of my mood.
"Really? A driver?" I scoff, unable to mask the disdain in my voice as I slide into the leather seat, cold to the touch. "Must be nice not knowing what it's like for the rest of us, struggling to keep our lights on."
Victor doesn't respond, just gives the driver a nod and slides in beside me, closing the door with a definitive thud. The partition is up, glass separating us from the front seat, and I can't help but feel it's also there to keep emotions at bay—like we're specimens under observation.
"The community's barely holding together," I mutter more to myself than to him, staring out at the passing streetlights that blur one into another. "People here don't get chauffeured around. They fight for every dime."
Silence stretches between us, a taut rope ready to snap. I catch a glimpse of Victor’s profile, his jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead. There’s a story there, behind those eyes, but whether it's one of understanding or indifference, I can't tell.
The city slips by, unnoticed, as we move toward whatever fancy place he’s picked out. I fold my arms, defensive, preparing for a battle of wits over white tablecloths and crystal glasses.
"Nice night, isn't it?" His voice finally cuts through the quiet, but even then, it’s empty of the conversational warmth one might expect .
"Sure," I reply curtly, not bothering to look at him. If he thinks small talk will soften me up, he's got another thing coming. I already warned him.
We pull up to the restaurant, and the car comes to a smooth stop. I wait for him to break the silence, to offer some platitude about making things better. But nothing comes. Just the quiet hum of the city and the sound of my own heart, beating a rhythm of wary anticipation.