2. Chapter 2 — Ava
I've been coming to this gala since I was fifteen.
My father decided that was old enough to handle the room. I didn't argue. I learned it faster than he expected, which is the only thing I've ever done that made him look genuinely surprised.
Eight years later, I can read it in under three minutes.
Marcus Hale holds the terrace wall — always the same spot, always the same angle, watching the room the way men who've survived a long time in this business watch rooms. Jax Nelson switched to water after his first beer.
I clocked that forty minutes ago. Sienna Hart sees everything and says nothing out loud, which means she's storing it somewhere it will matter later.
I know everyone here by function.
That's not cynicism. That's efficiency.
***
I'm here for two reasons tonight.
The first is my father. Eleven years as head coach of the NYC Empires, and his daughter shows up to the gala, shakes hands, and represents the family without incident. That's the arrangement. I've never broken it.
The second reason is mine.
Declan approved my capstone research proposal last week. Twelve weeks inside an NFL front office, full access, structured around organizational decision-making under performance pressure.
It's a good project. It's a real project. I worked on it for six weeks before I showed it to anyone.
My father arranged the access.
I know what people will think when they find out. I've known my whole life what people think when they find out who my father is. The only thing I can do is be so undeniably prepared that the question becomes embarrassing to ask.
So tonight: professional, invisible, no incidents.
I have a specific talent for no incidents.
Had, I should say. Past tense.
***
I know who Ty Knox is before he opens his mouth.
I've been in the Empires building twice for intake meetings, and both times he was impossible to miss. Not because he's the biggest guy in the room — he isn't. Not because he's the most decorated — he isn't, not yet. It's the energy.
He takes up more space than his body occupies. Too much grin. Too much forward momentum. The kind of person who walks into a room like he's already having the best night of his life and everyone else is just catching up.
I decided immediately he wasn't worth the trouble.
I stand by that.
I'm also aware, watching him cross the room toward me, that my pulse does something I don't authorize. A single uptick. Gone before it's even finished.
I ignore it.
***
He opens with something clever.
Not clever enough, but more clever than I expected, which is its own problem. I keep my response flat.
He adjusts. Faster than most people would. Tries a different angle. I keep that one flat too.
He doesn't leave.
Most people leave.
I'll give him this: he doesn't rattle easily. He's reading me in real time, trying different frequencies, and when one doesn't land he doesn't double down on it. He pivots.
It's almost interesting.
Almost.
"You've been shutting me down for twenty minutes," he says at some point, grinning like it's a compliment to himself. "That's some kind of record."
"It's not a competition."
"Everything's a competition."
"For some people."
He tilts his head. "And for you?"
"I'm here for the shrimp."
That gets him. A half-second of actual surprise before the grin comes back, wider this time.
I almost smile.
I'm annoyed at myself before it even finishes forming.
***
That's the part I'll be thinking about later.
Not the drink. The almost-smile.
He catches things — the pause before I answer, the way I angle slightly away when I'm unimpressed, the fact that I haven't actually walked off even though I've had three clear exits.
He notices. And when he notices, his whole face shifts.
Less performance. Something more direct underneath.
I don't like that it registers. I don't like that I'm still standing here trying not to let him see that it does.
Your mouth is saying no but everything else is having a completely different conversation.
He's not wrong. That's the part that sends the drink flying. Not the joke itself — the accuracy of it.
***
I walk back to my father without looking at anyone.
My composure is intact. That's the thing I'm holding onto. The room can look all it wants. My hands are steady, my pace is measured, and nobody in this ballroom is going to know that my chest feels like it just took a hard hit.
Which is absurd. He's a rookie. He talked for twenty minutes and read me in flashes and none of that means anything.
I reach my father.
He looks at me.
Not a long look. Just a beat. The kind that covers everything he's not going to say in public.
"Ava."
"I know, Dad."
He turns back to his conversation without missing more than two seconds.
I find a corner near the east windows. Not hiding — the Ruiz women don't hide — just repositioning. I pull out my phone because it gives my hands something to do.
The screen shows two things.
A calendar notification: Empires Front Office — Capstone Orientation. Monday 9am.
And below it, a new email from Sienna Hart's assistant with the full access schedule, sent approximately nine minutes ago. Which means it was drafted before tonight. Which means this was already in motion.
Twelve weeks.
Starting Monday.
In the building where Ty Knox works every single day.
I put my phone in my clutch.
Pick up a fresh drink from a passing tray.
Do not look across the room.
I don't need to look. I can already feel exactly where he is, which is the part I'm not going to examine tonight, and possibly ever.
The calculation is simple. I've been making versions of it my whole life. This is the Empires building. He's a player on my father's roster. I have a project to finish, a career to build, and absolutely no room for whatever that conversation just was.
I know all of that.
My pulse does the unauthorized thing one more time anyway.
Then I smooth my dress and rejoin the room.