4 - Grayson
Grayson
When I step out of the store with my bags hooked over my wrist, I’m still trying to figure out how buying someone groceries turned into whatever the hell that was.
I’ve replayed it twice in the thirty seconds it took me to check out, running through the moment where everything shifted from what’s become our normal banter to her looking at me like I’d crossed a line I didn’t even know existed. I keep landing in the same place every time: the groceries.
After seven years in the NHL, I have more money than most people dream of and definitely more than I need.
I saw a video once about paying it forward and immediately adopted the habit of buying groceries for whoever was in front of me at the store.
It’s harmless, and it’s never been rejected so fiercely.
I knew trying to do it with Avery was risky. The woman hates me, but it’s also a habit. I figured maybe she’d thaw a bit. Instead, she’d frozen over entirely.
My eyes scan the parking lot without thinking. I expect her to be gone already, having disappeared as soon as she had the chance.
But there she is.
Avery Holt is sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, a few rows over, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other turns the key again, the engine clicking uselessly in response.
I hesitate for half a second. I should leave it alone and give her the space she wanted when she stormed out. Then she tries again, frustration obvious when her head drops to the steering wheel. Unfortunately for us both, leaving things alone is not in my nature.
I head over before I can think better of it, stopping a few feet from the driver’s side window and tapping lightly against the glass.
She startles, just slightly, before turning her head. When she sees me, her expression shifts from frustration to embarrassment.
“Just pretend I’m not here and keep walking,” she says, rolling the window down partway.
I laugh, more out of disbelief than anything else, resting my hand against the top of the door. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“I was trying to leave before you came out.”
“Why? So I wouldn’t, what, try to buy your gas next?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
She exhales slowly, looking away from me as she turns the key again, the engine giving the same click before dying out entirely.
“Great,” she mutters under her breath.
I lean down, glancing toward the dashboard. “Battery?”
“Seems like it.”
“I’ve got cables in my trunk,” I offer. “I can jump it.”
She shakes her head. “No. Don’t bother.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’ll start, and then it’ll just die again when I get home like it’s been doing for weeks.” She steps out of the car, slamming the door. “It’s cheaper to tow it from here than from my apartment.”
“It’s done this for weeks?”
“Yeah, it’s a piece of shit, but I’m attached.”
“Why haven’t you gotten it fixed?”
She doesn’t answer, instead opting to glare at me while she pulls her grocery bags back out of the back seat.
I look around the parking lot. “You’re really leaving it here?”
It seems like a bad idea, but considering she’s been driving around on a screwed-up battery for weeks, I’m not surprised she doesn’t care.
“Yes.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ll deal with it later.”
“That’s not dealing with it at all.”
“I’m ordering an Uber.”
I reach out without thinking, catching her wrist before she can tap the screen. She freezes, eyes snapping up to mine.
“Don’t,” I say.
Her gaze drops briefly to where my hand is on her wrist before flicking back up, irritation flaring in her eyes. “Don’t what?”
“Call an Uber.”
“I’m sorry, did I miss the part where you get a say in what I do?”
There’s defensive, and then there’s Avery.
I release her wrist immediately, holding my hands up slightly. “No, but I’m literally right here. Let me give you a ride.”
“I don’t need you to drive me.” She moves to step around me.
I shift to block her path, but the way her body tenses has me stepping right back out of the way.
I don’t like that reaction at all. Not one fucking bit.
She walks by me, and I trail behind her. “Don’t throw your money away on an Uber because you hate me.”
Her pace doesn’t slow, but she turns enough for me to see her glare. “Seems like well-spent cash.”
“It’s a ride, Avery. Just a ride.”
“Does it ever get exhausting pretending to be so nice all the time?”
“With you, yes.”
“Then stop.”
“You want me to stop being nice to you?”
She pauses behind my car, forcing me to turn to face her. “If it’s so exhausting, yes.”
“Fine.” I walk around her, prying open my passenger side door. “Then quit being a stubborn brat, get in the damn car, and let me drive you home before we both freeze to death just so you can avoid being alone with me for ten minutes.”
At that, she quirks an eyebrow. “Or what?”
My body comes alive at the two words, humming at the husky way they fall off her lips.
This fucking woman.
“Just get in the car,” I say again, softer this time but no less firm. “Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and do it myself.”
Her eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Her feet stay firmly planted on the asphalt while she decides how argumentative she feels. Knowing her, she’s just getting started.
Finally, she exhales sharply. “This doesn’t mean you won,” she mutters, brushing past me toward my car.
Arguing in a grocery store parking lot with a woman who seems determined to be as difficult as possible shouldn’t have my skin heating like this. I remind myself of this over and over while I circle the car and climb in.
It’s just the months of celibacy talking.
The drive starts with painful silence. Annoyance is radiating off her from the passenger seat.
Her arms are crossed, and her body is angled toward the window, but she does manage to huff out directions.
I force my eyes to stay on the road when every part of me wants to see if her brows are still furrowed like this is all some sort of trick.
After a while, I finally speak up, desperate to break the tension.
“When does your team start up for the season?”
She still doesn’t look at me. “We’ve kept up with light practices for our scrimmages in the off-season, but we’ll start up heavier next month. Our first game will be the Cup since we were last year’s champs. That’s in mid-February.”
It’s the most she’s ever said to me in one go.
“What’s the difference between light practices and in-season practices?” I’m scrounging for any question I can think of to ask, but I’m also genuinely curious about how her team works.
“Right now, we’re focused mostly on mechanics, technique, and sometimes conditioning. We’ll start up more of the contact stuff when we’ve got real games on the line.”
“That’s how it works for us, too.”
I glance over again, catching the way her jaw tightens slightly, like she’s trying very hard not to engage with me more than necessary.
“Does your coach also put you through a hell week?” I continue, turning when she tells me to. “A week where we all have to pretend getting up before the sun and voluntarily being beaten to hell somehow makes us better at hockey?”
Her lips twitch barely enough to be noticeable.
“Are you smiling because you relate?” I glance more openly in her direction. “Or because the idea of me being slammed into the boards is amusing to you?”
She snorts, the sound quick and unguarded, and it throws me off more than anything she’s said since I bumped into her. I’ve heard Avery laugh from a distance or with someone else, but hearing her laugh now, when it’s just us, is different.
I grin, one brow lifting. “Was that a laugh?”
Her glowering expression snaps back into place, as if it never left. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Noted. I just wanted to acknowledge that you’re capable of laughing in my presence. Big moment for me.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s less bite behind it now. “Congratulations. You want a trophy?”
“Yeah, actually. Something small. Maybe engraved.”
“Of course you do.”
Because I like to ruin things, I ask, “What was that back there?”
Her shoulders stiffen. “Nothing.”
I debate letting it go, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “You got mad at me for trying to pay for groceries.”
“I didn’t get mad.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what I did wrong.”
She keeps her eyes focused on the road, but she rubs her hand against her thigh as if she can brush off my question.
“I don’t like feeling like other people have a say,” she says finally, her voice flat and more emotionless than I’m used to. “Or control.”
I nod once, replaying the moment in the store with that in mind, the way she reacted and how it escalated.
“I wasn’t trying to do that.” I turn down the next road she points at. “Control anything, I mean. I saw an opportunity to do something nice and took it.”
She chews on her bottom lip.
“I won’t do it again,” I add, feeling like it’s important she knows I respect whatever boundary this is for her.
“Good.” Her eyes flick toward me, searching my face like she’s trying to decide if I actually mean it.
Her posture has shifted with her body angled a little less toward the door. We drive the rest of the way like that, somewhere between guarded and normal, the space between us no longer completely hostile, even if it’s not exactly comfortable either.
I pull up to the curb, motioning to the building. “Is this it?”
Before I can say anything else, before I can even reach for the door handle, she’s already moving, pushing the door open like she’s been waiting for the car to stop since we turned onto her street.
“Hey… ” I start, instinct kicking in as I unbuckle and reach for my own door. “Let me…”
I’m not fast enough.
She’s out, the door shutting behind her as she pops the back door open and grabs her grocery bag in one quick motion. I push my door open anyway, stepping out just as she swings the back door shut and heads for the steps leading up to her place.
“Chaos,” I call after her, grabbing my own bag from the back. “At least take some real food with you.”
I know what her answer will be before she even says it.
“Not a chance in hell.”
She doesn’t stop. Of course she doesn’t.
I take a few steps forward anyway, holding up the bag. “I’ve got actual groceries. Stuff that isn’t instant noodles and whatever that frozen thing was.”
She slows and glances over her shoulder, one brow lifting. “I like my trash.”
I chuckle as I follow her up the first couple of steps, stopping short of crowding her space. “Yeah, I gathered that. Still, you could try eating something that doesn’t come with instructions on the back.”
She turns fully then, stepping up onto the landing, keys already in hand as she faces me, that familiar edge back in place.
“You’re supposed to stop being nice.”
“A habit that’s hard to break.” My grin is wide, but all she does is put her hand on her hip.
“I have zero interest in your meal planning.”
“It’s not a meal plan, it’s basic survival.”
“I survive just fine.” She unlocks the door, still watching me. “Thanks for the ride.”
Then she’s gone.
The door shuts behind her with a quiet click that somehow manages to echo in my head. I stand there staring at the closed door like it might open again, as if she’ll come back out with another jab.
By the time I slide back into the driver’s seat, tossing my bag onto the passenger side, I’m already replaying the way she shut down when things shifted even slightly out of her control.
My hands rest on the steering wheel while I stare at nothing in particular, my mind working through it whether I want it to or not.
I don’t like feeling like other people have a say.
The way she said it replays through my head, and I am not sure it had anything to do with the groceries at all.
My hand drags over my jaw as I think about the way she tensed when I almost blocked her path.
That wasn’t normal.
And whatever it was, it’s a hell of a lot bigger than she wanted to let on.
It was better when she was hostile for no reason, but now, knowing there’s a reason for her thorns, makes me want to see how close I can get without getting cut.