5 - Avery
Avery
It was so weird. Who just reaches over and tries to pay for someone’s groceries like that?”
I juggle the ball from my right foot to my left, popping it up to my thigh and letting it bounce there twice before dropping it back down again.
The damp turf is slick beneath my cleats, and the early morning chill is still clinging to the air.
It feels good to move. Better than standing still and thinking for too long.
“People who are being nice,” Harper calls from the stands.
I scoff, catching the ball under my cleat and rolling it back.
Harper, Wesley, and I have been close since college. Harper’s a couple of years younger than us, but when she came along, it turned our duo into something more balanced.
She’s reliable and rational. The kind of friend who agrees to drive me to Harborlight Stadium at eight in the morning on a Saturday because my car is still sitting useless in a shop somewhere.
I love her. I really do.
But right now, I wish Wesley were here and not at Futures Camp trying to make the U.S. Women’s National Team. I need someone a little less reasonable. Harper’s too nice to jump on the crazy train with me about this.
“It was presumptuous,” I insist, trying again, as if maybe saying it enough times will get her to see it my way.
Harper hums, which is never a good sign. It means she’s thinking, and when she’s thinking, she’s usually about to say something I don’t want to hear. “It sounds like he was trying to extend an olive branch.”
I glare up at her. She’s sitting halfway up the bleachers, coffee in one hand with her coat wrapped tight around her.
“That’s exactly what he wants it to seem like.”
She takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Avery.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you say one word, but it means twenty.”
“I’m just trying to understand why this has you so upset.”
“Because I didn’t ask for that,” I say, stepping closer to her. “And I don’t need it.”
She nods slowly. “Did he say you needed help?”
“No.”
“Did he make a big deal out of it?”
“No.”
“Did he expect anything in return?”
I hesitate. “I mean, not explicitly.”
Harper’s mouth curves slightly. “Avery.”
“I’m just saying,” I push on quickly, “that’s how it starts. It’s small, and it seems harmless, and then suddenly it’s not.”
Her expression softens, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Are we ever going to talk about him?”
My body stills.
She doesn’t mean Grayson.
I should’ve known she’d see it. Of course, she’d pull on the one thread I’m desperately trying to leave alone.
Damon.
I never told them how bad it got. I never explained how something that didn’t start as control turned into it anyway. I never said out loud how easy it was to miss it at first and how hard it was to leave once I finally saw it clearly.
“No,” I say, sharper than I intend. “We’re not.”
We’re not talking about Damon. Just like we’re not talking about how sitting in Grayson’s car was the most alone I’ve been with a man since him.
It hadn’t been as bad as I expected.
My body relaxes, remembering the heat that blew onto my hands from his vents and the pine tree smell that radiated from his old air freshener.
I bet Grayson is the kind of man who chose that scent specifically because it was winter.
He’ll probably pick some stupid spring scent next.
Something that smells like blooming flowers or fucking rainbows.
“Okay, we’re not talking about him,” Harper murmurs slowly, bringing me back to the moment.
I shake the memory from my head. I don’t care about his air fresheners or him or the fact that he’d kind of saved my ass.
She watches me, considering how hard to push, but then lets it go, shifting topics like she always does when she hits a wall she knows not to push through.
“Then Grayson gave you a ride home.”
“He practically kidnapped me.”
She laughs, the sound cutting through the tension. “He kidnapped you?”
He did threaten to throw me over his shoulder. Sure, I pushed him to say that intentionally. And yes, his tone had circled my mind, causing heat to pool low in my stomach, but he’d still done it.
“Yes, kidnapped me in his fancy car, and he talked to me like we were friends the whole way to my house.”
It was an annoyingly expensive car, which served as another reminder that all hockey players are douchebags underneath the facade.
“The horror.” She widens her eyes. “He tried to buy your groceries, drove you home when your car broke down, and was friendly, too.”
“No,” I say automatically, then sigh. “Yes. But…”
I sound crazy. I know I do, but he’s the one making me crazy.
“Doesn’t sound like you have much reason to hate him.”
“I don’t hate him,” I snap, not even realizing I’m saying it until the words are out.
Her expression shifts, interest flickering there. “Oh?”
I drag a hand down my face. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
I open my mouth to argue back, but come up empty.
“I need to set up the drills. Are you seriously okay just sitting up there so you can give me a ride home after?”
Harper shrugs, tucking her hands deeper into her sleeves. “I like watching.”
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Harper is hands down the best soccer player I’ve ever seen play. She was an All-American in college and could’ve played for any professional team she wanted, but instead she married James and started teaching.
I should let it go, but…
“You know you could be out here, right?” I gesture vaguely toward the field.
She shakes her head, a sad smile pulling at her lips. “Aves…”
“I’m serious,” I push, stepping a little closer to the stands. “You graduated last year. That’s not that long ago. There are girls in this camp who are your age, and they sure as hell aren’t anywhere near as good.”
She looks down at her hands, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her coffee cup. “I made a choice.”
I cross my arms, already not liking where this is going. “You can unmake it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It kind of is,” I say. “If you’re not happy, you change it.”
Her gaze lifts back to mine, steady but shielded in a way I don’t see often. “I am happy.”
I don’t say anything because it’s bullshit and we both know it.
“And I like teaching,” she adds, a little more firmly this time.
“You like soccer, too.”
“I did,” she agrees.
“Do,” I correct.
“Do,” she repeats softly, but it sounds like a memory.
Before I can figure out what to say to that, a whistle blows from across the field, sharp and familiar. I glance over my shoulder, spotting Coach Bennett near the center line, gathering a group of players. Time to actually do what I came here for.
It’s our annual recruitment camp for college players and recent grads. They show up, run drills, scrimmage, and do whatever they can to stand out in a sea of people trying to do the exact same thing.
There are coaches and scouts here from multiple pro teams, but we always host. Normally, the coaches run it, but this year, Coach Bennett said she wanted them to focus on scouting.
She’d asked for volunteers to lead the drills, and I’d jumped on it because as much as I love playing, I know it won’t last forever, and coaching feels like the right path for me long term.
I’ve been here all week pushing players harder than they probably expected when they signed up for this.
I step into the mix, tucking the ball under my arm as I approach the group Coach is gathering, already slipping into that familiar rhythm.
By the time the first full group rotates through warmups, I have the cones set and balls grouped where we need them for the drills.
“Quicker feet,” I call out, clapping my hands once to get their attention.
A girl at the front hesitates before starting the drill again, and her touches are cleaner this time.
“You’re thinking too much. Stop thinking and move,” I add, stepping closer.
She nods, resetting.
I move between groups, making sure that everyone knows what they should be focusing on at each station.
Everyone is nervous, even the ones who hide it well.
I’ve been where they are, and I know that this type of environment is intimidating, so I hand out as much encouragement as I can to those who seem to need it the most.
After half an hour, we rotate again.
“Goalkeepers are with me,” I call, grabbing a handful of balls and heading toward the net.
They jog over, gloves already on, bouncing lightly on their toes like they’re trying to shake off nerves.
And then there’s Sloane. She hides her nerves almost completely.
Her gloves are strapped tight, hands falling loosely at her sides.
I’ve been around the woman for four days, and already know she’ll get picked up by someone.
I’d kill to have her guarding the net for my team. Hopefully, Coach sees it, too.
She leans against the post like she owns it, rolling her shoulders once before stepping forward when she sees me approaching.
“Took you long enough,” she says with full confidence of someone who knows they’re good.
I snort, dropping the balls near the edge of the box. “Relax. No need to rush me when I’m about to embarrass you.”
She snorts and drops into her stance.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Always.”
I don’t give her time to settle further. My first shot is low and fast to the right corner.
She dives clean, gloves wrapping around the ball before it can slip past her. Then, just as quickly, she’s back on her feet, tossing it back toward me. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
She shifts out of the net, and another goalie steps into it. This time, my shot is higher, sailing straight into the back of the net.
Sloane would’ve stopped it.
I rotate through the goalies for the rest of camp. It’s way more action than most of them would get in a game, but that’s the intent. Coach wants to see who has the drive to keep going even when they’re bone tired.
When the final whistle blows, players start heading to the locker room. Coaches are clustered, reviewing their clipboards and murmuring to each other about what they saw today. But Sloane gets back in the net, smiling widely, silently signaling that she’s not done yet.
I nudge another ball into place. “You graduate next year, right?”
“Yeah. Twenty-one and almost free,” she says as if she’s been counting down the days.
“You planning on going pro?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Keep playing like that, and you’ve got a real chance.”
I fire a half-hearted shot, but it’s low and wide, forcing her to dive for it.
A slow clap echoes from somewhere behind us.
We both turn, and there he is.
Grayson.
He’s leaning casually against the fence with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as if he’s been waiting a while.
I don’t even try to hide the look I shoot toward the stands. Harper’s still sitting there, watching.
I lift my brows at her like, see? See how he just shows up everywhere?
Harper presses her lips together, clearly trying not to smile.
Traitor.
“You played well,” Grayson calls.
“Thanks,” Sloane and I reply at the same time.
I straighten. Why would she assume he’s telling her that?
Then, before I can process what’s happening, she’s ripping off her gloves as she jogs toward him.
“Hi!” she practically squeals, closing the distance and wrapping her arms around him in a familiar hug.
I blink once, and then again, like somehow that’ll make this make more sense.
Grayson laughs, steadying her easily with a comfort that irks me. “Hey, Sloane.”
“I didn’t know you were picking me up,” she says, finally taking her hands off him.
My annoyance ticks down a notch. Except, she’s literally in college. Isn’t he too old for her? How did they even meet?
Why do I fucking care?
“I didn’t know I was either until about an hour ago.”
She grins. “You just wanted to see me play.”
“Clearly,” he deadpans.
I cross my arms, shifting my weight while they both completely ignore me, flirting with each other.
Now, instead of wishing Sloane were on my team, I find myself hoping she’s on a different one so I can repeatedly and purposefully kick the ball at her head.
I try to shake the thought because it’s irrational and ridiculous.
Finally, Grayson’s gaze flicks past her, landing on me. “Hey, Chaos.”
“Grayson,” I say flatly.
He nods toward the stands. “Hi, Harper.”
Harper lifts a hand in a small wave. “Hi.”
And just like that, his attention is back on Sloane.
“Walk with me?” she asks, grabbing her water bottle.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”
Then, over his shoulder as they start heading toward the exit, he hollers, “See you next week.”
I frown, but don’t respond because I’m too busy watching them walk away.
Sloane’s talking animatedly, hands moving, clearly riding the high of the day. Grayson’s listening with his head tilted slightly toward her.
“Wow,” Harper says, making her way down the stands.
I turn, grabbing a stray ball and tucking it under my arm. “What?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to pretend you didn’t just hate that?”
“I didn’t hate anything.”
“Sure.” She purses her lips.
I throw the ball at her, but she manages to volley it right back at me as if she’s not wearing jeans and a winter coat.
“They looked friendly,” She says, closing the rest of the distance between us.
“Did they?” I ask, picking up a row of cones. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Mhm.”
I start toward the sideline, collecting the rest of the balls as I go. “I mean, if they want to flirt like that at a professional training event, that’s their prerogative.”
I regret the words as they leave my mouth, knowing exactly how I sound.
Thankfully, though her eyes gleam and her lips are rolled tight, Harper doesn’t call me on it. Which is good considering I don’t understand it myself.
“So,” she says casually, “Why will you see Grayson next week?”
I sigh. Of course, she caught that.
“Becca’s birthday party,” I explain. “It’s at the Blue Line.”
“And he’s going?”
“Pretty sure she invited the whole hockey team.” I roll my eyes, then add, “You’re coming too.”
She laughs softly, nudging my arm. “I’m not Becca’s friend, and I have plans.”
“It’s an open invite. And just come after. At least then I’ll have better company to spend my time with.”
“Maybe Sloane will even be there.” Harper hands me my bag, watching me for a reaction I refuse to give her.
The image of Sloane practically launching herself at Grayson circles my mind despite my best efforts to forget about it and the way he caught her and smiled.
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag.
He can be with whoever he wants. He should be with whoever he wants.
Still, I shift my shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy crawling under my skin.
Annoying.
That’s all it is.