22 - Avery
Avery
The ball arrives exactly where I want it.
Wesley threads it through two defenders and into open space, leading me toward the top of the box.
It’s the kind of pass we’ve connected on hundreds of times over the years.
My body usually reacts on instinct, knowing what comes next.
One touch to settle it. One touch to create space. And then a shot.
I send the ball screaming over the crossbar.
It should’ve been the perfect play. New York’s goalie wasn’t even in position. I had all the space in the world and still managed to miss by an embarrassing margin. The crowd groans, but I try to tune them out.
Becca pats my back as she doubles back for the goal kick. “You’ll get it next time.”
But I don’t get it next time. Or the time after that.
Eventually, Wesley’s voice cuts across the field, but I don’t bother looking at her. I already know that the expression will be the same one Coach Bennett gave me at halftime. The face that says, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Their left midfielder throws the ball in from the sideline, and I try to focus on the game instead of the growing irritation crawling beneath my skin.
Coach’s halftime intervention echoes through my head.
You’ve turned the ball over four times.
You’ve missed two shots.
As if I wasn’t perfectly aware of the fact that I’m playing like shit.
But what exactly am I supposed to say to anyone?
That I’d spent most of the night awake after leaving Grayson’s hotel room? That every time I closed my eyes last night, I found myself replaying every second of him against me right up to the look on his face when I tried to leave?
I’d walked out of there convinced I was making the right decision, only to spend the next eight hours questioning whether I actually had.
I’ve spent months chasing Damon out of my head with pitchforks, just for Grayson to plant himself right in the fucking middle of it when I stopped being careful.
Letting someone else dictate my mood and confidence is exactly how I ended up here, and I’ve worked too hard rebuilding myself to hand that power over again.
The ball swings back toward our side of the field.
I press higher, trying to force my attention where it belongs.
But when Haley wins possession and sends a pass toward me, I hesitate just long enough for the defender to recognize the opening before I do, stepping cleanly into the lane and stealing the ball right off my foot.
“Fuck.”
I wish I could say I’m surprised when Coach pulls me off the field at the next pause in play, but I’m not.
The crowd applauds politely as I jog toward the bench, and somehow that feels worse than if they booed. Every step is accompanied by a fresh wave of irritation because if I were Coach Bennett, I’d pull me too.
Once I’m on the bench, wrapped in a jacket and forced to watch instead of play, there’s nothing left to distract me from my thoughts, which drift back to the unanswered text sitting in my phone.
Grayson: Can we please talk?
Grayson sent it right after lunch, and at first, I told myself I didn’t respond because I was busy.
Then, I convinced myself there wasn’t any point in answering because he was already on the ice for their afternoon game.
After that, there was a team dinner, warmups, game prep, and a hundred other convenient excuses until I was forced to face the fact that I have absolutely no idea what to say.
Last night was too good. I’d known for weeks that it would be. When we crossed that line in the bathroom, this outcome may as well have been written into stone. Sooner or later, we were going to end up hooking up, and now, I’m forced to remember exactly why last night should have never happened.
Leave it to Grayson to take something that was supposed to be simple and turn it into something complicated. He said I’m running away. And sure, maybe I am. But only because he’s trying to make it into something more than what we’d agreed it would be.
I should’ve known better.
Grayson is a relationship guy through and through, whether he wants to admit it or not. Men who take care of drunk women in bars, make omelets the morning after, and ask you to stay after sex don’t suddenly wake up one day capable of being casual. That’s not who he is.
And I’m not built for a real relationship. Not again.
I understand now that all the niceness I spent months accusing him of faking isn’t an act at all. It’s genuine. It’s carved into him in a way that’s probably impossible to turn off, and one day he’s going to make some woman incredibly happy.
I just can’t be her.
I don’t want to be.
Relationships only create problems. My parents prove that every time they tear each other apart. And Damon taught me that when he convinced me control was the same as love. Which is exactly why I left last night, even if part of me wanted nothing more than to stay.
The final whistle blows before I can spiral any further, and I glance up at the scoreboard only to realize that at some point during my self-inflicted crisis, I’d completely missed our second goal.
We won 2-0.
The team erupts around me, celebrating the road victory. By the time we make it back to the locker room, I’m moving on autopilot, showering and dressing as quickly as possible before anyone can give me the third degree.
When I manage to escape the locker room, my bag slung over one shoulder and my damp hair twisted into a messy knot at the back of my head, all I want is ten uninterrupted minutes alone and a bed to crawl into so I can pretend my entire life isn’t slowly turning into a dumpster fire.
“Avery.”
I look up to find one of the trainers jogging toward me through the hallway, her expression somewhere between amused and curious.
“I was just coming to find you.”
“Congratulations,” I deadpan. “You found me.”
“There’s a hockey player waiting for you in the friends and family area.”
My feet stop moving. “A hockey player?”
“A very attractive hockey player,” she clarifies. “Tall. Brown hair. Suit.”
My stomach drops and flips at the exact same time.
Grayson.
His game ended hours ago.
And despite spending the entire day convincing myself that talking to him would be a bad idea, that last night changed nothing, that we’re fundamentally incompatible, warmth still spreads through me knowing that he came here anyway.
Some pathetic part of me is excited.
“Thanks,” I say, reigning in the restless energy now coursing through me.
The trainer grins knowingly before heading in the opposite direction.
My feet move faster than they should as I make my way down the hallway, nerves tightening with every turn.
Because if Grayson starts looking at me the way he looked at me last night, all soft and earnest, there’s a very real chance I’ll forget every reason we’re an awful idea and end up right back in his bed.
I smile to myself, turning the corner into the lobby area, but my heart completely falls out of my chest when I round the corner.
Because it isn’t Grayson.
It’s Damon.
I almost don’t even recognize him, having not seen him since I disappeared from his apartment.
The suit.
The dark hair.
His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle ticking from halfway across the room.
He’s leaning against the wall near the entrance with his hands shoved into the pockets of an expensive charcoal suit, clearly having come straight from whatever media obligations followed his game earlier.
The moment his eyes find mine, every bit of hope that had been building inside me curdles into something cold.
Not today.
Not after the day I’ve had.
Not after months of rebuilding myself and finally getting him out of my head.
I immediately turn toward the opposite hallway, picking up speed. I’ve spent enough time learning that engaging with Damon is like stepping into quicksand. The second you give him an opening, he’ll drag you under.
Unfortunately, he’s never been particularly good at respecting boundaries.
Three long strides close the distance between us. When his hand wraps around my arm, every muscle in my body goes rigid.
I wasn’t scared of him when we started dating, and even at the end, I was convinced that he’d never physically hurt me.
I convinced myself that the way my body tensed when he walked in the room was an overreaction because he’d never take it that far.
Now, after that damn article, my heart lurches into my throat, fear crawling up my spine.
“Let go of me.”
His grip tightens. “Not until we talk.”
My pulse spikes instantly, because after everything he did, after every lie and carefully crafted apology designed to make me question my own reality, he still somehow walks around acting like he’s entitled to my attention.
I yank against his hold. “Damon.”
“Five minutes.”
“No.”
His expression darkens. “Avery.”
Then, before I can step away again, he catches both of my arms and steers me toward the quieter corner of the room, smiling widely at the people we breeze past. It’s the same smile that used to send butterflies coursing through my stomach, but now I see it for what it is.
Pretend.
Once we’re away from the main hallway where fewer people can see us, I pull my arm out of his grasp. His eyes widen as if surprised that I’d have the audacity to defy him.
Anger surges through me. Maybe back when we were together I’d been desperate to appease him, but not anymore. I’ve spent months getting myself back, and if he touches me again, I might just break his fucking nose.
He stares at me for a long moment as though he’s waiting for me to confess to something before he even has to ask. When I don’t, his jaw flexes.
“Are you trying to embarrass me?”
The question catches me so off guard that I actually laugh.
“What?”
“You come to my city. And go to a club my team frequents.”
My confusion only deepens. “And?”
“And I’m supposed to believe that’s an accident?”
Has he lost his mind? Then again, this is Damon. The man has always possessed an incredible ability to make everything about himself.