The Summer Bet (A Summer Girls, Hockey Boys #1)
Chapter One Ava
Ava Lane knew the summer was in trouble when a hockey player walked into the lakeside snack shack, looked directly at her, and said, “I need something cold, something sweet, and something that won’t ruin my life.”
She stared at him over the register.
He smiled.
Of course he smiled.
Boys like him always smiled like the world had personally been assembled to give them parking spots, free fries, and second chances they had not earned.
Ava glanced at the menu board above her head. “We have lemonade.”
His smile widened. “Does it come with emotional stability?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m trying to stay on brand.”
Behind him, six other Ridgeview hockey players filed into the snack shack like a warning sign with biceps.
Tall. Loud. Sunburned in different stages of denial.
All wearing camp staff shirts from the Ridgeview Hockey Charity Summer Challenge, which had apparently decided that the best way to help local kids was to unleash twenty-one college athletes onto Lake Briar with whistles, clipboards, and no indoor voices.
Ava had been working at the lake for exactly two hours.
Two.
Hours.
She had already fixed the slushie machine, restocked four cases of bottled water, stopped a twelve-year-old from trying to microwave a frozen candy bar, and explained to a grown man that no, the snack shack did not serve “protein-forward nachos.”
Now this.
The first hockey player leaned one forearm on the counter.
Ava looked at the forearm.
That was her first mistake.
It was a very annoying forearm. Tan. Veined. Strong in the way that suggested he carried heavy things without being asked and knew exactly how good he looked doing it.
She lifted her gaze back to his face with the kind of discipline that deserved a medal.
Dark hair. Blue-gray eyes. Crooked smile. Ridiculously symmetrical face. The kind of face that made girls lose their good sense and then describe the experience as “complicated.”
Ava was not interested in complicated.
She was interested in tips, paychecks, and surviving the summer without becoming emotionally or financially bankrupt.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“Lemonade,” he said. “Extra ice.”
“Name?”
“Nate.”
Of course his name was Nate.
He looked like a Nate. Like he had been born in a backward baseball cap and congratulated by nurses.
Ava grabbed a cup. “Last name?”
His mouth twitched. “Brennan.”
A loud groan came from the group behind him.
“No,” one of the hockey boys said. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” Nate asked without turning around.
“Like you know she should recognize it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
Ava wrote NATE on the cup in block letters and then, because she was tired and the universe had already tested her, added: PROBABLY ANNOYING.
The guy behind him barked out a laugh.
Nate looked down at the cup.
Then back at her.
The smile changed.
It did not get bigger. That would have been easier to ignore. It got slower.
More interested.
Ava immediately hated that.
“Probably?” he asked.
“I’m generous when I’m new.”
“You’re new?”
“To this job. Not to men being impressed with themselves near condiments.”
The hockey boys made a sound like a pack of golden retrievers witnessing a magic trick.
Nate placed one hand over his chest. “That was specific.”
“You gave me specific material.”
“I walked in and ordered lemonade.”
“You walked in and tried to make it a personality test.”
“That’s fair.”
Ava turned toward the drink machine before he could notice she was fighting a smile.
No smiling at hockey players.
That was rule one.
Actually, rule one was do not date anyone within ten miles of Ridgeview University athletics. Rule two was do not trust men who used their own names as branding. Rule three was do not smile at hockey players.
Rule four was probably something about not checking out forearms, but she had already failed that one, so it felt unproductive to dwell on it.
She filled his lemonade and snapped on the lid.
When she turned back, Nate was still watching her.
Not in a gross way.
That would have been easier too.
No, he watched like he was trying to figure her out.
Ava set the cup on the counter. “Four dollars.”
He handed over a card.
Ava tapped it against the reader.
It declined.
The hockey boys erupted.
Nate’s head dropped.
Ava looked at the screen, then at him. “Your emotional stability card was rejected.”
The guy behind him slapped the doorframe. “Brennan, buddy, this is brutal.”
“It’s the machine,” Nate said.
Ava smiled sweetly. “Machines rarely lie.”
“My bank is overprotective.”
“Smart bank.”
His eyes narrowed with humor. “You have a lot of opinions for someone holding my lemonade hostage.”
“I form opinions quickly. It’s a gift.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. “Try it again.”
This time, the payment went through.
Ava handed him the cup.
His fingers brushed hers.
Barely.
A nothing touch.
A little slip of skin against skin that should have meant absolutely nothing.
Instead, something bright and irritating flickered up her arm.
Nate noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His gaze dropped to her hand for half a second, then lifted to her face.
Ava pulled back first.
Because she was smart.
Because she had standards.
Because she did not have time for a summer fling with a hockey player who looked like he had been designed by an algorithm called Trouble With Great Hair.
“Enjoy your lemonade,” she said.
“I already am.”
“That is sad.”
“Most of my joy comes from small victories.”
“You should raise your standards.”
“I’m trying.” His gaze held hers. “Just got here.”
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Ava pointed to the pickup window. “Next.”
Nate stepped aside, still smiling into his cup like she had done something entertaining instead of basic customer service with mild hostility.
The next player came up.
He was blond, broad, and already sunburned across the nose. His shirt read COACH in block letters, although Ava doubted anyone with that much chaos in his eyes should be allowed to supervise children.
“I’m Tyler,” he said.
“Congratulations.”
He grinned. “I’ll take two hot dogs, three waters, a blue slushie, and whatever you gave him.”
Ava glanced at Nate. “A problem?”
“Exactly.”
By the time she finished the order, the snack shack had filled with noise.
Hockey players crowded around the counter.
Kids in camp jerseys pressed sticky fingers against the glass freezer case.
Someone argued loudly that blue raspberry was a flavor and not a color.
Someone else started a chant for mozzarella sticks, which the lake did not sell and would not sell no matter how passionately defensemen believed in fried cheese.
Ava moved through it all with the calm of someone who had grown up working summer jobs and learned that panic was just sweat with better marketing.
She rang orders.
Filled cups.
Handled cash.
Restocked napkins.
Told a teenage goalie that ketchup packets were not “free soup.”
And every few minutes, her eyes betrayed her by finding Nate Brennan again.
He had taken his lemonade to a table outside under the string lights, where the hockey players had claimed an entire section of the deck. He sat backward on a chair, elbows on the top rail, laughing at something a teammate said.
He laughed like he meant it.
That was annoying too.
Ava preferred smug men to be smug at all times. It made them easier to categorize and avoid.
Then a little boy in a too-big Ridgeview jersey approached Nate with a hockey stick clutched in both hands. The boy said something Ava could not hear through the open service window.
Nate’s entire face changed.
The performance dropped.
He crouched immediately, lemonade abandoned, attention fixed fully on the kid. He nodded seriously. Took the stick. Demonstrated something with his grip. Then shifted behind the boy and adjusted his hands with gentle patience.
No teasing.
No posing.
No looking around to see who was watching.
Ava frowned.
Rude.
He was not supposed to have layers.
Layers were how trouble became plot.
“Do not,” she muttered.
Her coworker, Ellie, slid past her carrying a tray of soft pretzels. “Do not what?”
“Nothing.”
Ellie followed Ava’s gaze through the service window.
Then made a noise that should have been illegal in a workplace.
“Oh.”
“No,” Ava said immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a vowel.”
“It was an observant vowel.” Ellie leaned against the counter and peered outside. “That is Nate Brennan.”
“I gathered.”
“Ridgeview forward. Junior. Scored the overtime goal against Northview last season. There was a whole thing.”
Ava grabbed a towel and wiped down an already-clean counter. “I don’t speak hockey.”
“You’re going to be working a hockey charity challenge all summer.”
“I speak paycheck.”
Ellie smiled. “He’s cute.”
“He declined on the first swipe.”
“Financial mystery. Sexy.”
“He asked if lemonade came with emotional stability.”
“Self-awareness. Also sexy.”
“He has the energy of someone who would say ‘trust me’ right before getting you banned from a water park.”
Ellie tilted her head. “So you noticed his energy.”
Ava pointed the towel at her. “You’re young. Don’t start.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“So is food poisoning sometimes. Still dangerous.”
Ellie laughed and disappeared toward the fryer.
Ava tried not to look outside again.
She failed.
Nate was still with the kid. The boy took a practice swing with the stick and nearly knocked over a chair. Nate caught the chair with one hand, caught the kid with the other, and grinned like near-disaster was the natural state of joy.
Ava’s stomach did a small, stupid thing.
She ignored it.
She had a plan this summer.
A very clear plan.