Chapter Four Nate
Nate Brennan had never considered himself a man afraid of clipboards.
Then Ava Lane’s manager walked into the snack shack holding one, and Nate discovered personal growth could include fear.
Not normal fear.
Not injury fear or coach-is-silent fear or your-mother-says-we-need-to-talk fear.
This was worse.
This was a clipboard with consequences.
Ava stood behind the snack shack counter, staring at the thing like it had crawled out of the lake and asked for her social security number.
Across the deck, Tyler looked like Christmas had arrived wearing sunscreen.
“CALLAHAN, LOOKS LIKE YOUR SUMMER JUST GOT A PARTNER.”
Nate turned very slowly.
“Say one more word.”
Tyler immediately opened his mouth.
Griffin put one hand over it.
“Good choice,” Nate said.
Tyler mumbled something into Griffin’s palm.
“It is never a good choice when it comes from you,” Griffin told him.
Paulson clapped his hands near the challenge board. “All right, listen up. Opening Week Challenge is Saturday at ten. Staff Partner Relay. Each player team partners with a Lake Briar staff member for a timed course around the property.”
Beckett leaned toward Nate. “Timed course. Partnership. Summer heat. Public humiliation. This is literature.”
Nate did not look at him. “You read one book freshman year and made it everyone’s problem.”
“It changed me.”
“It was assigned.”
“Still counts.”
Paulson continued writing under the heading.
STATIONS: Paddleboard balance Cooler carry Trivia toss Penalty shot target Final sprint
Nate stared at the board.
Of course there was a penalty shot station.
Of course there was a staff partner involved.
Of course Ava Lane had been signed up first by a woman with cheerful managerial authority and no apparent understanding that the universe had just set a trap with a name tag.
He looked back toward the snack shack.
Ava was speaking to her manager now. Nate could not hear the words, but he could read the shape of the conversation from her face.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am working.
This is not my job.
Who authorized joy?
Her manager smiled, tapped the clipboard, and said something that made Ava’s shoulders stiffen.
Ellie appeared behind them, clearly enjoying herself in a way Nate respected and feared.
Ava looked through the open service window.
Straight at him.
She lifted both eyebrows.
Do something.
That was not fair.
Probably.
Maybe.
Nate had no idea what she expected him to do. He was standing on the deck surrounded by hockey players, a charity director, a whiteboard, and at least twelve witnesses who would later swear under oath that he had looked terrified.
He did the only thing available.
He walked toward the snack shack.
The deck reacted immediately.
“Look at him go,” Beckett said.
“Captain Courageous,” Tyler added.
“You are both single for a reason,” Griffin said.
Nate ignored them and reached the service window just as Ava’s manager slid the clipboard onto the counter.
The manager was a woman in her fifties with silver hair, purple glasses, and the expression of someone who had never once lost an argument with a teenager, a vendor, or a raccoon near the dumpster.
Her name tag read: Denise.
Nate immediately understood Denise was the real power structure at Lake Briar.
Ava pointed at the clipboard. “Denise, I was hired for snack shack coverage.”
“And you will provide it,” Denise said. “Before and after the relay.”
“The phrase before and after is doing a lot of unpaid labor.”
Denise smiled. “You’re funny. Guests love funny.”
“I’m not for guests.”
“You are when you wear a name tag.”
Ava looked personally wounded.
Nate put both hands on the outside counter. “Ms. Denise?”
Denise turned to him. “Just Denise.”
“Denise,” Nate said, which felt dangerous, “there might be a conflict of interest here.”
Ava’s eyes narrowed.
Nate regretted the phrase immediately.
Denise looked intrigued. “A conflict of interest?”
“Yes.”
Ava leaned toward the window. “Choose your next words like you enjoy having kneecaps.”
Nate glanced at her. “Helpful.”
“Motivational.”
He looked back at Denise. “What I mean is, Ava has already been accidentally pulled into some team nonsense today. It may be better to pair her with someone else.”
Ava’s expression changed.
Not much. But enough.
Surprise. Then something almost like appreciation.
Nate felt absurdly proud of himself.
Then Denise looked at the clipboard. “Actually, I was not assigning Ava to you.”
Nate froze.
Ava froze too.
Behind him, Tyler made a sound that could only be described as a man watching a cake fall.
Denise tapped the page. “Ava is first on the staff volunteer list, but player pairings are random draw.”
Ava blinked. “Random?”
“Correct.”
Nate released a breath.
Random was good.
Random meant structure.
Random meant the universe was not directly messing with him.
Denise reached into the pocket of her Lake Briar polo and pulled out a small canvas bag.
Nate stared at it.
Ava stared at it.
The deck went silent.
Denise shook the bag once.
Little folded slips of paper rattled inside.
Nate did not like that sound.
Not at all.
Ava looked at him through the window. “Why does that sound like doom?”
“Because Tyler is nearby.”
Tyler called from the deck, “I am innocent.”
Everyone ignored him.
Paulson walked over with his own clipboard, because apparently the adults had formed a clipboard alliance. “Denise, we can start the staff draw now if you’re ready.”
“Perfect,” Denise said.
Ava’s face lost color. “Right now?”
“We need the teams posted before tomorrow.”
“I have nacho cheese on my arm.”
Denise glanced down. “Then this will be memorable.”
Ava looked at Nate. “Do you see what employment does to people?”
“I do now.”
Paulson raised his voice to the deck. “Player teams, gather up. Staff partner draw is starting.”
The players swarmed.
Parents lifted phones again. Kids squeezed toward the front. Someone started chanting “relay” with no rhythm and no support.
Nate stepped back from the snack shack window and tried to look calm.
He was calm.
Mostly.
This was a random draw. There were several staff members. Ava could be paired with anyone.
Griffin.
Miles.
Beckett.
Tyler.
Actually, not Tyler.
No one deserved Tyler.
Ava definitely did not deserve Tyler.
Nate glanced at Tyler, who was bouncing on his heels.
If Tyler got paired with Ava, Nate would have to fake a minor emergency.
Maybe a major one.
Maybe Tyler falling into the lake.
Paulson held up a sheet. “Player teams are preassigned. Team One: Brennan and Lindqvist.”
Soren Lindqvist, who had been quietly eating chips at a side table, lifted one hand. He was a goalie, calm, sharp-eyed, and deeply committed to not being involved in foolishness unless foolishness came with a scoreboard.
Nate nodded at him.
Soren nodded back.
Good.
Soren was stable.
Soren had never once tried to turn Nate’s personal life into public theater.
Team One could function.
Paulson continued. “Team Two: Wilder and Hayes.”
Beckett draped an arm over Griffin’s shoulder.
Griffin looked at the arm.
Beckett removed it.
“Team Three: Tyler and Miles.”
Miles slowly turned to Tyler. “I already hate us.”
Tyler clutched his chest. “That is partnership language.”
“Team Four: Mason and Drew.”
More names followed. Players moved into clusters, already chirping each other. Nate stayed where he was, arms folded, trying not to look at Ava too often.
He failed.
She stood behind the counter now with her arms folded too, mirroring him without realizing it.
Ellie noticed.
Of course Ellie noticed.
She looked between them and grinned.
Nate made a mental note to fear Ellie almost as much as Denise.
Denise unfolded a paper from her clipboard. “Staff partners available for Saturday: Ava, Ellie, Jordan, Marisol, Tessa, Priya, Cam, and Noah.”
Ava raised one hand. “For the record, Ava is unwilling.”
Denise patted her arm. “Ava is employed.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
The deck laughed.
Ava did not laugh. She looked directly at Nate as if he had personally created capitalism.
He lifted both hands.
She mouthed, traitor.
He mouthed back, I tried.
She looked unimpressed.
Which, given the shirt, felt consistent.
Paulson gestured to Denise. “Staff names in the bag?”
Denise held it up.
Paulson nodded. “Team One first.”
Nate’s stomach tightened.
That was ridiculous.
He had taken penalty shots in arenas full of people. He had faced defenders who considered elbows a form of communication. He had once given a postgame interview with blood in his sock and no idea where his left glove had gone.
He could survive a name being pulled from a canvas bag.
Denise reached in.
The deck held its breath.
Ava rolled her eyes like everyone was being dramatic, but her fingers tightened on the edge of the counter.
Denise pulled out a slip.
Opened it.
Smiled.
Nate knew.
Before she said it, he knew.
Because Tyler’s face changed from anticipation to religious experience.
Denise looked up. “Team One gets Ava.”
The deck exploded.
Nate closed his eyes.
Of course.
Of course.
Somewhere in the universe, a writer with no respect for his summer goals had just thrown confetti.
Ava’s voice cut through the noise.
“Redraw.”
Denise smiled. “No redraws.”
“I object.”
“Noted.”
“Strongly.”
“Still noted.”
Nate opened his eyes.
Ava was looking at him.
Not with panic.
Not embarrassment.
Challenge.
That was worse.
That was so much worse.
Soren appeared beside Nate, expression unreadable. “We got the sarcastic one.”
“Yes,” Nate said.
Soren glanced at Ava. “Good. She seems competitive.”
Ava heard him. “I am employed, not competitive.”
Soren considered that. “Those often overlap.”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know you, goalie.”
“I’m Soren.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Soren nodded once. “She’ll do.”
Nate almost laughed.
Ava pointed at him through the service window. “Do not enjoy him.”
“I’m trying not to enjoy anything.”
“Try harder.”
Tyler pushed forward. “This is incredible.”
Griffin caught his shirt again. “You are not needed.”
“I am historically needed.”
“You are historically the problem.”
Tyler beamed. “Same thing.”