Chapter Seven Ava
Ava Lane had held Nate Brennan’s hand for exactly eleven seconds, which was ten seconds longer than any reasonable woman should hold a problem in public.
Unfortunately, it had worked.
Trevor Hale’s smile had vanished.
That should have been satisfying.
It was satisfying.
It was also inconvenient, because Nate’s hand was warm, steady, and not even a little confused about what to do with hers.
He did not squeeze too hard. He did not tug her closer.
He did not turn the moment into a performance for the photographer, the hockey team, or the ex-boyfriend standing beneath a sponsor tent with villain hair and the kind of sunglasses only worn by men who used the phrase market opportunity in casual conversation.
Nate just held her hand like she had asked him for help and he intended to do the job correctly.
Ava hated competence.
Competence was how men got promoted from annoying to dangerous.
The camera clicked again.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “One more. Team One, look this way.”
Ava kept her smile locked in place and muttered, “Why is he still taking pictures?”
Nate’s voice came low beside her. “Because you look terrifyingly photogenic.”
“Do not compliment me during an emergency.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“My hand is in yours, my ex is wearing sponsor khakis, and your team is making the face people make right before group-chat crimes. Yes.”
Nate’s thumb did not move.
Thank God.
If his thumb had moved, Ava might have become legally unavailable for rational thought.
“Do you want me to let go?” he asked.
That was unfair.
Men were supposed to assume. Push. Smirk. Make the choice theirs and then act surprised when women got mad.
Nate asked.
Quietly.
Without looking at her like the answer was owed to him.
Ava’s grip tightened on his hand before she could stop it.
His eyes flicked down.
Then back to her face.
“Not yet,” she said.
His expression changed.
Barely.
A controlled shift. A softening around the mouth. A look that said he had heard the words beneath the words and would not make her say them louder.
Fine.
Great.
He could have layers.
That did not mean she had to enjoy them.
“Team One,” Paulson called, waving them toward the grass course. “First station is paddleboard balance.”
Ava turned slowly. “Pardon?”
Paulson pointed toward the shore, where a long paddleboard had been set on the sand beside three orange cones.
“Dry-land paddleboard balance. One player and one staff partner stand on the board while the third team member tosses beanbags into a bucket. Each successful toss earns five seconds off your relay time.”
Ava stared at the board.
Then at Paulson.
Then at the lake.
“That is not a paddleboard,” she said. “That is a public humiliation plank.”
Tyler, who had somehow materialized nearby, pressed both hands to his chest. “She understands the spirit of the event.”
Ava pointed at him with her free hand. “You are one sentence away from wearing coffee.”
Tyler looked at Nate. “She is holding your hand and threatening me. Honestly, this is the healthiest relationship you’ve ever had.”
Nate’s hand flexed once around hers.
Ava felt it everywhere.
Absolutely unacceptable.
She dropped his hand.
Immediately.
Too quickly, probably, but she needed her fingers back before they started making independent life choices.
Nate let her go without comment.
That made it worse.
Soren walked up carrying three beanbags and looking like he had been born unimpressed. “We need a plan.”
Ava looked at him. “You have one?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I like you best.”
Nate made a sound. “Already?”
“He brought a plan. You brought hand problems.”
Soren looked between them. “Do I want context?”
“No,” Ava and Nate said together.
Tyler clapped once. “Chemistry.”
Ava turned her head slowly.
Tyler backed away. “Retreating.”
Soren held out the beanbags. “Brennan throws. Lane and I balance.”
Ava blinked. “Why am I on the board?”
“Because Brennan is the best thrower, and I’m better at not reacting to unstable surfaces.”
“That is the strangest talent anyone has ever admitted out loud.”
Soren shrugged. “Goalie.”
Ava took a cautious step toward the paddleboard. “I work in a snack shack. I have no athletic qualifications beyond dodging toddlers and lifting syrup boxes.”
“Good core strength,” Soren said.
Nate looked at Ava, mouth twitching. “You do dodge toddlers with impressive lateral movement.”
“Do not scout me.”
“Too late.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He held up both hands. “Banned phrase. Sorry.”
“You are not sorry.”
“No.”
Soren stepped onto the board with the calm of a man boarding an elevator. The board rocked slightly on the sand.
Ava stared at it.
“Absolutely not.”
“You already signed the waiver,” Soren said.
“That was before I saw the wobble board of betrayal.”
Nate came closer, stopping at her side. “You don’t have to do it. I can swap with you.”
Ava looked at him.
There it was again.
Not pressure.
Choice.
He was ruining everything.
She lifted her chin. “I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. I said it was stupid.”
Nate’s smile appeared slowly. “That’s different.”
“Very.”
“Need a hand?”
She looked at his hand.
Mistake.
Her body remembered those eleven seconds like they had been a semester abroad.
“No,” she said.
Then she stepped onto the board, immediately wobbled, grabbed Nate’s forearm, and hated all of physics.
The entire Ridgeview team made a noise.
Ava did not look at them.
She focused on Nate’s forearm, which was, once again, being aggressively useful.
“Not a word,” she said.
Nate’s voice was close. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Your silence sounds smug.”
“I am silently supportive.”
“Your support has veins.”
His laugh slipped out before he could stop it.
Ava closed her eyes.
“I meant your arm,” she said.
“I know.”
“Forget I said that.”
“I will make no effort.”
“Nate.”
“Ava.”
Soren, still balanced on the other end of the board, said, “We are losing prep time.”
Ava released Nate’s forearm like it had offended her and grabbed Soren’s shoulder instead.
Soren went completely still.
“Sorry,” Ava said.
“It’s fine.”
“You sound like a courthouse.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I took it as one.”
Ava found her balance slowly. The board rocked under her sneakers, but not enough to dump her onto the sand in front of sponsors, hockey mothers, Trevor Hale, and the entire student-athlete population of chaos county.
Small victories.
Paulson lifted a whistle. “Team One ready?”
“No,” Ava said.
“Yes,” Soren said.
Nate crouched beside the bucket of beanbags. “Define ready.”
Paulson sighed. “I am counting it.”
Across the grass, Team Three lined up at the neighboring station. Tyler stood on his paddleboard with Miles, arms out like a man welcoming applause from people who had not offered any.
“Ava,” Tyler called, “if Brennan misses, it’s because your presence affects his motor skills.”
Ava smiled toward him. “If Brennan misses, I will assume he lacks discipline.”
Nate looked at her.
There.
The spark.
The challenge.
The stupid thing between them that had started as a joke and was now standing barefoot in the sand with spectators.
Nate picked up the first beanbag. “Careful, Lane.”
“Why?”
His eyes held hers. “You know why.”
Her stomach flipped.
The whistle blew.
Nate threw.
The first beanbag landed dead center in the bucket.
The Team One side erupted.
Ava did not cheer.
She refused.
She did, however, say, “Acceptable.”
Nate grinned and threw the second.
Another hit.
Soren nodded once. “Good.”
Ava glanced at him. “Is that goalie for excellent?”
“Yes.”
Nate grabbed the third beanbag. “Does she grade everyone this harshly?”
“Probably,” Soren said.
“I respect it.”
“I don’t,” Ava said. “It’s involuntary.”
Nate’s third throw hit the rim, bounced, and fell in.
More cheers.
Ava felt the board shift under her as Soren adjusted. She grabbed his shoulder again, then recovered. “Sorry.”
“You apologize too fast,” Soren said.
Ava blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t make us fall. You don’t have to apologize for needing balance.”
That was entirely too much insight from a man she had only promoted to first-name consideration six minutes ago.
Ava stared at him.
Soren stared back.
Nate, wisely, said nothing.
The fourth throw sailed wide.
Ava pointed. “Ha.”
Nate looked offended. “You distracted me.”
“With what? Stability?”
“With heckling.”
“My heckling is motivational.”
“Your heckling has cheekbones.”
Ava froze.
Soren slowly turned his head toward Nate.
The crowd noise thinned in Ava’s ears.
Nate’s face changed as if he had just heard his own words arrive and realized they had traveled without supervision.
Tyler screamed from the next station. “CALLAHAN JUST SAID HER HECKLING HAS CHEEKBONES.”
Miles yelled, “That makes no sense.”
Beckett yelled, “It makes emotional sense.”
Ava looked at Nate.
Nate looked like a man who wanted to rewind time and tackle himself.
She should have mocked him.
Mercilessly.
Instead, she smiled.
Just enough.
“You should hydrate,” she said.
The team howled.
Nate closed his eyes for half a second, then threw the fifth beanbag.
Dead center.
Harder than necessary.
Soren nodded again. “Recovered.”
“Barely,” Ava said.
“Still counts.”
The station ended with Team One ahead by fifteen seconds, which Soren considered a strong opening and Ava considered a sign that the universe rewarded bad ideas.
The next station was the cooler carry.
Ava should have hated it.
Two handles. One heavy cooler. Nate on one side, Ava on the other, Soren jogging ahead to direct them around cones and yell unhelpfully calm instructions.
“Short steps,” Soren said.
“I have short legs,” Ava snapped. “That is not a strategy. That is anatomy.”
Nate adjusted his pace instantly.
Not in an obvious way.
Not a theatrical sacrifice.
He simply matched her stride so the cooler stopped yanking her shoulder.
Ava noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She wished she did not notice every useful thing this man did.
“You good?” he asked.
“I am carrying a cooler full of what feels like emotional baggage and bricks.”
“So yes?”
“So I am thriving.”
They rounded the first cone.