Chapter Eleven Ava
Ava Lane had exactly six hours to become the kind of fake girlfriend who could make Trevor Hale regret learning to text.
Unfortunately, she had no training, no emotional stability, and a hockey player standing beside her looking like he had been custom-built for terrible decisions at sunset.
That felt unfair.
It also felt slightly useful.
Not that she was going to tell Nate that.
The sponsor bonfire was scheduled for seven-thirty on the south lawn, which meant Ava had the rest of her shift to serve slushies, pretend her life was not turning into public theater, and ignore the fact that her fake boyfriend kept appearing at the service window under the excuse of team logistics.
First, he came by to confirm the bonfire time.
Then to ask whether she needed more ice.
Then to return the pen Denise had borrowed, even though Denise had not borrowed a pen from him.
The fourth time he appeared, Ava slid the window open and stared at him.
“Brennan.”
He held up both hands. “I have a reason.”
“You had a reason the first three times. They were all bad.”
“This one is better.”
“Is the building on fire?”
“No.”
“Is Tyler on fire?”
“Not currently.”
“Then I am busy.”
He placed a folded paper on the counter.
Ava looked at it.
“What is that?”
“Sponsor bonfire schedule.”
“Why is it folded like a hostage note?”
“Because Paulson handed it to me after dropping it in a puddle. I improved it.”
“With origami?”
“With structure.”
Ava unfolded the paper.
The schedule was written in Paulson’s frantic administrative handwriting.
SPONSOR BONFIRE
7:30: Welcome and donor thanks
7:45: Team One donor video with Hale Development
8:00: Youth camp awards
8:15: S’mores relay
8:30: Open social time
Ava stared at the third line until the words tried to blur.
Team One donor video with Hale Development.
Of course.
The universe had looked at a fake boyfriend scheme and thought, make it multimedia.
“No,” she said.
Nate nodded. “That was my first review too.”
“Can we get out of it?”
“Paulson says Hale requested the winning team, and Denise says staff participation is mandatory for donor goodwill.”
Ava looked toward the back counter where Denise was counting cash drawers with the serene focus of a woman who would sacrifice any employee to a sponsorship packet.
“Denise has gone corporate,” Ava said.
“Tragic.”
“I trusted her.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I admired her clipboard control.”
Nate leaned one forearm on the counter, then seemed to remember something and straightened.
Ava noticed.
Ava hated that she noticed.
“You can lean,” she said.
His brows lifted. “Permission?”
“For the counter. Not emotionally.”
“Clear boundary.”
“I try.”
He leaned carefully, which somehow made the whole thing worse.
“The donor video is only supposed to be thirty seconds,” he said.
“Thirty seconds is a long time when someone is using it to ruin your life.”
“He’s not ruining your life.”
“No. He’s adding pop-up ads.”
Nate’s mouth curved. “That is the most accurate description of an ex I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you. I suffer artistically.”
The bell at the window jingled, and a little boy asked for three blue slushies and one green one because his sister wanted to be different.
Ava took the order.
Nate stepped aside but did not leave.
While Ava worked, she could feel him there, not hovering exactly, not interrupting, just present. It should have annoyed her.
It did annoy her.
It also steadied something she refused to name.
After the kids left, Nate pushed the schedule back toward her. “We need a plan.”
“For a thirty-second video?”
“For Trevor.”
Ava wiped down the counter. “I have a plan.”
“Does it involve nacho cheese?”
“Emotionally.”
“Legal plan, then.”
She sighed. “Fine. We stand there. Smile. Say something about scholarships. Do not mention the fake relationship. Leave.”
“Good.”
“No touching unless I start it.”
“Already a rule.”
“No looking at Trevor like you know water depth.”
Nate’s face went deeply innocent. “That’s specific.”
“You have specific murder eyes.”
“I will keep my eyes charitable.”
“Do that.”
“Anything else?”
Ava hesitated.
There was one more thing.
The thing she did not want to ask.
The thing that made her feel small, which meant she immediately wanted to throw it away before anyone saw it.
Nate waited.
Again.
No rush. No grin. No pressure.
Ava hated him a little more.
“If he calls me Aves,” she said, keeping her voice sharp enough to hide the bruise, “say something.”
Nate’s expression did not change much.
But the warmth left his eyes.
“Done.”
“Not dramatic.”
“Done.”
“Not hockey dramatic.”
“Ava.”
She stopped.
He held her gaze. “Done.”
The word landed like a promise.
Ava looked away first because apparently she had limits.
“Good,” she said. “Excellent fake boyfriend work. Very professional.”
“Should I invoice you?”
“Only if you accept payment in insults.”
“I have been accepting those all day.”
“Then you’re rich.”
His smile came back.
Not fully.
Enough.
By six, Ava had finished her shift, survived three more texts from Trevor that she did not answer, and changed into denim shorts and the clean version of her Team One shirt in the staff bathroom.
The shirt was still stupid.
The knot at her waist helped.
So did lip gloss.
So did the fact that when she stepped out of the snack shack, Nate Brennan stopped mid-conversation with Soren and forgot what he was saying.
Ava noticed.
Nate noticed her noticing.
Soren looked between them and said, “This will be exhausting.”
“For who?” Ava asked.
“Everyone with sight.”
Nate coughed.
Ava pointed at Soren. “Careful. You’re close to earning a permanent name.”
“I don’t want that responsibility.”
“Wise.”
Tyler appeared wearing a shirt that said STAFF RELAY CHAMPIONS in marker, despite the fact that his team had finished fourth.
“Ava,” he said, solemnly. “For tonight’s fake relationship, I have prepared talking points.”
Nate said, “No.”
Tyler pulled a folded paper from his pocket.
Griffin appeared from nowhere and took it.
Tyler gasped. “That was my art.”
Griffin unfolded the paper, read silently for two seconds, then looked at Nate. “He wrote, Nate enjoys long walks on the beach and emotional denial.”
Ava reached out. “I want that.”
Nate snatched the paper first. “You do not.”
“I absolutely do.”
“It will only encourage him.”
“I enjoy field research.”
Tyler clasped his hands. “She understands me.”
“No,” Ava said. “I understand how evidence works.”
Beckett wandered up with a paper plate of chips. “Are we discussing the fake boyfriend deployment?”
“No,” Nate said.
“Yes,” Ava said.
Nate looked at her.
She shrugged. “Narrative control.”
Beckett’s eyes lit. “Excellent. First rule: never let Brennan improvise vulnerability. He gets weirdly sincere and then everyone has feelings.”
Nate stared. “That is not true.”
Griffin said, “It is partially true.”
Soren nodded. “Situationally.”
Ava looked at Nate. “You have vulnerability reviews?”
“Apparently.”
“Mixed scores.”
“By biased judges.”
Tyler lifted a finger. “My review is glowing.”
Griffin crumpled the talking-points paper and handed it back to him. “Your review is pending institutional removal.”
The group moved toward the south lawn as the first bonfire smoke drifted into the pink evening sky.
The scene should have been pretty.
It was pretty.
That was annoying too.
Lake Briar had gone gold around the edges.
String lights looped between posts. Sponsor tents glowed under soft lanterns.
Kids chased each other near the grass while parents hovered with paper plates.
Someone had set up an acoustic playlist by the fire, and the smell of toasted sugar and lake water hung in the air.
It was exactly the kind of setting that made people believe temporary things could last.
Ava did not trust settings.
She trusted exits.
She found three immediately.
Snack shack path. Dock stairs. Parking lot cut-through behind the Hale tent.
Nate walked beside her but did not touch her.
Good.
Respectful.
Infuriating.
Her fingers remembered his hand anyway.
Trevor stood near the Hale Development table in a navy button-down now, sleeves rolled, smile polished, sponsor badge clipped to his pocket. He looked like a brochure for men who apologized only when witnessed.
His gaze found Ava’s.
Then Nate’s.
Then the space between them.
Ava resisted the urge to move closer to Nate out of pure spite.
Barely.
Paulson clapped near the fire pit. “Everyone, thank you for joining us for the donor appreciation bonfire. We are thrilled to celebrate the first day of the Ridgeview Hockey Charity Summer Challenge.”
Ava leaned toward Nate. “Do administrators practice that voice?”
“Yes. In mirrors. Under fluorescent lights.”
“Terrifying.”
“Deeply.”
Nate’s shoulder brushed hers.
Accidental.
Probably.
She did not move away.
Trevor noticed.
Ava felt a small, mean satisfaction.
Then she felt annoyed at herself for feeling it.
Paulson thanked sponsors, families, players, and staff. Denise got applause. The kids cheered when the youth scholarship total was announced. Soren accepted praise for Team One’s relay win with the expression of a man waiting at the DMV.
Then Paulson said, “And now, Hale Development requested a quick thank-you clip with today’s winning relay team. Nate, Soren, Ava, come on up.”
Ava’s stomach tightened.
Nate turned his head slightly. “Lemonade?”
She almost said yes.
Then Trevor lifted his phone and smiled.
Ava’s spine straightened.
“No,” she said. “Let’s make a commercial.”
Nate’s mouth twitched. “That is the worst battle cry I’ve ever heard.”
“I work with what I have.”
They stepped into place near the Hale Development banner. Soren stood on Ava’s other side, which she appreciated. A goalie wall on one side. A fake boyfriend on the other.
Trevor held the phone while another Hale employee adjusted the light.
“Great,” Trevor said. “Ava, maybe shift closer to Nate. You two are the cute angle here.”
Nate went still.
Ava smiled. “Sure.”
She started it.
Rule two.
She stepped closer and slid one hand around Nate’s arm.
His bicep tensed under her fingers.
Interesting.
Useful.
Terrible.
Nate looked down at her just long enough for the air to thicken.
Then he looked back at the phone with a smile so easy no one else would know it was fake.
Ava knew.
That was becoming the problem.
Trevor’s jaw tightened. “Perfect. Nate, maybe say what today’s win meant.”
Nate nodded. “Sure.”
The Hale employee counted down.
Three.
Two.
One.
Nate smiled into the camera. “We had a great first day at the Ridgeview Hockey Charity Summer Challenge. Team One was lucky to have Ava Lane carrying us through the relay.”
Ava’s head turned before she could stop it.
Nate’s smile stayed on the camera.
“Hale Development’s support helps make scholarship events like this possible,” he continued. “But honestly, the best part of today was watching the community show up for these kids. That’s what this weekend is supposed to be about.”
It was polished.
It was good.
It was also a blade wrapped in manners.
Trevor heard it.
Ava heard it.
Soren, unexpectedly, added, “Also, Ava reads competition faster than most forwards.”
Nate looked delighted.
Ava blinked. “Thank you?”
Soren nodded. “That was a compliment.”
The Hale employee laughed behind the phone.
Trevor did not.
Ava smiled at the camera. “I’m happy Lake Briar gets to help with a good cause. And for the record, Team One accepts snacks, donations, and respectful applause.”
Nate’s laugh slipped out beside her.
The camera caught it.
Trevor’s eyes narrowed.
“Great,” he said, lowering the phone. “Very natural.”
Ava let go of Nate’s arm.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
Her fingertips dragged over his sleeve for half a second longer than necessary.
His eyes dropped to her hand.
She pretended not to notice.
She noticed everything.
Trevor stepped closer. “Can I get one still photo? For the sponsor recap.”
Ava opened her mouth to refuse.
Trevor looked directly at her. “Unless that would be weird, Aves.”
Nate’s entire body changed.
Not big.
Not loud.
Just there.
Ava felt it like a storm arriving without thunder.
She said nothing.
Because for once, she wanted to see if he remembered.
Nate smiled at Trevor.
Charitable eyes.
Murder underneath.
“It’s Ava,” Nate said. “And yeah, a photo is fine if she wants one.”
Ava’s heart did one stupid, beautiful thing.
Trevor’s smile faltered.
The Hale employee looked between them and said quickly, “No pressure. We got enough video.”
Ava looked at Nate.
His gaze stayed on Trevor for one second, then came back to her.
Waiting.
Her choice.
Always her choice.
She turned to the employee. “One photo is fine.”
Then, because spite had raised her and survival had refined her, Ava slid her hand into Nate’s again.
The photo happened.
The team saw.
Tyler made a noise in the distance that sounded like a seal learning gossip.
The sponsor video ended.
Ava and Nate stepped away from the banner, still holding hands.
She meant to let go.
She really did.
Then Trevor said behind them, too low for the crowd but loud enough for her, “Careful, Nate. Ava likes attention until people expect her to be real.”
Ava stopped.
Nate stopped too.
This time, she felt him waiting.
No move. No answer. No rescue.
Her choice.
Ava turned around.
Trevor’s smile was back, faint and cruel.
For one second, she was back in his car, hearing him say, Don’t make this bigger than it was.
For one second, she was nineteen again and trying not to cry because crying would prove his point.
Then Nate’s hand warmed around hers.
Not squeezing.
Just there.
Ava looked at Trevor and smiled.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
Trevor blinked.
Ava’s voice stayed steady. “You always liked attention until someone expected you to be honest.”
The words landed.
Clean.
Public enough to count.
Quiet enough to be deadly.
Trevor’s face went still.
Ava felt something loosen in her chest.
Not all the way.
Enough.
She turned away before he could answer and walked with Nate toward the bonfire.
Only when they reached the edge of the crowd did she realize she was still holding his hand.
She looked down.
Then up.
Nate was looking at her like she had just scored the game-winner while setting the arena on fire.
“What?” she asked.
His voice was rougher than usual. “That was impressive.”
Ava swallowed.
Compliments were dangerous.
Sincere ones were worse.
“It was overdue,” she said.
“Still impressive.”
She should have let go.
She did not.
Tyler appeared in front of them with a paper plate full of marshmallows and eyes bright enough to cause structural damage.
“I have one question,” he said.
Nate’s head dropped. “No.”
Ava sighed. “What?”
Tyler pointed at their joined hands. “Are we still calling this fake, or should I update the spreadsheet?”
Ava looked at Nate.
Nate looked at her.
The fire snapped behind them.
The lake went dark.
Her hand stayed in his.
And for the first time all day, Ava had no idea what the honest answer was.