Epilogue Ava
Ava Lane had once believed summer was something a person survived with enough sunscreen, enough sarcasm, and enough iced coffee to keep bad decisions at a manageable distance.
She had been wrong.
Summer, apparently, was something that could ambush a woman at a snack shack, hand her a cocky hockey player with a declined credit card, ruin her rule list, expose her to public kissing, scholarship math, grandmother commentary, and the kind of joy that refused to stay in its assigned category.
Which was why, three weeks after Hale Development tried and failed to buy the ending, Ava stood at the edge of Lake Briar’s Summer Showdown wearing a Team One shirt, holding a clipboard, and pretending she was not watching Nate Brennan give a pep talk to six children armed with foam hockey sticks.
She was absolutely watching.
In her defense, he was hard to ignore.
That had become a documented condition.
The Summer Showdown had taken over the entire lake.
There were sponsor tents again, but different ones this time.
Briar Bean. Lake Briar Marina. Ridgeview Orthopedics.
A local bookstore that had somehow ended up between the dunk tank and the speed shot booth because Denise said foot traffic was foot traffic and books deserved witnesses.
The scholarship sign stood near the deck, updated in Denise’s boldest handwriting.
HOCKEY HELPS FINAL TOTAL: $12,840
SCHOLARSHIPS FUNDED: 8
Ava still had to look at it twice sometimes.
Eight scholarships.
Eight kids who would get onto the ice because the community had shown up, because Evan had crossed the line with five crumpled dollars, because Grandma Ruthie had raised money through a combination of receipts and spiritual intimidation, because the Ridgeview hockey team had turned chaos into contribution, and because Ava Lane had stopped letting other people tell her the price of taking up space.
That part still felt strange.
Good strange.
Terrifying strange.
The kind of strange that made her keep a notes app list titled Things I Am Allowed To Want, which Nate did not know about and absolutely would not be told about until he stopped being so smug about earning a contact photo in her phone.
His contact name, for the record, was no longer Nate Brennan.
It was Useful In Emergencies.
She had added a hockey stick emoji under protest.
Ellie had called it romantic growth.
Ava had called it metadata.
Across the grass, Nate crouched beside Evan, adjusting the kid’s grip on a stick. Evan listened with serious concentration, nodded once, then took a shot at the foam target.
The puck hit the bottom corner.
Evan threw both arms in the air.
Nate did the same with such complete commitment that several children nearby started cheering too.
Ava’s chest went soft.
Annoying.
Unavoidable.
Hers.
Ellie appeared beside her, holding two lemonades and wearing sunglasses shaped like hearts, because Ellie believed subtlety was something that happened to other people.
“You are doing the face,” Ellie said.
Ava kept her eyes on the clipboard. “I have many faces. Be specific.”
“The I am emotionally attached to a hockey player but still pretending I am mostly here for scheduling face.”
“That is not a face.”
“It is your whole brand now.”
“My brand is operational excellence.”
Ellie handed her a lemonade. “Your brand is operational excellence with kissing breaks.”
Ava took the drink. “You’re fired from beverages.”
“I am a volunteer today. You have no power over me.”
“That is exactly what a person says before discovering I have clipboard range.”
Ellie smiled toward Nate. “He looks happy.”
Ava looked before she could stop herself.
Nate was still with Evan, laughing at something the kid said. His backward cap sat low over his forehead. His black Ridgeview shirt had the word CAPTAIN printed on one sleeve because Tyler had made iron-on patches and Coach Doyle had allowed exactly one to survive as a warning to others.
Captain.
Officially.
The conversation had happened the morning after the fundraiser. Nate had shown up at Lake Briar afterward with quiet eyes, a new title, and the almost shy admission that Coach Doyle had told him leadership looked better when it stopped trying to be liked by everyone.
Ava had said that sounded like a fortune cookie from a man with whistle trauma.
Nate had kissed her behind the snack shack.
Then Denise had opened the side door and said, “I hope that was on break.”
Ava still had not recovered.
“He is happy,” Ava said, softer than she meant to.
Ellie turned toward her with a smile that went warm instead of loud. “So are you.”
Ava opened her mouth with three possible jokes ready.
None came out.
Because she was.
She was not fixed. She hated that word. People were not broken chairs.
But she was steadier.
Lighter in places that had been clenched for so long she had mistaken tension for personality.
Trevor had texted from two new numbers after the fundraiser article ran.
She had blocked both.
Then, after one final message came through an old social media account, she had screenshotted it, sent it to herself for documentation, blocked him there too, and gone to Sunday dinner without mentioning him once.
Grandma Ruthie had said, “Good. Some weeds die faster when you stop watering them.”
Ava had written that down.
Nate had brought rolls again.
No twine.
Obviously.
“I am happy,” Ava said finally.
Ellie made a sound.
Ava turned. “Do not make it weird.”
“I was making it beautiful.”
“Same threat level.”
“Fine.” Ellie sipped her lemonade. “Are you ready for the Showdown relay?”
Ava looked at the clipboard. “Yes.”
“Liar.”
“No. The stations are organized. The teams are posted. Tyler is banned from microphones unless supervised by Griffin, Soren, or God. Beckett has been told that dramatic collapses are limited to fundraising demonstrations only. Nate knows where to stand. I am extremely ready.”
Ellie tilted her head. “That was about logistics.”
“Logistics are the event.”
“Ava.”
Ava sighed and looked back toward Nate.
He caught her watching this time.
Of course he did.
His smile changed immediately.
Less public. More hers.
Her stomach still reacted to that smile like it had never once learned from experience.
“Fine,” Ava said. “I am nervous.”
“Because of the relay?”
“Because after the relay, summer is basically over.”
Ellie’s expression softened.
Ava stared down at the clipboard. “He goes into preseason. I go back to class. The lake gets quiet. There are fewer public excuses to be in each other’s way.”
“You think Nate needs a public excuse?”
Ava looked at him again.
He was walking toward her now, leaving Evan with Soren at the speed shot booth. Soren nodded once at Ava, which she understood to mean he had accepted the transfer of child supervision and also judged the emotional timing.
Goalies were unsettling.
“No,” Ava said. “But I might.”
Ellie squeezed her shoulder once. “Then maybe stop needing one.”
Ava looked at her.
Ellie smiled. “Growth. Horrifying, but available.”
“I regret befriending you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Intermittently.”
Nate reached them before Ellie could answer.
“Intermittently what?” he asked.
Ava turned toward him. “Regretting people.”
“Anyone specific?”
“Do you want the list alphabetically or by offense?”
Nate smiled. “Offense seems more efficient.”
Ellie looked between them and lifted both lemonades. “I will leave you two to weaponize flirting near a clipboard.”
“This is not flirting,” Ava said.
Nate looked at her.
Ava looked at Nate.
Ellie snorted. “Sure. And Tyler has impulse control.”
She walked away before Ava could defend herself from accuracy.
Nate stepped closer.
Not too close.
He still did that.
Still gave her the last inch.
Ava loved that.
There was the word again.
Still not said out loud.
Not because it was not true.
Because it was big enough to deserve a moment that did not involve Tyler, a dunk tank, and a clipboard Ava had labeled RELAY INCIDENT PREVENTION.
Nate looked down at the clipboard. “You made an incident prevention chart.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Do not make my administrative caution romantic.”
“Too late.”
She pointed at him.
He grinned. “On purpose.”
“You have become a menace with that phrase.”
“Persistent menace.”
“Barely tolerated menace.”
“Your contact name for me says otherwise.”
Ava froze. “You do not know my contact name for you.”
His grin widened.
Ava slowly turned toward Ellie, who was now across the lawn pretending to inspect napkins.
“Ellie,” Ava called.
Ellie shouted back, “I regret nothing and support love.”
Ava closed her eyes. “I am surrounded by betrayal in bright lighting.”
Nate leaned closer. “Useful In Emergencies?”
“Do not be smug.”
“I am honored.”
“You are smiling like a trophy.”
“Because I am honored and smug. Humans contain multitudes.”
“Do not quote poetry at me before a relay.”
“I contain multitudes emotionally.”
“Worse.”
He laughed, then reached for her hand.
Slowly.
Still asking.
Ava put her hand in his.
Easily now.
Not because it had become casual.
Because it had become chosen.
Nate’s thumb moved once over her knuckles. “You okay?”
She looked toward the lake.
The Summer Showdown banner snapped lightly in the breeze.
Kids chased each other near the dock. Karen helped Denise tape another donation sign to the table.
Grandma Ruthie sat in the shade with a receipt book even though the fundraiser was technically over because, in her words, generosity did not obey clocks.
The team gathered near the start line.
Tyler wore a captain’s hat he had not earned.
Griffin removed it from Tyler’s head without looking.
Maren Brooks stood nearby, arms folded, sunglasses on, watching the entire scene with the expression of a woman who had already decided every hockey player was a scheduling hazard.
Ava had met Maren that morning.
Lake Briar had hired her to coordinate the final week of donor events after the fundraiser took off. She was efficient, dry, organized, and had looked at Tyler once before saying, “He needs a leash or a form.”
Ava had liked her immediately.