Chapter Thirteen
Avery
“Benji?” I call, making my way down the hall.
When I reach the bottom of the staircase, I hear voices and find Benji in the kitchen alone, hoovering down an oversized bowl of cereal and scrolling through his phone with baseball highlights playing at full volume.
“Morning,” he sputters between bites. “Did you see Nash’s hit last night? Three-run homer in the ninth!” He tilts his screen toward me, showing Nash rounding the bases as the crowd erupts.
“No, I went to bed early,” I say, pouring coffee into one of Nash’s stainless steel travel mugs. Truth be told, I wanted to see him play. But after all the drama at work, all I could do was come home, shower, and fall into bed, hoping to sleep it off.
“Where is he, anyway? I thought he’d be up by now.”
Benji shrugs. “I don’t think he came home last night. His car’s not in the driveway.”
“It’s not?” I ask, trying to sound casual as I glance out the window. “Did you see it in the garage when you took out the trash?”
“Nope.” Benji looks up and studies my face. “Did you have a fight or something?”
Guilt pools in my stomach when I think about running Nash off yesterday. “Of course not. Why would you even think that?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs again, returning to his cereal. “You guys have been acting weird ever since his parents showed up. I thought maybe you were mad at him.”
I busy myself by making toast, hoping Benji doesn’t notice the heat creeping into my face.
“Well, I’m not. Now, hurry up and finish your breakfast,” I say, checking the time. “We need to be out the door in ten.”
While Benji polishes off the rest of his Captain Crunch, my brain runs wild with theories about where Nash is and why he never texted.
Was it his parents? What if they didn’t approve, and deep down he knows they’re right but is too afraid to face me?
Or what if he finally gave in to one of his fangirls after the game?
Could he have gone out with the guys to celebrate their big win and passed out on one of their couches after a long night of drinking too much?
Or worse—what if Nash is mad at me? After all, I’m the one who put off getting those stairs fixed.
Falling for Nash was a mistake that never would have happened if I hadn’t let him talk me into moving in with him. Maybe it’s time I start thinking about other alternatives.
After dropping Benji at school, I pull over and make the call I’ve been putting off.
“Mike Wagner,” he answers with a gruff voice.
“Mike, it’s Avery. Just checking the progress.”
“Avery, hey! Perfect timing! We just got the water turned back on this morning. Still working on the floors, but I’m thinking we should have those finished by the end of the day.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Okay. So… when can we move back in?”
“Technically? Whenever you want, if you don’t mind the noise while we wrap things up this week. I’d give it another seven days before the basement’s ready, though. Washer and dryer won’t be hooked up till then.”
I close my eyes, relief washing over me. “That’s fine. We can make it work.”
“Everything okay where you’re at now?” Mike asks. “Guy’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”
“No. No trouble at all. Just ready to get back to our own space.”
I end the call, a part of me wondering if Benji and I would’ve been better off sleeping in my car. At least then I wouldn’t be nursing an ache in my chest the size of Montana.
So much for fairy tales , I think, pulling back onto the road. I’ve always known better than to believe in happily ever afters.
I try to focus on my drive to work, but my thoughts keep circling back to this last month with Nash. By the time I pull into the employee lot, I’m convinced that last night was the wake- up call I needed. Whatever I thought was happening between us was clearly an error in judgement.
When I walk into the break room, Summer’s standing by the coffee machine, her eyes glued to her phone.
“Geez, have you seen these new articles? Brutal!” She thrusts the device at me before I can even set my bag down.
“After yesterday’s media frenzy? I think I’ll pass.” I grab a clean apron from my locker, but Summer follows, shoving the screen in front of my face.
“Oh, I think you need to see this. It’s worse, Ave. Way worse.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I take the phone and slowly start scrolling.
The first article shows pictures of Nash’s parents at last night’s game, highlighting William Fontaine as “the billionaire tech mogul making a rare appearance to support his son.”
But it’s the second article that makes my blood run cold. “Fontaine Family Dynasty: Is Nash’s Stadium Fling Hurting His Family Name?”
There are two new photos below it. The first shows Nash walking Benji and me to my car after one of his skill camps. The second was taken on the field, with Nash leaning in a little too close as he whispers something in my ear by the dugout.
My stomach drops when I notice that stupid smile again. How would one even argue there’s nothing going on when he’s looking at me like… that?
And if this doesn’t humiliate me enough, I decide it’s a good idea to read the comment section out loud.
“Probably another gold digger. Why am I not surprised?”
“Aw, how cute. Looks like Nash is playing house now.”
“Another casualty of Nash Fontaine’s devastating charm. Poor girl.”
“Hey!” Summer snatches her phone back. “Forget about what people are saying. The press is nothing but a bunch of hungry vultures looking to make a quick buck. In a week, they’ll move on to a new story and none of these people will even remember your name. No offense,” she adds.
“Avery?” Salvatore, the Dugout Club’s operations manager and also my boss, appears in the doorway. “My office, please.
Summer gives me a sympathetic look as I follow him down the hall, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Close the door,” he says, settling behind his desk.
I sink into the chair across from him, and I already know what’s coming.
“I’ll be honest, Avery. I’m concerned about this escalating publicity.” He taps his computer screen at one of the articles Summer just showed me. “When I recommended you for the management position, I did so because of your professionalism and dedication.”
“About that, I can explain—“
“Please do.” He leans back and steeples his fingers.
“None of this is what it looks like. Nash was assigned to be Benji’s mentor,” I say cautiously. “And the only reason I have anything to do with him is because he offered to help us out while our house gets repaired.”
Salvatore’s eyebrows rise. “You’re living with him?”
“Temporarily,” I add quickly. “But it’s okay. It was just until our place was fixed. We’re actually moving home today.”
He pauses, letting his face relax. “Look, I like you, Avery. You may be one of my hardest workers, but this management position comes with higher expectations. Our clientele includes athletes, team owners, sponsors—all people who expect absolute discretion.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because if the press found out one of our staff was living with Nash Fontaine, it wouldn’t just reflect poorly on you.”
“It won’t be a problem, I promise. Like I said, we’re moving out today. This whole situation will be over before anyone else even notices.”
He studies me for a moment. “I hope so. Because I’d hate to have to reconsider my recommendation.”
I fold another shirt and add it to my suitcase, trying to ignore the weight in my chest. The look on Benji’s face when I picked him up from school and told him we were moving back home was devastating.
His immediate “why?” was so much harder to answer than I expected it to be, even after hours of rehearsal earlier in the day.
I tried to explain that it was complicated, but when he kept pressing, I was forced to tell him the truth.
I told him all about the articles circulating and how they could hurt not only my job but damage Nash’s reputation as a mentor.
I told him to trust me and that moving out was the best thing for all of us, but I’ll admit—I haven’t seen him look this upset since the day our parents left.
I zip the suitcase closed and sit on the edge of the bed feeling exhausted. Too bad there’s no time for one last spin in the jacuzzi tub. My frazzled nerves sure could use the distraction.
Benji’s soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
“You can come in.”
“I’m done packing.” He pokes his head through the door, his sad eyes making me feel even worse.
“That was fast,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
He shrugs. “Didn’t bring much.” He lingers in the doorway, head hung low. “It just sucks we have to leave without saying goodbye.”
“I know, Buddy.” I pat the spot beside me, and he trudges over to sit down. “But Nash will understand. We all knew this was only temporary.”
“But what if he thinks we’re mad at him? What if he thinks I don’t want him to be my mentor anymore?”
I put an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in close. “Nash cares about you, Benji. That won’t change because we’re back home.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” I squeeze his arm. “What if you write him a letter, instead? You can tell him how you made lead-off hitter and say thank you for letting us stay here. I bet he’d like that.”
“Yeah, I guess. But can I still call him in the morning?”
“Of course. He’s still your mentor.”
Benji gives a small smile and heads off to his room, leaving me alone again with my thoughts.
I’ve spent my whole life learning that people leave. My parents taught me that lesson so thoroughly that I’ve never fully trusted anyone else I let in would stay. Yet, here I’m the one running.
But something about this feels different. This isn’t about me running away—it’s about protecting what matters. My job. Benji’s future. Our independence. Even Nash himself stands to benefit from us moving out.
It’s this last thought that has me feeling like maybe I should write Nash a letter of my own.
Sitting at a vanity in the corner of the room, I carefully tear a sheet of paper from one of the spiral notebooks in my bag and begin writing.
Nash,
My pen hovers over the page, unsure of what to say—until I remember what happened the last time I let myself be vulnerable with him. What am I supposed to say?
Thank you for making me believe in something that was never going to work? Sorry for the mess I brought into your perfectly ordered life?
I spend the next few minutes feeling disappointed all over again, then crumple up the paper and toss it in the trash—not because I have nothing to say, but because maybe some things are better left unsaid.