Page 12

Twelve

Logan

I pulled up in front of Ava’s apartment building, my SUV idling by the curb. The street was quiet, the kind of hush that settled in just after rush hour, when most people had made it home but the city hadn’t fully wound down for the night. Her neighborhood wasn’t exactly bad, but it had a certain grittiness to it—older brick buildings with chipped paint, a few flickering streetlights, the occasional car parked too close to the fire hydrant like nobody cared enough to enforce the rule. Decent, but worn around the edges. The kind of place where you double-checked your locks but still knew your neighbors.

Ava was already waiting by the door, her coat pulled tight around her as a cold breeze whipped down the street. She shifted from foot to foot, probably impatient, probably cold, but even then, she was effortlessly beautiful. She didn’t dress up for anyone, didn’t try to impress with layers of makeup or carefully curated outfits. She was just… her.

I shook myself out of it and killed the engine, stepping out of the SUV. The moment the door slammed shut behind me, the distant rumble of a passing train carried through the night air, a steady reminder of the city that never quite slept. I crossed the sidewalk, boots scuffing against the concrete as I made my way up the steps to her door.

Ava’s eyes met mine through the glass panel, her expression unreadable. Was she surprised I got out instead of just waiting for her to come to me? Maybe. Or maybe she was just trying to figure out what I was doing here in the first place.

I reached out and pressed the buzzer.

A small smile flickered across her lips, but she didn’t move to open the door just yet. Instead, she tilted her head, arms still wrapped around herself. “You know I’m right here, right?”

I smirked, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Yeah, but I figured I’d be a gentleman about it.”

Ava rolled her eyes, but the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips told me she wasn’t entirely unimpressed. She pulled the door open, stepping aside to let me through, and as soon as I was inside, the warmth of the building wrapped around me, a stark contrast to the chilly evening air. The city hummed around us, the faint murmur of traffic in the distance, the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby bar. The cold bit at my skin, but I barely noticed it. Not when she was right next to me, her arm brushing against mine as we crossed the street toward my SUV.

When we reached the curb, I moved ahead a step, reaching out to open the passenger-side door for her. Ava gave me a look—half amused, half suspicious.

“You’re being very polite tonight,” she mused, pausing before sliding inside.

I smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

She huffed out a laugh but didn’t argue, settling into the seat as I shut the door behind her. Without wasting another second, I jogged around the front of the car, my breath fogging in the crisp air. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I pulled the door shut and exhaled, glancing over at her as she buckled her seatbelt.

As she climbed into the passenger seat, she glanced at me, her brow slightly raised. “So, what’s the plan? Are we winging this, or do you actually have an idea of how to explain this to your grandfather?” she gestured between her and I.

I smirked, pulling into traffic. “We’re grabbing takeout on the way. Grandad loves lasagna from Kinchley’s, and trust me, it’s worth it.”

“Kinchley’s? Off of Madison?” she repeated, her hazel eyes lighting up. “The little brick place with the red-and-white awning?”

“That’s the one.” I grinned. “They’ve been making the same recipes for fifty years. My grandma loved their garlic knots.”

“Now I’m intrigued, espeically if its a grandma favorite,” she said, settling back into her seat. “Lead the way, Bennett.”

We pulled into the lot at Kinchley’s, the warm glow of its neon sign cutting through the early dusk. The smell of oregano, melted cheese, and fresh-baked bread hit us the second we stepped inside, and my stomach growled on cue.I placed the usual order—lasagna, garlic knots, and a side of their famous tiramisu—and added a Caesar salad because Ava raised an eyebrow when I skipped anything green. The cashier, a guy who’d been there as long as I could remember, gave me the same knowing smile he always did.

“Grandad’s still going strong?” he asked as he handed over the receipt.

“Stubborn as ever,” I replied. “Thanks, Pete.”

We waited at one of the small tables by the counter, the air filled with the clatter of plates and the chatter of regulars. Ava glanced around, taking in the cozy atmosphere, the checkered tablecloths, faded photos of local sports teams on the walls, and the handwritten specials board that hadn’t changed in decades.

“This place has character,” she said, her voice thoughtful.

“Yeah,” I said. “My grandma used to bring me here after my games when I was a kid. Said it was the best way to celebrate, carbs and cheese.”

Ava smiled faintly. “She sounds like she was a smart woman.”

“She was,” I said, the memory softening my voice. “She always said Kinchley’s had magic garlic knots. Swore they could fix anything, bad days, tough losses, even broken hearts.”

“Did it work?” Ava asked, tilting her head.

“Every time,” I said simply. “She’d order extra for me to take home, just in case.”

The order came up a few minutes later, and I carried the bag to the car, the comforting smell of lasagna and garlic filling the space as we drove to Grandad’s.

***

Grandad’s house was a small ranch-style place with a neatly trimmed lawn and a porch swing that creaked in the breeze. He was already waiting at the door when we arrived, his weathered face breaking into a grin. He wore one of his usual oversized sweaters, this one a deep navy blue with a few frayed edges, paired with loose-fitting khakis that looked like they’d seen better days and a pair of worn house slippers.

“Logan, you’re late.”

I rolled my eyes, holding up the bag of takeout. “I’m five minutes early. Don’t start.”

“Better not let that lasagna get cold,” he quipped before his gaze shifted to Ava. “And who’s this?”

“Ava Carlisle,” I said, gesturing between them. “Grandad, this is Ava. Ava, meet my grandad. Try not to let him talk your ear off.”

Ava smiled, extending a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, young lady,” Grandad said, shaking her hand. “Now, let’s get inside before Logan eats all the garlic knots.”

I huffed out a laugh but didn’t argue, stepping past them and into the house. The familiar scent of marinara and fresh bread filled the air, warm and rich, and my stomach tightened in response. I kicked off my shoes near the entryway and made a beeline for the kitchen, already reaching for the paper bag of takeout sitting on the counter.

“Not even gonna pretend you have manners?” Grandad called after me, amusement lacing his voice.

“I’m starving,” I shot back, pulling out the containers. The garlic knots were still warm, the buttery scent practically begging me to dig in. I popped the lid on the pasta, grabbing a couple of plates from the cabinet before setting everything out on the island.

Ava stepped in behind me, lingering for a second before tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. “You could’ve at least waited until we sat down,” she teased, her eyes flicking toward the food.

“Yeah? And risk Grandad getting to them first?” I smirked, tossing a wink in his direction. “I like to live, thanks.”

Grandad scoffed, shaking his head as he made his way toward the fridge. “You two better grab drinks before I sit down. I’m too old to be getting back up just because you forgot something.”

Ava laughed softly, and I glanced at her, watching the way her expression softened as she took in the space—my home, my family, the small moments that made up my life outside of hockey.

And for the first time, it really hit me.

She was here.

With me.

And damn if that didn’t make something shift in my chest.

The table in the dining room was the same one I’d grown up sitting at—solid oak with a few nicks and scratches that my grandma used to call “character.” The smell of Kinchley’s lasagna filled the room as we dug in, the garlic knots disappearing faster than I expected thanks to Ava’s surprising appetite. Between bites, Grandad launched into his favorite stories, including one about the first time I got on the ice.

“He was five, playing mites,” Grandad said, his grin wide. “Skates too big, helmet too small. Looked like he’d fall over any second.”

“I scored twice,” I interjected, grinning.

“After falling eight times,” Grandad shot back, winking at Ava. “But when he came off the ice, he told me he was going to be a pro. And wouldn’t you know it, the little squirt was right.”

“Big dreams for a five-year-old,” Ava said, her tone teasing as she glanced at me.

“What can I say?” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I had good garlic knot motivation.”

As the evening wound down, Ava helped me clear the table while Grandad dozed off in his armchair. The easy rhythm of the night caught me off guard—no cameras, no scrutiny, just stories and laughter. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.

“You’re good with him,” Ava said softly, rinsing a plate in the sink.

“He raised me,” I said, shrugging. “It’s the least I can do.”

She nodded, her hazel eyes lingering on me for a moment before she turned away. “Still. It’s nice to see.”

Her words stayed with me as I drove her back to her apartment, the quiet between us filled with something I couldn’t quite name. The city blurred past outside the windows, its glow softer now as the evening wound down. Normally, I didn’t mind silence—it was rare in my world, and I’d learned to appreciate it. But this silence? It felt different. Heavier. Like there were things left unsaid hanging in the air between us.

Ava stared out the window, her chin resting lightly in her hand. The passing streetlights cast shadows across her face, catching the thoughtful furrow of her brow and the way her lips pressed together like she was deep in her own head.

“You’re quiet,” I said, breaking the silence.

She glanced at me, her hazel eyes sharp even in the dim light. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” I teased, trying to keep it light. “What about?”

She hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the window. “Your grandad. He reminds me of my dad in some ways. Before... everything.” she waved her hand in the air as if I had a clue what she was talking about, but I didn’t push her to elaborate. She’d mentioned her dad once or twice in passing but always with the kind of tone that made it clear the subject was off-limits. Instead, I nodded. “He’s a good guy. Stubborn as hell, but good.”

Her lips curved into a small smile. “I can see that.”

We pulled up in front of her building, the dim light from the streetlamp casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. I put the car in park but didn’t move to unlock the doors right away.

“Thanks for coming,” I said after a moment. “It meant a lot to him. And... to me.”

Her brows lifted slightly, like she hadn’t expected that. “It wasn’t what I expected, but... I’m glad I did. Your grandad’s great. And the garlic knots didn’t hurt.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Told you. Magic.”

She reached for the door handle but paused, glancing back at me. “You’re different when you’re with him, you know.”

“Different how?” I asked, leaning back in my seat.

“Less...” She waved a hand vaguely, searching for the word. “Performative. Like you’re not trying to prove anything.”

Her words hit harder than I expected, landing somewhere between a compliment and a challenge. I nodded, not trusting myself to respond without saying too much.

“Good night, Logan,” she said softly, slipping out of the car.

“Night, Carlisle,” I replied, watching as she climbed the steps to her building. She didn’t look back, but I stayed until the door shut behind her, the faint click echoing louder in my mind than it had any right to.

The drive home was quiet, the city lights fading as I left her neighborhood behind.