Page 12 of Off the Ice

She rolled her eyes. “Forest green. The kind that reminds you of pine trees after it rains—rich, deep, and not the kind that hurts your eyes to look at.”

“Good choice,” I said with a nod. “I’m a blue guy. Navy, specifically.”

She smirked. “Navy? Predictable.”

“Hey, navy goes with everything.”

“Spoken like a true hockey player,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a dig or a compliment. Maybe both.

The conversation stayed light as we moved from colors to foods (hers: spicy, mine: hearty), favorite movies (she refused to admit hers but grilled me mercilessly about mine), and childhood memories. It was easy, natural, the kind of back-and-forth that didn’t require effort—like we’d been doing this forever.

“Come on, Logan,” Ava teased, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. “You can’t just say any movie. What’s your go-to, comfort, seen-it-a-hundred-times favorite?”

I exhaled, shaking my head with a grin. “If I tell you, you’re just gonna judge me.”

“Oh, definitely.” She leaned in, eyes alight with mischief. “But that’s half the fun.”

I rolled my eyes, but there was no real fight behind it. “Fine. Miracle.”

Her groan was immediate. “Ugh, of course it is. A hockey movie. How predictable.”

“You asked!” I defended, laughing. “And it’s a classic.”

“It’s a sports movie.”

“Sports movies can be classics,” I argued, crossing my arms. “What, like your favorite is some deep, artistic indie film?”

Her lips curled at the corner, but she said nothing.

“Oh my God,” I realized, pointing at her. “You’re not telling me yours because it’s embarrassing.”

She took a slow sip of her drink, unbothered. “Maybe.”

“No, that’s not fair. You gave me shit for Miracle, but you won’t even admit yours?”

“Correct.”

I let out an exasperated laugh, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

The banter was easy, flowing as naturally as the drinks in our hands. Somewhere between debating movie genres and sharing our most ridiculous childhood injuries—hers involved a trampoline and questionable judgment, mine a botched backyard hockey shot—I almost forgot this wasn’t a real date.

Almost.

Because sitting across from her, watching the way her lips curled around the rim of her glass, the way her shoulders shook with laughter, the way she met my eyes without hesitation, made it feel real. Made me want it to be real. And that? That was dangerous.

Until we walked outside.

The flash of cameras hit us the second the door opened, bright and blinding. A small group of paparazzi had gathered on the sidewalk, jostling for position as they shouted questions.

“Logan! Who’s the mystery blonde?” “How long have you two been together?” “Is she the reason for your good behavior lately?”

I felt Ava tense beside me, and without thinking, I slipped an arm around her waist. It was instinctive, protective, and I didn’t stop to analyze it. Instead, I flashed my usual easy grin and said, “On and off for a few months. You know how it is.” I waved a hand and started moving us in the direction of the car.

Ava’s head snapped toward me, but she didn’t say anything. Not yet. She smiled for the cameras, letting me guide her to the waiting car. Once we were inside, though, the door barely clicked shut before she turned to me.

“‘On and off’?” she repeated, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “A few months?”

I shrugged, leaning back in the seat. “What? It sounded good.”

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