I’ve seen some small humans selling stuff for their clubs and teams before, but this—this is a next-level sales pitch.
“We can’tnot—” I start to say to Oliver, but I cut myself off.
Because everything about Oliver Cumberland has shifted, and he’s not growly, and he’s not glaring, and he’s not radiating barely suppressed fury.
He’s switching directions to approach the little girl with the red pigtails who can’t be more than six years old, with his shoulders more relaxed than they’ve been at any moment since I woke up in his car last night.
He squats in front of her while the adult with her watches both of us.
“What’s your favorite part of gymnastics?” he asks her.
This isn’t grumpiest-of-the-grumpy Oliver.
But it’s not pushover Oliver either.
This is—this ismatureOliver.
Confident Oliver.
Aware Oliver.
“I like the uneven bars because I can swing forhoursandhours,” she tells him. “But when I fall, it hurts.”
He nods gravely. “It hurts when I fall too. How much money do you need to raise for better equipment?”
“Ten seventy thousand million dollars,” she replies.
He smiles.
Oliver.
Oliver Cumberland.
Smiling at a little girl.
Fuck.
Fuuuuuuuuck.
“We’re trying to raise five thousand,” the woman I assume is the kid’s mom says.
“That’s a lot of money,” Oliver says to the little girl.
“Good thing I’m cute,” she replies.
His entire face relaxes into an even broader smile.
And then he does something even worse.
He pulls out his wallet and empties it into their donation jar. “Hope that helps.”
The mom’s eyes go huge.
Like, I don’t think I could open my eyes that wide if I tried.
Understandable.
He must’ve had thirty or forty hundred-dollar bills tucked into his wallet. It was so thick it barely folded.
