We’re finally on the way back to Utah, waiting for the plane to do its regular checks before we take off. I’m so ready for a long bath and a full night’s sleep in my bed. Part of me wonders if taking my pillow everywhere would be excessive, but then again, I’d sleep a lot better.
My phone rings and Daphne’s name comes on the screen.
“Hey, Daphne, how are you?” I ask.
“Hi. I’m in a bit of a bind. My baby has been sick for a few days, and I’m heading to the doctor to get him some medicine. Would you be able to put together a montage of the posts from the scavengerhunt? And anything else you think would be good to go along with it. Make a story or something.”
“I’m so sorry, Daphne. For sure. I have time and can get that done. When do you need it by?”
“We’ll send the file to whoever oversees the lacrosse FanFest event. They’ll have it there as part of their festivities.”
I smile, thinking of how a simple conversation turned into something to help the Lancers.
“I can do that. Sending prayers that the doctor knows what to give your little one. And let me know if there’s anything else you need. I’m happy to help.”
I open my laptop and pull up #LancerFanFest and grin, because it’s gotten over five hundred tags. I’m able to find the social media post to start it and get a basic run-through of the rules.
The scavenger hunt was simple—find your team spirit at home, at the park, at a museum, or anywhere creative, capture it on camera, and tag the club.
I scroll through the submissions long after I should’ve closed my laptop. My eyes are tired, and I’m ready to be done with the long hours of travel for a minute. But I’m also excited for the fans to show up for the lacrosse team.
At first, it’s just logistics. Check the boxes. Flag the blurry ones. Smile at the creativity. Someone recreated the team logo using pool noodles. Someone else took a selfie in front of a hand-painted muralthat looks like it’s been there longer than the building behind it.
Then the photos start slowing me down.
A dad crouches behind a net in a cul-de-sac, coaching a kid who’s all elbows and determination. A grandmother in a faded team hoodie holds up a sign that saysOpening Weekend or Bust. A group of teenagers piled together on a park bench, every single one of them mid-laugh, the camera tilted as if nobody bothered to line the shot up first.
I pause on a picture of a golden retriever wearing a jersey two sizes too big, tongue out, tail a blur.
I keep clicking.
A chalk drawing of the logo on a driveway, already smudged by footprints. A handmade poster taped to a refrigerator. A family lined up in front of aWelcome toKanarravillesign, everyone squinting into the sun like they rushed to get the photo before someone complained.
This is the part of the job I love—the part no one ever sees on air.
The quiet proof that sports aren’t really about scores or standings. They’re about people finding something to belong to, together.
I lean back in my seat, the hum of the plane filling the space where my thoughts should be. Somewhere between a kid’s goal celebration reenacted in abackyard and a pet rabbit posed next to a lacrosse stick, something settles in my chest.
This matters.
I save a few favorites into a separate folder. Not because they’re the best, technically. Because they feel like the reason we’re doing all of this.
I close my laptop with a soft click and look out the window, the clouds stretched thin beneath us.
Opening weekend is going to be good—the kind that marks a before and after.
I can hardly wait.
CHAPTER 23
BURTON
It’s Wednesday, and luckily, we only have one practice early this morning to get ready for the opening weekend.
Coach runs us through several drills, going light on the conditioning, and then we work on some more plays before wrapping things up. It’s like a Christmas present in May to be done this early in the day.
We’re in the locker room when Clark stands up before the team.
