My smile wobbled. “Thankyou,” I said back. “I’m really glad you’re here. And if you give me your name, I’d like to see if we can get a bed for you, too.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, it’s okay. I really just want to make sure he—”
“Please,” I said softly, hoping my smile communicated that I understood where she was at and wanted to meet her there. “I’d really love to.”
With a watery smile, she nodded, providing me her name and number on the list. I jotted it down in my phone, making a mental note, too.
After, she guided her son back toward the ice, and I watched them go, my heart too full and too empty all at once.
This is why you stay,I reminded myself.This is why you swallow what you swallow. Look what you get to do. Look who you get to help.
I pressed my fingers lightly against my wrist, feeling the dull ache there.
One does not cancel out the other, another small, stubborn part of me whispered.
I ignored it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out to find a text from Georgie.
Little Brother:Saw a clip of the event on social media. Wow, Sis. You really did your thing. Proud of you. Call me later!
My smile was so big it hurt my cheeks as I thumbed a reply, and then it was back to work.
By the time the scrimmage was over, the donation thermometer on the jumbotron had shot up higher than I dared to hope. The announcer made a big show of the final number: $76,208.
Our goal had been $25,000.
Kids screamed, fans cheered, confetti cannons popped. Ben and Daddy P did a victory lap with a pack of teenagers trying to keep up with them.
It was a huge win.
We did it.
The night wound down slowly, families heading out of the cold arena and into the warm Florida night. Volunteers folded tables, stacked chairs, and broke down signs. The soundtrack shifted from Christmas music to the hum of the Zamboni and the clattering of skates being boxed.
I moved through the concourse with my tablet tucked to my chest, checking boxes. Nathan had disappeared into the bowelsof the arena with a man I didn’t recognize and a couple of executives a while ago, and I hadn’t seen him since.
My wrist throbbed when I try to lift a bin of packed-up supplies — tape, extension cords, LED lights, and the like. I should have been able to lift it no problem, but it sent a zing up to my elbow.
I breathed out slowly and sat it back down.
“You know there are interns for that, right?”
His voice slid over my shoulders like a warm coat.
Shane stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his team jacket, hair curling from under his beanie. He didn’t look like the coach I knew everyone else saw him as — that stern, dialed-in, unshakeable man.
He looked like the boy who once taught me how to skate backward on a frozen-over pond.
“I thought you’d left,” I said, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
“One of the benefits of being an old man,” he said wryly. “Nobody expects you to stick around for the big clean up — especially after nine o’clock.”
I huffed out a laugh I didn’t really feel. “And yet, here you are.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I like defying expectations.”
His gaze traveled over the half-broken-down event — empty raffle tables, sagging banners, a few stragglers in Sweet Dreams shirts laughing as they carried supplies into the tunnel. When his eyes came back to me, they softened.
