I bristle instinctively. “I’m fine.”
“Right,” he says quickly. “That was a stupid thing to say.”
“It’s okay.” I shake my head and wave my hand. “So the fundraiser gala—you said you wanted to help?”
“I did,” he replies. “Ido. But I don’t want to deal with a committee, and I don’t want to sit through a presentation that tells me things I don’t need to know.”
That sounds exactly like him, and fair enough. Neither do I.
“So I thought I’d just deal with you,” he continues. “You know what actually matters, what’s missing. What would actually make a difference.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. There’s no bravado or performance, just a straightforward offer with no ego attached.
“I’m not the organizer,” I remind him.
“I know,” he says. “But you care more about this than they do.”
I look at him, at the way he sits so solidly in my office, at the faint tension in his shoulders, the restraint threaded through every movement—and something shifts in me.
This doesn’t feel like boredom at all. It feels more intentional than that. And despite myself, despite the rules I’ve built around my life, I feel the smallest flicker of something warm and unwelcome bloom in my chest.
“I don’t want meetings,” he continues, his attention narrowing in a way I’ve seen before when he’s focused. “And I definitely don’t want to sit in a room clapping politely while people pat themselves on the back.”
“You’re describing most charity planning and events.”
“Exactly,” he replies. “I want to help, not perform.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then you need to understand what actually moves the needle.”
He nods once.
“Give it to me, Doc.”
His deep rasp, with such directness, stirs something in me. It's the kind of response I don't usually have the luxury of indulging, and definitely don’t let surface in professional settings. It's alsothe type of demand I’d scramble to fulfill in an entirely different environment.
But I push it down and focus on the work instead, explaining everything to him the way I explain things to patients’ families when they ask what they can do—plain, honest, and no sugarcoating. All the things I've had Sam, a fundraising event planning friend of mine, explain to me previously.
Athlete presence matters, but only when it’s intentional. It requires the right names, not just numbers. Donors who don’t need convincing, just access. Press optics that highlight the cause, not the ego. Moments that make peoplecarelong enough to open their wallets.
Reid listens, and he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t nod along performatively or jump in with half-formed ideas meant to impress.
Instead, he asks specific questions.
“How do appearances actually convert to donations?”
“Is it better to stack a night with many big names or just one?”
“Who do you need in the room that you don’t have yet?”
Each question lands exactly where it should, like he’s mapping the problem in his head and adjusting angles until it fits.
He stops mid-sentence when he realizes I’m watching him, and no longer responding.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I just… didn’t expect you to think about it like this.”
His mouth curves faintly. “I’m not dumb, Doc.”
