I only pause when I realize he’s no longer paying attention, instead looking down at my burger.
“You good?”
“Did you just writehopeon your burger bun?”
I look down, and my stomach drops.
Hope.
The word is there, written clean and red across the inside of my bun.
I freeze, but Reid doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, letting the moment sit exactly where it is.
“I didn’t mean to. It just… happens when I’m thinking.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “You manifest with condiments?”
I snort. “Shut up. It’s better than writinggive up and die,isn’t it?”
He chuckles, and I catch the beginnings of a smirk hiding at the edge of his mouth as he takes a bite. “Jury’s out.”
I drag my thumb through the letters, smearing them into nothing. “It’s stupid.”
“Didn’t look stupid,” he says.
“My dad used to do it.”
That gets his attention, and he tilts his head as he chews, waiting for me to explain.
“When I was a kid,” I continue, “if I was tired, or scared, or had a big day coming up, we’d go for a burger and write words on the inside of our buns. He said sometimes you just need a top-up of whatever you’re running low on.”
I swallow, my throat tightening unexpectedly. “Confidence. Courage.Hope.”
Reid doesn’t rush me or roll his eyes. He doesn’t fill the space; he just waits for me to continue.
“I guess I never really stopped,” I add, bringing the burger to my lips. “And right now… I need all the hope I can get.”
Something shifts in his expression as he watches me take a bite.
“You carry a lot,” he says.
He states it like a fact, and he’s right. I do.
“Someone has to.” I shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious. “It helps me focus. Reminds me why I’m doing this when everything feels a bit shit or heavy.”
He nods once, as though that answers something he didn’t ask out loud. I keep eating in silence until he nudges his tray aside and leans back.
“So, this gala.”
I chew thoughtfully, then nod. “They need visibility. The kid—Levi—he’s got a shot at the trial, but only if they raise enough by the deadline. We’ve got donors lined up, but not enough traction. People show up for athletes—especially when those athletes care.”
“I can get a few of the guys there, maybe even auction off something stupid if it helps.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. “Karlsson’s left skate. Miller’s playoff beard trimmings. Your call.”
I chuckle lightly. “You might be onto something there.”
