My knees buckle when I look at the sheer amount of damage, then think about what it will cost. I dip down, head in my hands. I try to breathe but it feels like something is sitting on my chest.
Colson steps closer, grabs me by the arms and lifts me back to standing. He studies the damage like a problem to solve, not a failure to mourn. “Okay,” he says calmly. “First—we breathe.”
I huff out something that’s not quite a laugh. He glances at me, squeezes my hand once, grounding. “We’ve got a few days,” he reminds me. “Fourth of July break. No kids, no programs. Time’s not breathing down your neck yet.”
I look at him then, really look, and something in my chest eases a notch. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” he answers, already scanning the space again. “Roof guys, insurance, cleanup crews. We prioritize—what’s unsafe, what’s salvageable, what can wait.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once.”
“Even if we could logistically do this… cash is going to be an issue.” I blow out a breath and gesture vaguely at… everything. “Believe it or not,” I say dryly, “this isn’t exactly a high-dollar operation with a giant emergency fund tucked away.”
Colson snorts. “Shocking.”
“I’m serious,” I add, glancing at him. “This place runs on tight margins and duct tape optimism. I’m craftier than I give myself credit for.”
He nods once, already thinking. “Okay. Then I’ll help take care of it.”
I stop walking. “No.”
He turns, eyebrows lifting. “Sadie—”
“I appreciate it, but no,” I say quickly. “I’m not taking your money.”
“You’re not taking it. Consider it a donation, or a loan—”
“That’s still your money.”
“And?” he counters. “You pay me back when you can. Or don’t. We’ll write something up if it makes you feel better.”
I cross my arms, fighting the urge to argue just to argue. “You need it.”
A corner of his mouth curves. “I hate to be this person, but I have more than enough. Don’t worry about what I need." He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Let’s see what’s what first before we get lost in the details, yeah? Plus, I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’m slated to coach one of the summer teams that’s predicted to win a championship. Getting this place up and running isn’t only about you,” he says while stepping over a piece of the roof that’s landed on the court.
A sad laugh escapes my mouth, one I can’t help. I rub my hands over my face. “Fine. Okay.”
He smiles and it grounds me. “Good. One thing at a time.”
The building groans as a breeze moves through the broken windows, bringing in the summer air off the lake, the way it does after a storm. Colson stays steady beside me, solid and sure.
Afterthat,everythingshiftsinto motion. Not graceful, not easy—but forward.
We start with photos. So many photos. I walk the perimeter while Colson follows, pointing out things I would’ve missed—the way the roofpeeled back, the pooling water near the cubbies, the glass sprayed farther than it should’ve reached. I spend what feels like an eternity on hold with the insurance company, pacing in slow circles, repeating details through clenched teeth while the place creaks and settles around us like it’s still deciding what it wants to keep.
While I’m talking, Colson disappears. I don’t even notice at first—too busy explaining square footage and storm damage and trying not to sound like I’m one inconvenience away from unraveling. When he comes back, his arms are full: heavy-duty gloves, tarps, brooms, contractor bags, bottled water. Like he’d been doing this his whole life.
“Green light for cleanup,” I tell him when I hang up.
“Good,” he replies, already pulling on gloves.
We start with the glass—slow, careful sweeps across the court, the sound sharp and constant, catching sunlight with every movement. We drag out the bigger chunks of debris, stack what can be saved, toss what can’t. My shoulders ache, my hands sting, but the work is grounding. It keeps the panic at bay. It feels good to start tackling some of the work—I like the feeling of progress.
We’ve barely started sweeping when I hear my name.
“Sadie?”
I look up and my chest loosens instantly. “Maren.”
She’s already crossing the court toward me, ponytail half-falling out, sneakers splashed with mud like she didn’t even stop to think before coming. “I saw the weather alerts last night,” she exhales, pulling me into a hug. “And then I remembered you telling me about the leaks. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.” Her voice sounds like she’s answered her own question.
