Chapter 1
Ellery
The smell of turf and espresso was my kind of perfume.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows of the community sports complex, scattering gold across the scuffed floors and stacks of donation boxes. The sound of kids laughing and sneakers squeaking on the indoor turf spilled through my open office door—music, really. Proof that the program I’d built from scratch was alive and running. Even if I felt like I was barely keeping up.
“Uh-huh, yes, the chicken skewers are fine—but please make sure they’re not spicy this time,” I said into my phone, wedging it between my shoulder and ear as I scribbled my signature across a delivery form. My pen smudged. “Right, mild. As in, the kind people can eat without crying. Great. Thanks!”
I hung up, turned to the delivery guy, and handed him the form with my best “please don’t notice I’m unraveling” smile. My laptop dinged with an email notification. Poster proofs. Perfect timing.
Naomi, my assistant, leaned against the doorway with a to-go cup in hand and that look—the one that said she’d been watching this one-woman circus for a while and was taking mental notes for my intervention. “You know normal people hire event planners for galas.”
“Normal people don’t run a nonprofit on fumes and hope,” I said, taking a long sip of my rapidly cooling coffee and opening the email. “Besides, if I don’t triple-check these posters, we’ll end up with last year’s slogan again. ‘Building Dreams Through Teamwork’—in Comic Sans. I still have nightmares.”
Naomi snorted. “You’re running on caffeine and stubbornness.”
“Add a dash of panic and call it leadership.” I zoomed in on the poster proofs. The colors popped. The new logo looked crisp. “Okay, these actually look amazing. Can you double-check the QR code? Last time it linked to that TikTok of the goalie doing the worm.”
Naomi laughed and crossed to my desk, scanning the proof with her phone. “Safe. Just the donation page this time.”
“Miracles do happen.” I exhaled, feeling that fleeting, fizzy mix of exhaustion and pride that came from keeping this place afloat. Every box of donated cleats, every kid grinning out on the field—it all mattered. It all started here.
A soccer ball rolled past my door and a little boy chased after it, skidding to a stop when he saw me. “Sorry, Miss Ellery!”
“Hey, you’re fine! Just don’t take out the coffee station again, okay?” I grinned as he dashed off. The ball bounced once, twice, then disappeared around the corner.
Naomi raised a brow. “You ever think about slowing down? Maybe, I don’t know, taking an actual lunch break?”
“Lunch is for people who’ve finished their to-do lists,” I said lightly, even though we both knew I hadn’t had a real meal since breakfast. “Anyway, if we pull this gala off, we’ll fund new scholarships for at least twenty more kids. That’s worth a skipped sandwich.”
She shook her head, smiling fondly. “You’re impossible.”
“Efficiently impossible,” I corrected, tapping the poster with my pen. “Now come on—let’s make this the best gala our little foundation’s ever seen.”
The sunlight caught the photo on my desk—a group of kids in mismatched jerseys, arms around each other, grinning wide. My chest squeezed, just a little. Tired or not, stretched thin or not, this was everything I’d ever wanted: to give them a place to belong.
And as long as there was coffee, hope, and a half-functioning printer, I’d keep doing exactly that.
The gala was two weeks away, and my desk looked like it was holding on for dear life.
There were stacks of donation forms, half-finished coffee cups, and a tower of sparkling-gold invitation envelopes that refused to seal properly. Somewhere beneath it all was my laptop, open to the latest budget spreadsheet—aka, my personal horror story.
I leaned back in my chair, massaging the bridge of my nose, then glanced at the framed photo beside my keyboard. A dozen kids, grinning wide in mismatched jerseys, arms thrown around each other after their first scrimmage. The sunlight had caught one of the girl’s braids mid-swing, frozen joy in motion.
That photo had been taken three years ago—the year we launched the youth-sports foundation. Back when “office space” meant a borrowed corner in the rec center and “budget” meant whatever was left on my debit card. I smiled faintly. Every kid in that picture had earned their scholarship the hard way—through grit, heart, and a belief that dreams were worth chasing even when life said otherwise.
That was why I was doing this. That was why I was running on caffeine and adrenaline and prayer. Because every banner I approved and every spreadsheet I survived meant more scholarships. More cleats. More chances.
“Okay,” I muttered, flipping through my color-coded checklist like it held divine answers. “Catering, confirmed. Auction items, mostly confirmed. Sponsor dinner seating chart, ongoing war zone.”
And then there was the problem: the major sponsor who still hadn’t confirmed. The name glaring at me from the spreadsheet in bright red font like a flashing emergency beacon.
Naomi poked her head through the doorway right on cue, sipping her latte like she hadn’t already had three today. “You’re muttering again. Should I be worried?”
“Only if you have ten grand lying around to cover the silent auction shortfall,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Ah. The elusive sponsor?”
