Besides, this foundation had weathered tougher storms—literally and figuratively. I wasn’t going to let one hotheaded soccer player derail months of planning.
Still, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Our biggest sponsors were already skittish, watching every headline like hawks. One PR misstep and I’d spend the rest of the quarter doing damage control instead of expansion planning.
Naomi was already in the conference room when I walked back in, laptop open, coffee in hand, and that look—the one that said she’d seen the email too.
She didn’t even glance up as she said, “So, our new volunteer-slash-potential disaster arrives soon.”
I let out a long breath and set a stack of sponsor folders on the table. “Don’t remind me.”
Naomi smirked, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m just saying, if the Storm wanted to send someone for community outreach, maybe they could’ve picked one who doesn’t trend on Twitter every other week for fighting refs.”
I arched a brow. “You read the press release too, huh?”
“Of course I did.” She took a sip of coffee. “It’s been making the rounds since sunrise. Half the sponsors probably know before we do.”
“Perfect,” I muttered, pulling my planner closer and flipping to the afternoon schedule. “Exactly what we need—Beckett Mason’s redemption arc unfolding in our lobby.”
Naomi leaned back, tapping her pen against her mug. “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”
I shot her a look. “You don’t actually believe that.”
“Not really,” she admitted, grinning. “But I’m trying this thing where I manifest optimism instead of caffeine dependence.”
“Let me know how that works out for you.” I tightened my ponytail and checked my watch. The kids’ laughter from the next room drifted through the glass—pure, unbothered joy. It always made the chaos feel a little lighter.
I straightened the sponsor folders, forcing my focus back where it belonged. “It’s fine,” I said more to myself than to her. “I can handle one ego for a week.”
Naomi grinned. “You say that like you don’t already handle a dozen.”
“None of them have fan merch,” I shot back.
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’ll be fine, Ell. You always are.”
She left me with that, heading off to wrangle the catering call, and I sank into the nearest chair with my phone. If anyone could make this sound less ominous, it was Kyle.
Storm’s sending a player to help today.
The dots appeared almost instantly.
Cool. Beckett’s a handful, but he’s solid when he wants to be.
My thumbs hovered before I typed:
Define “when he wants to be.”
No reply.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then sighed. He was probably still at training. Which meant I wouldn’t hear back until he was too exhausted to type more than an emoji. Typical.
Sliding my phone aside, I looked out the window toward the field behind the building. The kids were still running drills, their laughter carrying through the glass. That sound—unfiltered joy—always steadied me. Reminded me why the long hours, the constant fundraising, the endless balancing act were worth it.
This foundation was supposed to be about building futures, not managing someone else’s mess.
Still, as I gathered my notes for the next sponsor meeting, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Beckett Mason wasn’t just another volunteer. He was a headline waiting to happen—and the last thing I needed was a storm before the gala.
“Okay,” I murmured, glancing toward the door as if expecting him to walk through it already. “Let’s see what kind of damage control this week brings.”
The clock hit 1:00 p.m. on the dot—the time Cam had promised.
