I was the only one there.
My sleeves were rolled up, hands covered in a thin layer of dust from moving boxes. The place smelled like cardboard and old coffee. I hadn’t planned on coming back. Hell, I didn’t even know why I had.
Earlier that afternoon, I’d managed to knock over a display while trying to help. A couple of glass frames from last year’s fundraiser shattered across the floor. No one got hurt, but the sound was loud enough to make every volunteer in the room freeze.
Ellery hadn’t yelled. She just looked at me—tight-lipped, composed, disappointed. The kind of look that stuck with you longer than any lecture could.
You’d think I’d murdered someone, the way she looked at me. Just glass, not the end of the world.
Still, I couldn’t shake it.
So now I was back, alone, stacking chairs and fixing what I could. No one told me to come. No one knew I was here. And for once, that actually felt right.
I crouched to straighten a pile of flyers that had slipped from one of the boxes. They were photos of the foundation’s kids—smiling faces in mismatched uniforms, all elbows and grass stains. One of them was holding a trophy almost bigger than his head.
The same group that had been whispering and pointing when I showed up the first day. Like I was somebody worth looking at.
They didn’t know any better.
I ran a hand through my hair and sat back on my heels, staring at the mess I’d made and the little bit I’d managed to fix. Maybe I was trying to even the score—not with her, exactly, but with myself.
Because somewhere between the PR mandates and the suspensions, I’d forgotten what it felt like to choose to show up. Everything I did lately was damage control. This was… different.
My palms were raw, my shoulders tight from lifting boxes, but the work was quiet. Honest. No cameras, no crowd waiting for me to screw up. Just the sound of the heater humming and my sneakers scuffing the gym floor.
I caught sight of one of the unbroken frames. Ellery stood next to a group of kids, smiling that same focused, steady smile—like she actually believed in what she was doing.
I didn’t get people like her. I didn’t trust them, either. People who looked like hope always had a way of letting you down.
Still, I stayed.
I stacked the last box, brushed my hands off, and looked around the empty gym before moving back to the display case.
The damaged display board sat crooked on one of the tables—“Building Futures Through Sports” printed in bold letters across the top, the edges splintered and peeling. Someone had tried to prop it up earlier, but it leaned awkwardly, a reminder of the mess I’d made.
I sighed, rolling my sleeves higher. “Guess it’s you and me, then.”
The glue gun was still plugged in, half a roll of tape hanging off the edge of the table. I wasn’t good at this kind of thing—crafts, fixing stuff, delicate work—but I couldn’t just leave it broken. Not after the way Ellery had looked at it. At me.
The disappointment in her eyes had hit harder than a referee’s whistle.
So I set to work, gluing corners, pressing the edges together, retaping the frame piece by piece. The wood splinters bit into my fingers, and the glue stuck to my skin, but I kept going. Slow. Careful.
Every few minutes, I caught myself glancing at the photos still tacked to the board. The same kids from the flyers—smiling, missing teeth, all energy and innocence. There were a few shots of Storm players kneeling beside them during last year’s event, faces flushed from summer heat, handing out medals.
I wasn’t in any of those photos. Figures.
One picture caught my attention—Ellery crouched beside a little girl wearing cleats two sizes too big, one sock halfway down her shin. The girl’s face was smudged with dirt, but she was beaming. Ellery had the same look—hair pulled back, sun in her eyes, pure joy written all over her.
I froze, thumb brushing the photo’s edge.
“You really give a damn, don’t you?” I muttered under my breath.
The words sounded strange coming out of me—like I didn’t recognize my own voice.
I stared at the photo a moment longer, something twisting in my chest. It wasn’t guilt exactly. More like… awareness. The kind that made you realize someone else was fighting for something bigger while you’d been too busy fighting yourself.
I shook it off, reached for another strip of tape. The board wasn’t going to fix itself.
