For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him. “Wait. What? They confirmed two weeks ago.”
“I know,” Cam said, frustration leaking through the line. “But apparently the board wants to focus on international outreach this quarter. They’re issuing a statement this afternoon.”
My heartbeat stumbled. “Cam, that’s fifty thousand dollars. I already had another sponsor pull out their ten thousand.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’m really sorry.”
The line clicked off, leaving me staring at my phone like it might change its mind. The sound of kids laughing drifted through the open window—the after-school program had started early. Their voices filtered in with the squeak of sneakers on turf, bright and alive, completely unaware that everything just shifted.
Fifty thousand dollars gone.
That was uniforms. That was new nets. Scholarships for kids who’d worked all year for a chance to play.
My hand pressed against my forehead, the weight of it settling hard behind my eyes.
For a long moment, I didn’t move. The phone screen dimmed. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. And the laughter outside kept spilling in, unbothered and beautiful, like the universe’s cruel idea of irony.
“Okay,” I whispered to no one. “Okay. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t. But saying it helped.
I reached for my notebook and started listing alternatives—names of small businesses, potential donors, grant deadlines that were probably too late. The pen shook once before I tightened my grip.
Cam had warned me about this months ago—how sponsors loved a good photo op but not always the long game. Still, this particular sponsor had been solid for three years. We’d built the whole event around their donation.
I could already hear the questions from the board, the quiet worry from Naomi, the disappointed faces of the volunteers who’d worked weekends for this.
And somewhere under all that noise, a quieter thought whispered, You can’t afford to fall apart.
So I didn’t.
I shoved the panic down, took a breath, and started dialing again. Another contact. Another maybe. Another shot at fixing it before anyone else had to know.
Outside, a whistle blew, and the kids cheered—someone must’ve scored.
I looked up, catching the blur of motion through the window: bright jerseys, tangled laughter, pure joy.
That was what the gala was for. Not the donors, not the cameras—them.
I picked the phone back up and kept dialing.
Naomi pushed the door open with her usual cheer, two coffees in hand and a half-smile already on her face. “Fuel delivery for the overworked—” She stopped mid-sentence when she saw mine. “What happened?”
I set my phone down, exhaling through my nose. “Our main sponsor just bailed.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” I forced a smile that felt too tight, too rehearsed. “We’ll figure it out.”
Naomi didn’t look convinced, but she slid my coffee across the desk, anyway. “You always do,” she said softly.
I nodded, already reaching for my notebook, flipping to a page filled with scribbled names and numbers. “Let’s start with backup donors. Maybe someone can stretch their budget or?—”
“I’ll pull the contact sheet,” she said, heading for her desk.
“Thanks,” I murmured, already dialing.
The next hour blurred into one long loop of phone calls and polite rejections.
