“Hi, it’s Ellery from the foundation—yes, the gala’s next week—no, of course, I understand your budgets are set—thank you, anyway.”
“Hi, I was wondering if you might be able to—ah, you’ve already committed to another event. That’s okay.”
Each no landed a little heavier. By the fourth call, I’d stopped keeping track of who I’d already tried.
Naomi glanced over once, sympathy written all over her face. I pretended not to notice.
“You’re sure?” I asked the next voice on the line, desperation creeping into my tone. “Even a partial contribution could help us cover—right. No, I understand. Thank you for your time.”
I hung up and stared at the desk, the phone screen still glowing.
Outside the window, the kids were running drills again—bright cones, bouncing soccer balls, laughter echoing across the field. The sound hit like a punch and a reminder all at once.
I’d built this whole thing—the foundation, the programs, the partnerships—so it could outlast disappointment. So it wouldn’t hinge on one check, one company, one mistake.
So why did it feel like it was collapsing straight onto my chest?
I pressed my palms flat against the desk, grounding myself in the cool wood. Breathe. Just breathe.
Naomi appeared at my side, holding out a sticky note with a few names scrawled on it. “These might be long shots,” she said, “but they’ve supported youth leagues before.”
I nodded, taking it from her. “Thank you.”
She hesitated. “Ellery… maybe take a break? Even ten minutes?”
“I can’t,” I said automatically. “If I stop now, it’ll hit me.”
Her look softened. “Then don’t let it hit you alone.”
That nearly broke me, but I kept my voice steady. “We’ll figure it out,” I repeated, the words sharp-edged but familiar.
She nodded once, then went back to her desk, giving me space.
The office hummed with quiet—the sound of typing, of distant laughter, of the clock ticking down a week I wasn’t ready to face.
I stared at the phone again, squared my shoulders, and picked it back up.
One more call. Just one more.
By late afternoon, the foundation’s main room was alive with motion — volunteers hauling boxes, hanging string lights, setting up mock centerpieces for the gala tables. The energy buzzed, warm and hopeful, and I tried to let it wash over me.
Tried, and failed.
Because underneath it, my pulse thudded with a rhythm that sounded too much like panic.
“Ellery, where do you want the donation wall?” someone called.
“Against the far window,” I answered automatically, my voice lighter than I felt. I plastered on a smile for good measure, even though it barely reached my eyes.
Another volunteer waved a clipboard. “Do we have confirmation on the catering headcount?”
“I’ll check,” I said, already reaching for my phone.
Still no message. No text. No missed call.
Kyle had been traveling for a scrimmage all week, and my last few messages — Good luck tonight, Proud of you, Call when you land — sat unread. I told myself he was busy. Focused. That this was what ambition looked like. But the longer the silence stretched, the smaller I felt in the space between it.
Naomi appeared beside me, holding a box of silver table runners. “You should tell him,” she said quietly.
