I blinked, caught off guard. “Tell him what?”
She gave me a look that said she saw straight through the deflection. “About the sponsor. About everything. He’d want to know.”
“He’s got enough on his plate,” I said, forcing a little laugh as I took the box from her and set it down. “National team scouts, travel, press—he doesn’t need my crisis added on top.”
“Ellery.” Her voice softened. “You don’t have to handle everything by yourself. Isn't that what boyfriends are supposed to be for?"
I hesitated, eyes flicking to the volunteers chatting near the banner display, all smiles and good intentions. None of them knew that the centerpiece sponsor for this whole event had evaporated overnight.
I exhaled slowly. “I do if I want it done on time.”
Naomi’s sigh was quiet but full of meaning. She reached out and squeezed my shoulder before walking off to help the others.
I stood there for a moment, watching everyone move around me — laughter, teamwork, life. To them, it was all coming together. To me, it felt like patching holes in a sinking ship and pretending not to notice the water.
“Ellery, these look okay?” a volunteer asked, holding up two flower arrangements.
“They’re perfect,” I said, voice steady, smile automatic.
That was the trick — keep moving. Keep smiling. The gala couldn’t afford my cracks.
But when the volunteers turned away, I glanced down at my phone again. Still nothing.
The ache that followed was quiet, familiar — not anger, not even disappointment anymore. Just fatigue.
I opened a new message:
How was the game?
Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted.
Instead, I slipped the phone back into my pocket and picked up a clipboard from the nearest table.
If I couldn’t count on luck, or sponsors, or texts that never came, I could at least count on work.
So I got back to it — one more task, one more smile, one more small act of pretending everything was fine.
I knew the scrimmage had ended hours ago. The team’s social feed had already posted the score, the post-game photos, the carefully cropped smiles. That meant Kyle was back in Stevensville. Probably already showered, already texting the guys, maybe even out celebrating another easy win.
But not me.
I didn’t text. Didn’t call. I told myself it was because he needed rest. Because he’d get to me when he could. But the truth was uglier — I didn’t want to see the silence again. The unanswered message. The proof that I’d become background noise to someone else’s dream.
The foundation office buzzed with motion, and I let it keep me busy. Volunteers rolled boxes into corners, paper rustled, the faint thud of soccer balls echoed from the gym next door. It all blurred into white noise.
Beckett was supposed to be in the back unloading donations, and I hadn’t realized how much that small detail eased something in me — just knowing he’d show up when he said he would. Not for credit. Not for optics. Just… because.
“If we can’t replace that sponsor, I’ll have to cut half the scholarship awards this year.” Naomi and I were bent over the sponsorship spreadsheet when I said it out loud, the thought I’d been circling all morning.
Naomi’s pen stilled. “We could scale back the event, maybe. Make it smaller, more local.”
“No.” My answer came too fast, too sharp. “We promised those kids.”
My voice cracked on promised. It was the first time I’d heard it do that in weeks.
Silence followed. The kind that sticks in your throat.
Then a deeper voice cut through it. “Who pulled out?”
