I freeze.
“My daughter is also a single mother. Don’t get me started on that former husband of hers.” She sets her clipboard down. “Please know that you got the grant.”
“I—what?”
“In fact,” she continues, smiling wider now, “you sailed through. Highest scores of any business we’ve ever reviewed.”
Charlie lets out a stage-whisper-styleyesunder his breath, still pretending to read his phone.
“From your workshops,” she says, “to your social engagement, to the uniqueness of having a hockey player take care ofthe mystery shopper—who, by the way, did an excellent job—you built something special here. You deserve this grant.”
My chest tightens, pride and relief colliding hard enough to steal my breath.
“Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “Truly.”
She nods. “Go be with your son. Paperwork can wait.”
I don’t argue.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, give Charlie a look that saystell everyone later, and head for the door.
Because yes—this is a win, but right now, there’s a ten-year-old who needs his mom.
And I’m already on my way.
CHAPTER 30
SAWYER
The Father-Son Breakfast is held in the gymnasium of Theo’s school. Walking into the cavernous space, it’s funny that I’ve equated it to basketball, gym class, and other gym-like school options. Today I’m at a long folding table on center court, in a gym that smells like syrup, and it’s buoyant with the kind of optimism only children can generate before noon.
Theo sits on my right, his friend Mitch on my left, Mitch’s dad across from us, and all around us we’re surrounded by a rotating cast of dads, uncles, grandpas, and one very enthusiastic stepdad who keeps insisting on refilling everyone’s juice.
Theo is beaming and has been since I showed up. Like, full-face, no-filter, this-is-the-best-day-of-my-life beaming.
And honestly? Same.
Ever since Charlie texted meTheo’s there alone—nothing else has mattered. Not practice. Not drills. Not the fact that I’d been halfway to the ice, skates already laced, planning to burn off the tension the old way.
I didn’t do that. I told my coach, then I ran.
Actually, no. I flew.
In fact, I’ve never moved sofast in my life. Even on ice skates. It felt like someone strapped wings to my back and pointed me in the right direction. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I just went.
Theo nudges my arm. “Sawyer, do you want another waffle?”
“Always,” I say solemnly. “That’s just who I am as a person.”
Mitch squints at me. “Do hockey players eat waffles?”
“All elite athletes do,” I say. “It’s science.”
That earns me a laugh from the table and three more kids sliding over with trays, eyes wide.
“Are you really a hockey player?” one of them asks.
“Someone has to do it,” I say. “It’s a tough life.”
