“When we started this foundation,” I said, glancing down at the cards I no longer needed, “we had six volunteers, a few soccer balls, and more heart than funding. And yet, somehow, we’ve grown into something that touches hundreds of lives every year. That doesn’t happen without the people sitting in front of me—the board, the coaches, the volunteers, the families, and the incredible sponsors who believe in what we do.”
There was polite applause. I smiled, pressing on.
“And of course,” I added, “we couldn’t do it without our partners at the SWM Storm. You’ve shown up for us in more ways than one. Whether it’s running clinics, donating gear, or giving kids a reason to believe they belong on the field—thank you.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Instinctively, my gaze drifted to the back of the room.
Beckett stood there, half in shadow, arms folded, suit a little too sharp for how effortlessly he wore it. He wasn’t smiling, but his expression—focused, steady—hit me harder than I expected.
For a moment, everything else blurred—the crowd, the clinking glasses, the lights. It was just him. Solid. Present. The one person who always seemed to show up when no one else did.
I cleared my throat and forced my attention back to the microphone. “And finally,” I said, my tone softening, “to our newest partners, who stepped in when we needed it most—you reminded me that community isn’t just a word we use on posters. It’s something we do. Together.”
The applause came again, louder this time. But I barely heard it. My pulse was still thrumming, my mind replaying that single second when his eyes found mine.
“I’ll end with this,” I said, taking a breath. “Every child deserves a chance to dream. To feel seen. To know that their story matters. Tonight isn’t just about raising money—it’s about reminding each other why we started. Because when we invest in their futures, we remind ourselves that it’s never too late to rewrite our own.”
For a beat, there was silence. Then someone stood. Then another. Then the whole room was on its feet.
I exhaled, the tightness in my chest dissolving as the applause swelled again.
And through it all, I found him in the crowd once more. Beckett Mason. Still there. Still watching me like I was the only one in the room.
The second I stepped offstage, the applause still echoing behind me, Naomi was there waiting. She didn’t say a word—just grabbed me and pulled me into a hug so tight I nearly dropped my cue cards.
“You were flawless,” she whispered into my ear.
I laughed, the sound a little shaky. “I broke up with Kyle right before I went on stage.”
Naomi froze, pulling back to stare at me like I’d just announced I’d robbed a bank. “You what?”
I shrugged, my voice lighter than it should’ve been. “He called to say he couldn’t make it. Scouts. Meetings. The usual. So… I ended it.”
For a moment, she just blinked, processing. Then her expression softened, and she smiled—a real, proud kind of smile. “Good timing,” she said finally. “Now you’ve got the room and the future.”
That made me laugh again, though it trembled on the edge of something else—relief, heartbreak, adrenaline, maybe all of it tangled together. I reached for a tissue on the dressing table, dabbing beneath my eyes before the makeup artist could kill me for crying. “Don’t tell anyone yet,” I murmured. “I’m not ready for the rumor mill.”
Naomi held up a hand solemnly. “Your secret’s safe.” Then she smirked. “But for the record, I saw Beckett looking at you like you hung the moon.”
“Naomi,” I groaned, pressing a hand to my forehead. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” she said, all fake innocence. “Just noticing.”
I gave her a look, but she only grinned wider.
Behind the curtain, the band started playing again—the low hum of conversation rising as people drifted toward the dinner tables. The whole night was still unfolding, bright and loud and full of expectation. But in that tiny pocket of quiet backstage, it felt like something in me had settled.
I wasn’t the girl waiting for someone to show up anymore. I wasn’t patching over the cracks or pretending not to notice when someone chose something else over me.
I had just stood in front of a room full of people and meant every word I said—and for once; I wasn’t performing for anyone’s approval.
Naomi nudged me gently. “You did good, boss.”
I exhaled, smiling at her reflection beside mine in the mirror. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I think I did.”
The ballroom glowed with soft gold light, the kind that made everyone look a little more elegant, a little more untouchable. A jazz trio played near the stage, their music weaving gently through the hum of conversation and clinking glasses.
I stood by the open balcony doors, half in the light, half in the cool night air. The city stretched out below—buildings glittering, traffic moving like veins of red and white. Everything about the evening should have felt triumphant. The sponsors had shown up. The speeches went perfectly. The kids were happy.
