“The elusive sponsor.” I sighed, tapping my pen against the desk. “If they back out, we’ll have to scale down the scholarships by half. I’m trying not to panic, but panic’s kind of tap dancing on the edge of my brain.”
Naomi tilted her head. “You’ve pulled off miracles before. Remember last year’s last-minute storm evacuation? And you still made the news for best community fundraiser?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t have to do it without a headlining sponsor.” I rubbed my temple, staring again at the photo. “These kids deserve stability. Consistency. Not me duct-taping hope together every spring.”
“Hey.” Naomi’s voice softened. “They also deserve you. You’re the reason this place exists.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. Compliments always landed weird when you were running on four hours of sleep and espresso fumes. “Thanks,” I said quietly. “But the reason this place exists is because of them. I just… keep the lights on.”
The laughter of kids drifted in from the turf again—high, pure, and grounding.
I straightened, pushed my coffee aside, and opened my inbox. “All right. No more spiraling. I’m sending one last follow-up to the sponsor. And if they still don’t respond by Friday, we’ll find another way.”
Naomi arched a brow. “Another way?”
I grinned, already typing. “Optimism, stubbornness, and sheer force of will. You know—the usual Ellery trifecta.”
Because if there was one thing I’d learned running a nonprofit on fumes and faith, it was this: miracles didn’t show up for the calm and collected. They showed up for the relentless.
“Aren’t you supposed to meet Kyle for dinner tonight?” Naomi’s voice broke through my typing haze.
I blinked, mid-email, then glanced at the corner of my screen—6:48 p.m. already? My heart did a little skip, the kind that came with the promise of an actual evening off. “Oh my gosh, you’re right.” I smiled, sitting up straighter. “Dinner date! Yes. I’m officially logging off.”
Naomi smirked. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Rude,” I said, grabbing my phone with mock offense. “But fair.”
I checked my messages. Nothing. The little gray screen stared back at me, blank and quiet. My smile faltered. He was probably still at training. Or in the locker room. Or doing that thing where he stayed after everyone else left because “there’s always one more drill” and Kyle didn’t know how to quit.
Still, I typed anyway:
You still good for 7:30?
I hit send and waited—half expecting the bubbles to pop up right away. They didn’t.
Ten minutes later, still nothing.
I exhaled, leaning back in my chair. “He’s probably just showering,” I said out loud, more for Naomi’s benefit than mine.
“Uh-huh.” She gave me a knowing look, the kind that saw more than I wanted it to. “I’m sure he’ll text soon.”
“Totally.” I smiled too quickly, tucking my phone face-down on the desk. “Totally.”
But that little ache had already started blooming in my chest—the one I tried not to name. It wasn’t anger or jealousy. Just… distance. Like I could see the horizon of his life stretching out in front of him—stadiums, sponsorships, highlight reels—and I was somewhere behind the bleachers, clapping too late.
Kyle was a midfielder for South West Michigan Storm. The kind of player who made strategy look like poetry. Disciplined, razor-sharp, endlessly focused. He trained like ambition was oxygen, like slowing down meant suffocating. I’d loved that about him from the start—his drive, his fire, that quiet certainty in his voice when he talked about winning. It was magnetic. Inspiring.
It still was.
But lately, I’d started to wonder if I was part of that dream—or just watching it from the outside.
Naomi was still talking, something about locking up, but her voice blurred with the hum of the lights and the distant thud of a soccer ball on turf. My eyes drifted to the framed photo on my desk again. The kids, the mismatched jerseys, the laughter frozen in time.
That was my dream. My reason. My everything.
Kyle had his field; I had mine.
And maybe, I thought as I picked up my phone again; it wasn’t that we were drifting apart. Maybe we were just sprinting in different directions, hoping the finish lines eventually crossed.
