Still no text.
I smiled anyway, soft and stubborn. “He’ll text,” I murmured, shutting down my laptop. “He always does.”
Even if, lately, it just took a little longer.
The door banged open just as I was packing up.
“Ellery!” A volunteer skidded to a stop, breathless. “One of the donated goals just collapsed during practice. One of the kids—uh—scraped his arm pretty bad.”
My stomach dropped. “Is he okay?”
“He’s bleeding, but not crying. Parents just got here.”
I didn’t even think—I was already on my feet, phone forgotten, sprinting toward the indoor turf. The smell of rubber and sweat hit me as I crossed the line from office to field, my flats slapping against the polished floor.
A small crowd had gathered near the far end. I spotted a boy sitting on the turf, cradling his arm, his mom crouched beside him, worry etched across her face.
“Hey, hey, what happened here?” I asked, crouching down. My voice automatically softened—the tone I’d used a hundred times before. “You okay, champ?”
He sniffled but nodded bravely. A shallow scrape ran along his forearm—bright red, nothing deep. Thank God. I grabbed the first-aid kit from the wall hook and knelt beside him. “Good news: you’re tougher than the goalpost. Let’s clean this up, yeah?”
As I bandaged the cut, I kept my tone light, joking about how soccer goals clearly needed more protein in their diet. The kid giggled, the tension breaking instantly. His mom let out a shaky laugh too, eyes wet with relief.
“We’ll have maintenance check every goal before morning practice,” I promised her. “I’ll file a safety report tonight and make sure the supplier sends replacements. I’m so sorry this happened.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re always here when something goes wrong.”
I smiled at that—tired, but real. “Perks of the job.”
Once they left, I helped the volunteers clear the broken frame, organizing them with the ease of muscle memory. Half my brain was already cataloging what forms I’d need to file; the other half was replaying the way that kid’s face had gone from scared to brave in seconds. That was why I did this. For those little moments of courage.
When the field finally emptied, I leaned against the wall for a breath. The adrenaline ebbed, replaced by the familiar hum of exhaustion. I checked the time.
7:45 p.m.
My stomach sank.
I pulled out my phone. No missed calls. No messages. Just the text I’d sent an hour ago:
You still good for 7:30?
The screen glowed in the dim light, mocking me.
“He’s probably still at training,” I murmured, but even to my own ears, the words sounded thinner than before.
I sank onto the bleachers, thumb hovering before I scrolled up—past last week’s
Sorry, rain check. Team meeting ran long.
Then another:
Promise I’ll make it up to you.
Then another:
Rain check? Again. I owe you dinner and dessert.
I stopped reading when my throat started to tighten. The kids’ laughter still echoed faintly from the lobby—a reminder that there were always more important things to do than wallow.
