Still, for a moment, I let myself feel it. That quiet, sinking ache in my chest. The one that came from always understanding, always making excuses, always being the one waiting.
I locked my phone and forced a smile that no one but me would ever see. “He’s busy,” I whispered, standing up and brushing turf dust from my skirt. “And I’ve got goals to fix.”
Because hurt or not, I still had work to do. And if there was one thing I could count on, it was this place—the kids, the laughter, the purpose. The field never forgot to show up for me.
The phone finally rang, slicing through the quiet hum of the empty field. I nearly dropped it in my scramble to answer.
“Kyle?”
“Hey, Elle,” came his voice—low, a little rough around the edges. I could hear background noise: the echo of sneakers on tile, distant chatter, a coach calling out plays. “Sorry. Training ran late, and Coach asked me to stay for film review. Can we do tomorrow?”
Tomorrow. The word carried too much weight for something so casual.
I pasted on a smile he couldn’t see. “Of course. You need your rest anyway.”
“You’re amazing,” he said, distracted. I could almost hear the tired smile in his voice. “I owe you big time.”
“You can pay me back by wearing something decent to the gala,” I teased, keeping my tone light.
He chuckled softly. “If I make the All-Star shortlist, I’ll wear whatever you want.”
I laughed, but it sounded thin even to me. “Deal.”
“Gotta go—another meeting,” he said quickly. “Love you.”
And then the line clicked dead.
I stared at the screen until it went dark; the ache blooming quietly in my chest. I understood—of course I did. This was his dream, his career, the thing he’d worked for since he was a kid kicking a ball against a brick wall until sunset. But understanding didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Outside, the sprinklers had kicked on, hissing softly across the field. I walked toward the turf; the rubber smell sharp in the cool night air. Droplets sparkled under the floodlights, a thousand tiny diamonds suspended in motion. The field looked endless when it was empty—just me, the quiet, and the echo of all the moments I’d stayed late like this before.
I remembered how we’d met—two summers ago at a charity match. He was fresh off a big win, all confidence and charisma. I’d been organizing the event, stressed out of my mind, and he’d made some joke about my clipboard being scarier than his coach. He admired my drive; I admired his focus. We’d been electric from the start—two people chasing different versions of the same dream: making something bigger than ourselves.
Somewhere along the way, though, support had started to feel like waiting. Waiting for calls that came late. Waiting for plans that never happened. Waiting for a tomorrow that kept slipping further out of reach.
I pushed that thought away as soon as it surfaced, kicking lightly at a stray soccer ball. It rolled a few feet, stopped at the edge of the sprinkler’s reach.
Don’t resent him, I reminded myself. You’re proud of him. You are.
And I was. I was proud. Watching him on the field, the way he moved—disciplined, precise, like every breath was synced to purpose—it was breathtaking. But sometimes I wished I fit somewhere inside that rhythm. Somewhere between his ambition and the next goal.
The sprinklers hissed again, a steady heartbeat against the quiet. I tucked my phone into my pocket and turned back toward the building, the lights from my office glowing faintly through the glass.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. I dropped into my chair, exhaustion sinking into my bones. My laptop still glowed with the gala spreadsheet. I scrolled through the rows—budgets, RSVPs, catering notes—checking boxes mechanically.
The cursor blinked at the bottom of the list, waiting for me to add one last line. I typed it automatically: confirm athlete volunteers.
I sat back, staring at the words, fingers hovering over the keys.
It was just another task. Another line on another endless to-do list.
But for the first time in months, I felt the hollow space between everything I was working for and everything I was missing.
Outside, the sprinklers shut off. Silence settled over the complex.
The cursor blinked again, steady and patient.
I told myself it was just another item on another endless list. But for the first time in months, I wasn’t sure who I was doing all this waiting for—my kids, my cause, or the man who kept promising tomorrow.
