Page 172 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Daisy holds the notebook tighter.

“So,” I say. “You thought more about it.”

“Occupational disease.”

“Daisy.”

“What?”

“What’s the plan?”

She looks at me for a second too long.

There is a version of Daisy that makes a joke here. That version has saved her from a lot. Probably from me too. But the back room is narrow, and the air smells like coffee syrup, cardboard, and rain-soaked wool from my jacket, and we are too close to what happened last night for either of us to pretend this is only about hockey.

Her grip loosens on the notebook.

“I don’t know yet.”

“That’s not true.”

Her mouth twists. “Fine. I know the shape of it. I don’t know if I’m allowed to want it.”

“You’re allowed,” I tell her.

She laughs once, but it doesn’t carry much humor. “That’s generous, Wolfe. Did you get certified in emotional permissions overnight?”

“No.”

“Shame. I was going to ask if there’s a laminated card.”

I step closer.

Not much.

Enough that she notices.

“You’re allowed to want something that helps kids,” I say. “You’re allowed to want something that uses what you’re good at without letting it eat you alive.”

Her eyes search mine.

“That last part feels ambitious.”

“Then we build it so it doesn’t.”

“We?”

Puck huffs near my leg, like even he knows we’ve walked into something without checking for exits.

Daisy lowers the notebook, then opens it.

The page is full. Too full. Arrows, lists, half-formed titles, a few angry underlines. It looks like her mind when she stops pretending she isn’t brilliant.

I read what I can.

Equipment fund. Confidential request form. Sponsor tiers. Former player network. Transportation pool. Study hall before practice. Snack partnership. Mentorship. Donor dinner conversion plan.

At the bottom, written harder than the rest: