35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
AVA
I don’t even make it to the kitchen before I bolt for the bathroom.
Bare feet slap tile, one hand on the doorframe, the other clutching my stomach as I try to breathe through a wave of queasiness that hits low and sudden.
I drop to my knees and heave in front of the toilet. My heart races. Vision blurs.
When it’s over, I’m blinking at my pale reflection. My skin looks washed out, lips colorless, eyes shadowed. I breathe slowly, trying to calm the roil in my stomach. It passes. Sort of. But not without leaving me lightheaded and clammy.
Jackson left early this morning for skate and pregame media, and I'm so relieved he didn’t see this.
He’s already worried about me, hovering in his quiet, gentle way. If he knew I’d been hugging the toilet before seven a.m., he’d carry me to urgent care himself.
It’s probably nothing. I haven’t been sleeping well, been running on coffee and stress, and I’m just worn out, and I’ve skipped more meals than I’ll admit out loud. I haven’t had a real night of sleep in who knows how long.
No one plans a major nonprofit event during the middle of playoff season while living with a professional athlete and two energetic six-year-olds.
Because that would be crazy.
I force myself to stand, fingers fumbling for the edge of the counter. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face.
Down the hall, the sound of cartoons hums faintly through the floor. Miss Taylor’s already got the boys fed. Thank goodness she’s fully back on her feet.
I pad back to the bedroom and sink onto the edge of the bed. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers curled inward.
I was planning to go tonight to support Jackson. It’s Game 6. If they win, they go to the Finals. It’s huge. But now—
My head’s foggy, and the thought of sitting upright under stadium lights, surrounded by crowd noise and adrenaline, makes my stomach roll again.
He’ll understand.
He always does.
I reach for my phone, open a new text.
Hey. I’m going to stay home tonight and watch from here, but I’ll be cheering like crazy from the couch.
I hesitate, then add:
Please don’t worry. I’m okay. Just tired.
I hit send, dropping the phone on the blanket beside me. Then I curl up, pull the throw over my legs, and let the quiet settle around me.
It’s Saturday. One week until the gala. And I don’t have time to fall apart.
Before long, I’ve showered, tied my hair up, and planted myself at the kitchen table with my laptop, a highlighter, and what might be the sixth version of the gala run-of-show.
It’s not glamorous: just line items, time slots, and color-coded stress. But it’s oddly comforting. Familiar. Manageable. I’ve run dozens of events before, just never one this big, this loud, this visible.
My stomach’s mostly settled now, but I’m still moving slower than usual. Miss Taylor’s ginger tea helps. She brewed a full pot and left the whole setup out like a silent nudge. I haven’t told her I felt sick this morning, but I think she knows anyway.
The twins are outside with foam sticks and mini goalie pads, reenacting a hockey game. Liam’s playing goalie. Noah’s narrating in a fake sports announcer voice.
I refocus on the gala. We’ve already raised over $100,000 in pledged donations and ticket sales.
It’s already more than Brad’s company ever gave us. And if the silent auction does well, we could hit over double that.
The auction is packed with donated experiences, signed books, and local getaway packages. Guests can make additional donations via QR code or during the auction checkout process. It’s ambitious, but doable. If everything goes right.
One of the headline items is a signed stick from Jackson. He didn’t make a big deal about it, but it means more to me than he knows.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jenna:
You’re not doing all this by yourself. Be there in an hour. We’ll divide and conquer.
I smile and let out a huge exhale, already feeling lighter.
Outside, there’s a muffled cheer from the twins. I glance up in time to see Liam fist-pumping while Noah sprawls dramatically across the grass. Then they’re interviewing each other like post-game NHL stars, holding juice boxes like microphones.
“Tell us, Liam, how did you score that incredible goal?”
“Well, I saw an opening, and also you tripped.”
A snort escapes me before I realize it, and I feel the tension in my shoulders release some.
Soon Jenna arrives with a tote bag slung over one shoulder.
“I come bearing caffeine and the illusion of control.”
She drops an iced coffee on the table in front of me, then pulls out a notebook, her laptop, and a bag of trail mix.
I glance up at her, grateful and half-exhausted. “You didn’t have to come over.”
“Oh, I did,” she says, already clearing space beside me. “Your email had ‘teetering on the edge’ energy.”
“I’m not teetering,” I protest weakly.
“Please. You coined the phrase ‘color-coded stress.’” She arches a brow. “That’s a cry for help.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
She taps her screen and opens the updated seating chart. “Alright, boss. Tell me what still sucks.”
As we work, I feel the fog in my head start to lift. Not completely, but enough. Jenna’s no-filter commentary and breezy confidence cut through the chaos like a grounding wire. She doesn’t flinch at the spreadsheet chaos or the sudden burst of emails I forward her.
She just mutters “rude” when she sees the caterer’s edits and color-codes three new rows like she was born for this.
“I think we’re actually okay,” I murmur, staring at the updated timeline. “It’s a lot. But it’s not unmanageable.”
“You’ve already raised six figures,” she says, nudging her glasses up her nose. “You could fall asleep in the middle of your opening remarks, and it would still be a success.”
She studies me for a beat. “How are you really?”
I hesitate. “Tired.”
“Tired I believe,” she says. “The color’s coming back to your face, but barely.”
I shrug. “I didn’t sleep much. I think I’ve been overdoing it the past month.”
She doesn’t push. Just nods once and hands me the trail mix. “Here. You need actual food, not whatever that ginger tea was trying to do.”
My stomach’s been mostly calm since this morning, but there’s still a faint queasiness. I chew slowly, hoping food will convince it to behave.
Outside, the sky is starting to shift into early evening.
The twins have moved on from foam stick hockey to an enthusiastic reenactment of some movie involving swords and capes.
Miss Taylor sits on the porch swing with a magazine in her lap, sipping tea and letting them run wild with a watchful eye.
Inside, the house smells like the stew Miss Taylor started earlier. It’s cozy. Warm. And for the first time all day, I feel like I’m breathing normally.
I glance at the clock. The game starts soon.
“I’m going to head out,” Jenna says, already standing to stretch. “Now make sure to eat some real food, and yell at the TV tonight like your man can hear you.”
I laugh, following her to the door. “Thanks, Jenna.”
Miss Taylor calls us in for dinner just as the sky starts to dim. The boys burst through the door in a flurry of noise and half-untied sneakers, still mid-debate about who won the foam stick championship.
“You can’t be goalie and declare yourself MVP,” Liam complains, shaking his head.
“Sure, I can,” Noah says, biting into a cracker. “I was also the coach.”
“That’s not how real games work.”
I smile into my bowl, letting their voices swirl around me like comfort food.
When the bowls are mostly empty, Liam leans toward me with wide eyes. “We get to stay up for the whole game, right?”
“It’s Saturday,” I say, tapping his nose lightly. “So, I think that’s a yes.”
Both boys cheer like I just handed them the Stanley Cup.
Later, as they settle into the couch with snacks and Miss Taylor dims the lights, I pause at the doorway for a moment.
My body’s still tired, my head still fuzzy.
But the house smells like stew and tea, and the people inside it feel like home.