Crazy Pitch (Pitch Please #2)

Ellery

The smell of turf and espresso was my kind of perfume.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows of the community sports complex, scattering gold across the scuffed floors and stacks of donation boxes.

The sound of kids laughing and sneakers squeaking on the indoor turf spilled through my open office door—music, really.

Proof that the program I’d built from scratch was alive and running.

Even if I felt like I was barely keeping up.

“Uh-huh, yes, the chicken skewers are fine—but please make sure they’re not spicy this time,” I said into my phone, wedging it between my shoulder and ear as I scribbled my signature across a delivery form. My pen smudged. “Right, mild. As in, the kind people can eat without crying. Great. Thanks!”

I hung up, turned to the delivery guy, and handed him the form with my best “please don’t notice I’m unraveling” smile. My laptop dinged with an email notification. Poster proofs. Perfect timing.

Naomi, my assistant, leaned against the doorway with a to-go cup in hand and that look—the one that said she’d been watching this one-woman circus for a while and was taking mental notes for my intervention. “You know normal people hire event planners for galas.”

“Normal people don’t run a nonprofit on fumes and hope,” I said, taking a long sip of my rapidly cooling coffee and opening the email.

“Besides, if I don’t triple-check these posters, we’ll end up with last year’s slogan again.

‘Building Dreams Through Teamwork’—in Comic Sans. I still have nightmares.”

Naomi snorted. “You’re running on caffeine and stubbornness.”

“Add a dash of panic and call it leadership.” I zoomed in on the poster proofs. The colors popped. The new logo looked crisp. “Okay, these actually look amazing. Can you double-check the QR code? Last time it linked to that TikTok of the goalie doing the worm.”

Naomi laughed and crossed to my desk, scanning the proof with her phone. “Safe. Just the donation page this time.”

“Miracles do happen.” I exhaled, feeling that fleeting, fizzy mix of exhaustion and pride that came from keeping this place afloat. Every box of donated cleats, every kid grinning out on the field—it all mattered. It all started here.

A soccer ball rolled past my door and a little boy chased after it, skidding to a stop when he saw me. “Sorry, Miss Ellery!”

“Hey, you’re fine! Just don’t take out the coffee station again, okay?” I grinned as he dashed off. The ball bounced once, twice, then disappeared around the corner.

Naomi raised a brow. “You ever think about slowing down? Maybe, I don’t know, taking an actual lunch break?”

“Lunch is for people who’ve finished their to-do lists,” I said lightly, even though we both knew I hadn’t had a real meal since breakfast. “Anyway, if we pull this gala off, we’ll fund new scholarships for at least twenty more kids. That’s worth a skipped sandwich.”

She shook her head, smiling fondly. “You’re impossible.”

“Efficiently impossible,” I corrected, tapping the poster with my pen. “Now come on—let’s make this the best gala our little foundation’s ever seen.”

The sunlight caught the photo on my desk—a group of kids in mismatched jerseys, arms around each other, grinning wide. My chest squeezed, just a little. Tired or not, stretched thin or not, this was everything I’d ever wanted: to give them a place to belong.

And as long as there was coffee, hope, and a half-functioning printer, I’d keep doing exactly that.

The gala was two weeks away, and my desk looked like it was holding on for dear life.

There were stacks of donation forms, half-finished coffee cups, and a tower of sparkling-gold invitation envelopes that refused to seal properly. Somewhere beneath it all was my laptop, open to the latest budget spreadsheet—aka, my personal horror story.

I leaned back in my chair, massaging the bridge of my nose, then glanced at the framed photo beside my keyboard.

A dozen kids, grinning wide in mismatched jerseys, arms thrown around each other after their first scrimmage.

The sunlight had caught one of the girl’s braids mid-swing, frozen joy in motion.

That photo had been taken three years ago—the year we launched the youth-sports foundation.

Back when “office space” meant a borrowed corner in the rec center and “budget” meant whatever was left on my debit card.

I smiled faintly. Every kid in that picture had earned their scholarship the hard way—through grit, heart, and a belief that dreams were worth chasing even when life said otherwise.

That was why I was doing this. That was why I was running on caffeine and adrenaline and prayer. Because every banner I approved and every spreadsheet I survived meant more scholarships. More cleats. More chances.

“Okay,” I muttered, flipping through my color-coded checklist like it held divine answers. “Catering, confirmed. Auction items, mostly confirmed. Sponsor dinner seating chart, ongoing war zone.”

And then there was the problem: the major sponsor who still hadn’t confirmed. The name glaring at me from the spreadsheet in bright red font like a flashing emergency beacon.

Naomi poked her head through the doorway right on cue, sipping her latte like she hadn’t already had three today. “You’re muttering again. Should I be worried?”

“Only if you have ten grand lying around to cover the silent auction shortfall,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Ah. The elusive sponsor?”

“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.

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.