Ellery
By mid-morning, my desk looked like a small paper hurricane had landed on it. Banners, vendor quotes, schedules—every surface in the office had surrendered to chaos. One week until the gala, and somehow, it still felt possible. Frantic, but hopeful.
I had Cam on speaker while flipping through invoices, trying to sound calmer than I felt. “If we can confirm the silent auction donors by Thursday, that’ll—”
I straightened, pen pausing midair. “What happened?”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him. “Wait. What? They confirmed two weeks ago.”
“I know,” Cam said, frustration leaking through the line. “But apparently the board wants to focus on international outreach this quarter. They’re issuing a statement this afternoon.”
My heartbeat stumbled. “Cam, that’s fifty thousand dollars. I already had another sponsor pull out their ten thousand.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’m really sorry.”
The line clicked off, leaving me staring at my phone like it might change its mind.
The sound of kids laughing drifted through the open window—the after-school program had started early.
Their voices filtered in with the squeak of sneakers on turf, bright and alive, completely unaware that everything just shifted.
Fifty thousand dollars gone.
That was uniforms. That was new nets. Scholarships for kids who’d worked all year for a chance to play.
My hand pressed against my forehead, the weight of it settling hard behind my eyes.
For a long moment, I didn’t move. The phone screen dimmed. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. And the laughter outside kept spilling in, unbothered and beautiful, like the universe’s cruel idea of irony.
“Okay,” I whispered to no one. “Okay. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t. But saying it helped.
I reached for my notebook and started listing alternatives—names of small businesses, potential donors, grant deadlines that were probably too late. The pen shook once before I tightened my grip.
Cam had warned me about this months ago—how sponsors loved a good photo op but not always the long game. Still, this particular sponsor had been solid for three years. We’d built the whole event around their donation.
I could already hear the questions from the board, the quiet worry from Naomi, the disappointed faces of the volunteers who’d worked weekends for this.
And somewhere under all that noise, a quieter thought whispered, You can’t afford to fall apart.
So I didn’t.
I shoved the panic down, took a breath, and started dialing again. Another contact. Another maybe. Another shot at fixing it before anyone else had to know.
Outside, a whistle blew, and the kids cheered—someone must’ve scored.
I looked up, catching the blur of motion through the window: bright jerseys, tangled laughter, pure joy.
That was what the gala was for. Not the donors, not the cameras—them.
I picked the phone back up and kept dialing.
Naomi pushed the door open with her usual cheer, two coffees in hand and a half-smile already on her face. “Fuel delivery for the overworked—” She stopped mid-sentence when she saw mine. “What happened?”
I set my phone down, exhaling through my nose. “Our main sponsor just bailed.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” I forced a smile that felt too tight, too rehearsed. “We’ll figure it out.”
Naomi didn’t look convinced, but she slid my coffee across the desk, anyway. “You always do,” she said softly.
I nodded, already reaching for my notebook, flipping to a page filled with scribbled names and numbers. “Let’s start with backup donors. Maybe someone can stretch their budget or—”
“I’ll pull the contact sheet,” she said, heading for her desk.
“Thanks,” I murmured, already dialing.
The next hour blurred into one long loop of phone calls and polite rejections.
“Hi, it’s Ellery from the foundation—yes, the gala’s next week—no, of course, I understand your budgets are set—thank you, anyway.”
“Hi, I was wondering if you might be able to—ah, you’ve already committed to another event. That’s okay.”
Each no landed a little heavier. By the fourth call, I’d stopped keeping track of who I’d already tried.
Naomi glanced over once, sympathy written all over her face. I pretended not to notice.
“You’re sure?” I asked the next voice on the line, desperation creeping into my tone. “Even a partial contribution could help us cover—right. No, I understand. Thank you for your time.”
I hung up and stared at the desk, the phone screen still glowing.
Outside the window, the kids were running drills again—bright cones, bouncing soccer balls, laughter echoing across the field. The sound hit like a punch and a reminder all at once.
I’d built this whole thing—the foundation, the programs, the partnerships—so it could outlast disappointment. So it wouldn’t hinge on one check, one company, one mistake.
So why did it feel like it was collapsing straight onto my chest?
I pressed my palms flat against the desk, grounding myself in the cool wood. Breathe. Just breathe.
Naomi appeared at my side, holding out a sticky note with a few names scrawled on it. “These might be long shots,” she said, “but they’ve supported youth leagues before.”
I nodded, taking it from her. “Thank you.”
She hesitated. “Ellery… maybe take a break? Even ten minutes?”
“I can’t,” I said automatically. “If I stop now, it’ll hit me.”
Her look softened. “Then don’t let it hit you alone.”
That nearly broke me, but I kept my voice steady. “We’ll figure it out,” I repeated, the words sharp-edged but familiar.
She nodded once, then went back to her desk, giving me space.
The office hummed with quiet—the sound of typing, of distant laughter, of the clock ticking down a week I wasn’t ready to face.
I stared at the phone again, squared my shoulders, and picked it back up.
One more call. Just one more.
By late afternoon, the foundation’s main room was alive with motion — volunteers hauling boxes, hanging string lights, setting up mock centerpieces for the gala tables. The energy buzzed, warm and hopeful, and I tried to let it wash over me.
Tried, and failed.
Because underneath it, my pulse thudded with a rhythm that sounded too much like panic.
“Ellery, where do you want the donation wall?” someone called.
“Against the far window,” I answered automatically, my voice lighter than I felt. I plastered on a smile for good measure, even though it barely reached my eyes.
Another volunteer waved a clipboard. “Do we have confirmation on the catering headcount?”
“I’ll check,” I said, already reaching for my phone.
Still no message. No text. No missed call.
Kyle had been traveling for a scrimmage all week, and my last few messages — Good luck tonight, Proud of you, Call when you land — sat unread.
I told myself he was busy. Focused. That this was what ambition looked like.
But the longer the silence stretched, the smaller I felt in the space between it.
Naomi appeared beside me, holding a box of silver table runners. “You should tell him,” she said quietly.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Tell him what?”
She gave me a look that said she saw straight through the deflection. “About the sponsor. About everything. He’d want to know.”
“He’s got enough on his plate,” I said, forcing a little laugh as I took the box from her and set it down. “National team scouts, travel, press—he doesn’t need my crisis added on top.”
“Ellery.” Her voice softened. “You don’t have to handle everything by yourself. Isn't that what boyfriends are supposed to be for?"
I hesitated, eyes flicking to the volunteers chatting near the banner display, all smiles and good intentions. None of them knew that the centerpiece sponsor for this whole event had evaporated overnight.
I exhaled slowly. “I do if I want it done on time.”
Naomi’s sigh was quiet but full of meaning. She reached out and squeezed my shoulder before walking off to help the others.
I stood there for a moment, watching everyone move around me — laughter, teamwork, life. To them, it was all coming together. To me, it felt like patching holes in a sinking ship and pretending not to notice the water.
“Ellery, these look okay?” a volunteer asked, holding up two flower arrangements.
“They’re perfect,” I said, voice steady, smile automatic.
That was the trick — keep moving. Keep smiling. The gala couldn’t afford my cracks.
But when the volunteers turned away, I glanced down at my phone again. Still nothing.
The ache that followed was quiet, familiar — not anger, not even disappointment anymore. Just fatigue.
I opened a new message:
How was the game?
Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted.
Instead, I slipped the phone back into my pocket and picked up a clipboard from the nearest table.
If I couldn’t count on luck, or sponsors, or texts that never came, I could at least count on work.
So I got back to it — one more task, one more smile, one more small act of pretending everything was fine.
I knew the scrimmage had ended hours ago. The team’s social feed had already posted the score, the post-game photos, the carefully cropped smiles. That meant Kyle was back in Stevensville. Probably already showered, already texting the guys, maybe even out celebrating another easy win.
But not me.
I didn’t text. Didn’t call. I told myself it was because he needed rest. Because he’d get to me when he could. But the truth was uglier — I didn’t want to see the silence again. The unanswered message. The proof that I’d become background noise to someone else’s dream.
The foundation office buzzed with motion, and I let it keep me busy. Volunteers rolled boxes into corners, paper rustled, the faint thud of soccer balls echoed from the gym next door. It all blurred into white noise.
Beckett was supposed to be in the back unloading donations, and I hadn’t realized how much that small detail eased something in me — just knowing he’d show up when he said he would. Not for credit. Not for optics. Just… because.