Chapter 6 Sophie
SOPHIE
The foster agency always smells faintly of crayons and disinfectant. A mix of comfort and sterility, like it’s trying too hard to feel like home but never quite makes it.
I slip my bag onto the volunteer desk, sign in, and head down the hall toward the playroom. The sound hits me before I even push the door open—squeals of laughter, little feet pounding against tile, a toddler wailing because someone stole his block.
It’s chaos. My favorite kind of chaos.
“Miss Sophie!”
A tiny blur barrels toward me, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed pink. I barely have time to crouch before he throws himself into my arms.
“Hey, buddy.” I hug him tight, breathing in the scent of what I’m assuming is strawberry shampoo. “You’re supposed to be playing.”
“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles into my shoulder, even though I can feel the smile pressed against my shirt.
This is Caleb. Four years old. Big brown eyes, dimples that should’ve belonged to a kid without scars. His case file says neglect, substance abuse, multiple placements. Words that look cold on paper but mean nights of hunger, mornings of fear, and days spent wondering if anyone would ever stay.
He clings tighter, and I rub slow circles on his back.
Most volunteers call him clingy. I just think he’s a kid who’s learned too soon how easy it is to be left behind.
“All right,” I whisper. “You wanna help me with snack duty instead?”
He pulls back, eyes brightening. “Goldfish?”
I grin. “You know it.”
We spend the next twenty minutes handing out paper cups of crackers, refilling juice boxes, and herding the little ones toward the reading circle. Caleb stays with me the entire time, glued to my side like my shadow.
When it’s time to settle them down a few hours later, I tuck him onto his mat, smoothing the blanket over his small frame. His hand darts out, catching mine before I can pull away.
“Don’t go yet,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
My chest tightens. I sit cross-legged beside him until his eyes flutter closed, his grip loosening as sleep wins.
Watching him, I can’t help the thought that always comes when I’m here: how many of them will find something permanent, something safe? And how many will spend their childhood bouncing from home to home, learning that love has an expiration date?
I press my palms against my knees, grounding myself. This is why I’m here. Why I stay up too late finishing assignments and I push through practices even when I’m exhausted. Because if I can help even one kid like Caleb someday—give them a steady place to land—then every sacrifice will be worth it.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Almost two. Soon the staff will swap shifts, and I’ll have to rush across town, grab a quick bite, then throw myself into the rest of the day, which includes practice and homework. The cycle never stops.
But this part? Tuesdays and Thursdays, every week? This part is mine.
I started volunteering here my sophomore year, back when I was just trying to build my résumé for grad school. That’s what I told myself anyway. Hours logged, references gained, boxes checked. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about me.
Now, it’s the two mornings I refuse to give up, no matter how insane my schedule gets. The only hours where I can push my own stress to the side and just be here. With them.
With Caleb, who lights up when I walk through the door. With Mia, who won’t nap unless someone sings to her first. With the older kids who pretend they’re too cool for hugs but still hover close when it’s time to leave.
Tuesday and Thursday mornings remind me who I want to be.
Not the perfect daughter in heels and a rehearsed smile. Not the girl who wasted too many years tied to Zach’s shadow.
But someone who matters. Someone who stays.
I brush a hand lightly over Caleb’s blanket before standing, easing toward the door on quiet feet.
Two days a week. Two mornings that feel like the only thing in my life that makes complete sense.
I barely make it back to campus in time. Traffic’s a nightmare, my iced coffee from this morning is watery and warm, and my stomach’s been growling since snack time at the agency.
By the time I park and grab my stuff, I’ve got a turkey sandwich in one hand, shoving bites into my mouth between steps as I cross the lawn toward the practice field.
Students drift past in clusters, some still lingering in the shade of the quad with coffee and laughter, their afternoons stretching wide open in front of them.
I envy them for about half a second before reality catches up.
I don’t do free time, at least not well.
I enjoy my time scheduled down to the minute.
Less opportunities for my brain to spiral or to question every decision I’ve made up to this point.
The field comes into view, green stretching under the late-afternoon sun. A few of the girls are already out there, warming up, stretching on the sidelines. Their ponytails flash in the light as they talk and laugh.
I take one last bite of my sandwich and shove the rest back into the sack, swallowing hard as I jog toward the benches along the sideline.
Time to be cheerleader Sophie—the version who always has it together, who never lets anyone see just how thin she’s stretched.
“Prescott! Late again,” Jordan calls, hands on her hips as she surveys the squad. Her smirk makes it clear she’s not mad, just amused.
“Traffic,” I reply, flashing her a grin as I drop my bag on the bench.
“Uh-huh.” Jordan shakes her head, ponytail swishing. “Better hope you stretch fast, because we’re running lines in two minutes.”
I jog over, sliding into the gap between Tessa and Kenzie, both already bent into hamstring stretches.
“Saved you a spot,” Tessa says, nudging me with her elbow. She’s practically glowing with energy, even though practice just started.
“Thanks,” I murmur, leaning into the stretch.
Kenzie tugs her ponytail tighter, smirking. “You’ve got guts showing up late on the first day back. Jordan will put you on flyer duty just to make a point.”
“Please, she wouldn’t risk dropping me out of the sky,” I joke, and all three of us laugh, earning a mock glare from Jordan.
“Eyes forward, Sophie,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. Just the kind of teasing that comes with trust.
We break into line drills, sneakers pounding against turf, motions sharp and fast. My muscles burn, sweat trickling down my spine, but it’s the kind of ache I crave. The kind that proves I can still keep up.
When it’s time to stunt, I take my spot as back base, bracing while Tessa and Kenzie lift our flyer into the air. Jordan counts us off, voice loud and steady, and the stunt hits clean, our flyer posing with a grin before we bring her down.
“Nice work,” Jordan says, clapping us on our shoulders as we reset.
The sun’s lower now, golden light spilling across the field. From here, I can hear the echo of whistles from the football side, the team shouting through plays. Helmets flash in the distance, and for half a second, my eyes drift that way.
Tessa catches me and grins. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m sweating,” I shoot back, unscrewing my water bottle.
Kenzie smirks, leaning in. “Sure. Has nothing to do with the fact that you’re newly single and some very hot football men are just a few feet away.”
Heat prickles up my neck, but I mask it with another gulp of water, forcing a laugh. “Please. I don’t even know any of them.”
Jordan blows her whistle again, pulling us back into formation before they can push further.
By the time practice is finished, my legs are jelly. We’ve cycled through line drills, pyramids, and a dozen stunts, each one testing the limits of our balance and trust. My throat is raw from calling counts, my palms stinging from catches, but it’s the kind of exhaustion that makes me feel alive.
Jordan finally blows the whistle. “That’s it for today! Good work, ladies. Same time tomorrow.”
Groans ripple through the group, followed quickly by laughter as girls collapse onto the turf, water bottles pressed to their lips. I drop to the grass, too, pulling my knees up, sweat cooling sticky against my skin.
“Remind me why we do this again?” Tessa gasps beside me.
“Because we’re insane,” Kenzie answers, sprawled flat on her back.
I laugh, tipping my head toward the fading light. The football team is still running plays across the field, whistles sharp, helmets glinting. Their voices carry on the breeze—deep, commanding, almost rhythmic in their own way.
The two teams finish around the same time, clusters of players and cheerleaders drifting toward the track to gather their bags. I’m stuffing my water bottle into my backpack when I hear someone clear their throat nearby.
“Hey.”
I glance up.
Beck.
Helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp from sweat, his T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. He looks like he’s just walked out of a sports magazine—except his eyes land on me with quiet steadiness, not performance.
“Hi,” I manage, brushing stray hair out of my face.
“You guys looked solid out there.” His voice is low, genuine. Not like he’s tossing out a line—just saying it because he means it.
“Thanks,” I say, a little breathless from practice. “You didn’t look too bad yourselves.”
That earns me the smallest grin, quick but there.
Tessa and Kenzie exchange looks over my shoulder, barely containing their smirks, but they don’t say anything.
Beck adjusts his helmet, glancing back toward the locker room. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I say, my pulse kicking up in a way that has nothing to do with stunts. “See you tomorrow.”
He nods once before heading off, slipping back into the stream of players.
And I stand there a moment longer, bag slung over my shoulder, wondering why three simple words feel like more than they should.
Kenzie comes to my side, hip checking me while smirking like a cheshire cat. “Thought you said you didn’t know any of the players?”
Rolling my eyes, I walk toward my car. “Just met him a couple weeks ago, when he walked me back to my dorm after that party. We have a class together.”
“I love how you’re not even trying and have men falling at your feet.” Kenzie laughs as she makes her way through the parking lot before I can correct her. “See you tomorrow, babes!”
By the time I finally drag myself through the front door of my dorm room, every muscle in my body is screaming. I drop my bag by the couch and kick off my sneakers, barely resisting the urge to flop face-first onto the cushions.
A soft meow greets me from the corner.
“Hi, Snicks,” I murmur as my gray tabby stretches, blinking at me with sleepy green eyes before hopping onto the couch.
She circles twice before settling against my thigh, purring loud enough to rattle.
Snickers has been my best pal for the last eleven years, and I was beyond relieved when we got her approved as my emotional support animal so that she could live here with me.
I’m sure it also doesn’t hurt that my family has an entire building named after them.
I scratch behind her ears with one hand while flipping open my laptop with the other. Abnormal Psych readings. Research Methods notes. A color-coded planner that’s already starting to feel more like a lifeline than the tool it’s supposed to be.
The quiet hum of Snickers’ purring anchors me, steady and constant. Unlike people, she doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t care if I’m late or if my grades are perfect. She just wants me here.
I take a deep breath, pushing back the day piece by piece, the foster agency, cheer practice, and Beck’s grin flashing in my mind like a snapshot I didn’t mean to keep.
Homework. Food. Sleep.
Do it all again tomorrow.