Page 46 of Scoring with the Coach's Daughter

“Can I put the toppings on?” Ellie asks.

“Go for it,” Sam replies, smiling at me.

Ellie carefully sprinkles cheese over the dough, but not before sneaking a few pieces into her mouth. I smirk, remembering doing the same thing as a kid. Of course, my pizzas were on French bread but I don’t remember making pizzas on it without eating half the ingredients first.

Sam tosses pre-cooked bacon and sausage onto the pie, and Ellie places sliced vegetables in a circle.

“There,” Ellie says, standing proudly on her stool as she places her hands on her hips.

“Jake, we made dinner!”

“I see,” I smile. “I took pictures too.”

“Can I see them?”

“Sure.” Ellie hops down and joins me. I bend, with my phone in hand and she peers over my shoulder. “These are great pictures. Aunt Sam is so pretty,” she states.

“She is, and so are you.”

“I want to be like Aunt Sam when I grow up.”

“You can’t go wrong with that.” I ruffle her hair and she giggles.

Sam has placed the pizza in the oven and she hovers around the heating lamps and finds many plates. A server whisks into the room, obviously frazzled.

“I’m in the weeds,” he says.

“I’ll help. What table?” Sam asks.

“Six.”

“I’ll get these,” Sam replies as she piles plates on her arm and carries one in the other hand. She turns and the server is moving too quickly and bumps into her, sending her plates flying and they crash to the tiled floor makingan epic roar. The sight would be comical if it were a movie.

Sam’s surprised by the turn of events and I brace for her to go crazy.

It happened so fast I almost didn’t register it and now the ruined dinner is splayed across the floor in an unsalvageable mess. Conversations have come to a halt mid-word. Silence slams into the kitchen like a thunderclap, and everyone freezes with all eyes turning to Sam.

Sam stands motionless, staring down at the ruined plate at her feet. The meal—an expensive cut of steak, garlic mashed potatoes, and sautéed vegetables—lays in an unceremonious mess on the tile.

And a deafening silence.

I see it before it happens—the way her body locks up, the way her fingers twitch at her sides, the way the familiar look of panic creeps into her eyes. It’s not just about the plate. It never is with Sam. It’s about control. About never making mistakes. About never giving anyone a reason to think she’s failing.

Before a word can be said, Ellie braves her Aunt’s rath and walks forward to comfort her. “It’s okay, Aunt Sam. It’s just an accident.”

Sam’s lips part slightly, her gaze flickering between Ellie, the broken plate, and me. And then something shifts in her expression. A flicker of something—determination, defiance, and the outcome is one I can’t predict.

Sam picks up an empty plate off the line, holds it for just a second like she’s considering the weight of it, and then?—

Smash.

And in this instant, the enormity of the tragic accident is turned upside down.

The plate shatters against the tiled floor, the sound ringing through the kitchen like adeclaration of war.

Sam laughs and the tension in the room breaks like a colossal wave. She continues to laugh and Maggie is spellbound, no one knows what to make of Sam’s unexpected response.

I blink. Is Sam developing a sense of humor? “Well, that’s one way to embrace the mess,” I tease.

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