Page 123 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
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 rundozens 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.
