Page 122 of Fake it ’Til Fall

The booster man clears his throat. “We have a donation closet.”

“Who tracks inventory?”

No one answers.

Daisy’s pen moves. “Who handles transportation?”

“We encourage families to carpool,” Principal Whitcomb replies.

“Who coordinates that?”

Another pause.

“And tutoring?” Daisy asks. “If practice is after school and kids are already waiting around, is there homework support? Study hall? Volunteer mentors?”

Principal Whitcomb’s expression turns interested. “Not formally.”

Daisy looks at Evan. “Do kids need that?”

Evan shrugs.

The shrug says, Yes, but we don’t ask for it.

“You’d need a gear scholarship that doesn’t force kids to publicly prove they need help,” she says. “Private request form. Equipment tracking. Corporate sponsorship tiers. Former-player donors. Transportation plan with proper liability. Study support before ice time. Volunteer screening. Metrics for donors. Grades, attendance, participation, retention.”

Everyone goes quiet.

Daisy’s pen stops.

She looks up.

“What?” she asks.

Principal Whitcomb smiles slowly. “That was impressive.”

Daisy laughs, bright and immediate. “It’s what I do for a living.”

“Those numbers are useful,” I say.

Her eyes come to mine.

The rest of the vineyard fades for half a second.

I’m thinking about a place that doesn’t just wait for kids to survive long enough to make a team. A place built around them before anger, before shame, before the world gets hold of the worst day they know how to have and turns it into a name.

A rink.

Tutoring.

Equipment.

Mentors.

Food, as a staple. Because hungry kids don’t listen. Hungry adults don’t either.

“You’re doing it,” Daisy says.

I blink. “What?”