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Chapter twenty-seven

Daphne

The email stares back at me, the bold words standing out like they’re lit in neon:

“We’d love to hear more about your ideas. Can you come by the office next week to discuss this in person?”

I blink at the screen, my heart hammering. For a moment, I think I’ve misread it. I reread it twice, three times, but the words don’t change. They actually want to talk to me. Not to brush me off or politely decline, but to talk , to hear more about my campaign.

I grab my phone and dial Liv before I can second-guess it. She answers on the second ring, her voice smug as ever. “Let me guess. You got knocked up by a hot-as-fuck football player, who also happens to be the greenest fucking flag there ever was.”

“Been there, fucked that.” I snort, pacing my tiny dorm room, my palms sweating. “No, I got an email.”

“Ooh, an email. Let me grab some popcorn. What’s it about?”

“From CLUSports.” My words tumble out in a rush. “They want to meet with me. Like, in person. To talk about my ideas.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and then Liv shrieks so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Oh my god, Daphne! That’s huge!”

“I know,” I say, sinking onto the edge of my bed. My heart feels like it’s racing a mile a minute. “I thought they were going to let me down gently, you know? Like, ‘Thanks for your submission, better luck next time.’ But no, they actually want to talk.”

“Well, duh. Your idea is amazing,” Liv says, her tone matter of fact. “They’d be stupid not to want you.”

Part of me still expects them to laugh me off, to see right through my thin veil of professionalism and focus on the beads of sweat that seem to be covering my face and upper lip more often than not, because my body temperature has gone through the roof since being pregnant.

But another part, the part that heard the woman from Mug Life the other day, Carmen, saying, “Messy doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human,” has played on repeat in my mind, serving as a reminder I need.

“Thanks, Liv,” I say. “I’d better tell Hudson and get to work on this.”

“Ta-ta for now, bestie, love you.”

We hang up, and I shoot a text to Hudson. I know he’s at practice right now, so he won’t see it for a little while.

My notebook sits open on the desk, taunting me with its half-finished ideas and crossed-out notes. The phrase “#WomenPlayToo” is circled at the top of the page. I think I knew something wasn’t enough when I wrote it, but now, I’ve got new ideas.

“What am I trying to say?” I mutter under my breath.

My eyes land on a blank section of the page, and without thinking, I start writing. The words spill out in bursts:

Young mothers in sports.

Support systems for student parents.

Visibility. Representation.

The stories we don’t see.

The pen pauses, hovering over the page. My mind flashes back to the appointment at the hospital. How do mothers manage all of this and continue to be dedicated athletes?

I draw a deep breath. What if this is part of my story? Not the whole story, but a chapter worth telling?

The pen moves again, this time with purpose: #MoreThanMoms: A campaign to celebrate and support young mothers in sports and beyond.

The idea takes shape in my mind, clear and sharp in a way nothing else has been in weeks. A social media challenge, encouraging women to share their stories of balancing motherhood and ambition. Collaborations with influencers, athletes, and even student parents. A platform that doesn’t just highlight the struggle but celebrates the triumphs.

I flip back to my earlier notes, where “#WomenPlayToo” sits at the top of a page. Up until this moment, it’s felt like the cornerstone of this project, but now, it feels incomplete. As I scribble beside it, adding arrows and subheadings, something clicks. This isn’t about replacing the original idea. It’s about expanding it.

#MoreThanMoms isn’t a detour. It’s a continuation. A deeper layer of the story I’ve been trying to tell all along.

I pause, the pen hovering again, and press my hand lightly against my stomach. It’s strange how the fluttering sensation there feels so much bigger than it should, like a nudge toward the person I’m becoming. For the first time, I’m starting to see that it’s not about perfection. It’s about showing up, even when everything seems too heavy. About letting the world see the cracks and the light that shines through them.

The campaign isn’t just about other women anymore. It’s about me, too.

I sit back and take a deep breath, staring at the notebook in front of me. The ideas feel real now, like they have weight. My pulse quickens all over again as the pieces fall into place, one after another. I’m moving forward.

The planner sits open on the corner of the desk, its rigid color-coded blocks a reminder of the version of me I’ve been clinging to. I grab a pen and scribble over one of the boxes, replacing “Draft PR Notes” with “#MoreThanMoms Concept Meeting.”

It’s messy. Imperfect.

But maybe that’s the point.

***

The sleek glass doors of the CLUSports office swing open easily under my shaky hand, and I step into the buzzing space. Greeting me with a practiced smile, the receptionist motions toward the waiting area.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” she says.

I nod, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” as I take a seat. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from Hudson.

Hudson

Go get ’em princess. Call me when you’re done xx

I exhale a whoosh of breath, not realizing that I needed someone to tell me that right now, but grateful he seemed to know anyway. My mind drifts to the other night when he said he’d wear me down. Since then, we haven’t had much time together between our schedules, but he always texts and makes sure I know he’s there. And it warms me every morning when I see a ‘Good morning’ message. My defenses are crumbling with him. One subtle breeze, and I’ll be putty in his hands. He’s too easy to fall for.

When the door to the back offices opens, my eyes snap up. A tall man in a crisp button-down shirt steps out. His stride is confident, but there’s an easy friendliness to his expression. “Daphne?” he asks, his voice warm.

I stand, smoothing my hands over my skirt. “Yes, that’s me.”

He extends a hand. “I’m Thomas, head of marketing. Thanks for coming in.”

“Thanks for having me.” I try to keep my voice steady. His handshake is firm but not intimidating, which helps…barely.

“This way,” he says, leading me past walls lined with posters of athletes in action, the kind of marketing campaigns I’ve admired from a distance. He opens a door to a smaller conference room, bright and modern, and gestures for me to sit.

“Coffee? Water?”

I shake my head politely but clutch my notebook tighter. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Alright,” he says, taking the seat of opposite me, with a casual air that does nothing to calm the nerves fluttering in my chest. “Wayne said you had a pitch or an idea you wanted to discuss?”

“Yeah, sort of.” I exhale slowly to ground myself. “I wanted to start by asking about the lack of exposure women’s sports get here at CLU.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Straight to the point. I like that. Honestly, it’s not like we avoid covering them on purpose. It’s just…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the words. “Our biggest demographic is male. And, well, so is most of our staff. We lean toward what they’re interested in.”

I bite back the first sharp response that leaps to my tongue and force myself to take a measured breath. “That’s kind of the problem, though, isn’t it?” I say evenly.

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Leaning closer, I grip the edges of my notebook for courage. “If all you cater to is your biggest demographic, that’s all you’re ever going to have. It’s a loop. You’re missing out on a whole audience just because no one’s trying to reach them.”

Thomas exhales, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not like we’re opposed to it,” he says, a little defensively. “But our analytics show what works, and we have to play to those strengths.”

I gesture toward my notebook, my voice firm but steady. “What if your audience could be bigger? Think about it, students, families, alumni and, yes, women who care just as much about sports as the guys do. You’ve got women here killing it in athletics, and they’re barely getting a mention. Doesn’t that feel…unbalanced?”

His lips twitch into a half-smile. “You’re pretty passionate about this, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, even though my heart is racing now. “And I’m not asking you to overhaul everything overnight. But what if you tried just one story? A highlight reel. See if people respond. Worst case, you get a slow news day out of it. Best case, you expand your reach and start representing everyone on campus.”

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re suggesting we run a test feature, see how it performs?”

I nod. “Exactly. One feature to start. If it works, you’ve got a blueprint for the future. If it doesn’t, you’ve still shown that you’re willing to try.”

Thomas considers this, then nods slowly. “Okay. Let me talk to Wayne and the team. We’ll see if we can run a trial. In the meantime, I’d love to hear more about your ideas for expanding on this.”

Relief floods through me, and I smile. “Thank you. I’ve been working on a campaign idea called #MoreThanMoms, a project focused on amplifying the voices of young mothers in sports. But I have a lot of other ideas too.”

“Tell me, what made you start working on this?”

“Honestly, it started as an assignment. But as I worked on it, it became…personal. I realized there’s a gap in the way we talk about women in sports, especially when it comes to balancing other parts of their lives.”

He nods, encouraging me to continue. “Go on.”

I pause, my thumb brushing over the edges of the notebook. “There’s this idea that if you’re a mom, that pigeonholes you, maybe even sometimes makes you appear weaker. But that’s not true. I want to focus on stories that show women excelling in sports while navigating motherhood. Not in a perfect way, but in a real way.”

Thomas taps a pen against the table thoughtfully. “And how do you see CLUSports fitting into that?”

This feels like a test, but I remind myself that I know the answer. “I think there’s a huge opportunity to amplify these stories through a campaign. Social media engagement, short-form interviews, maybe even partnering with existing athletes who fit the profile. It’s about creating visibility and inspiring others to see what’s possible.”

“That’s interesting,” Thomas says. “We’ll need to schedule a proper meeting to dig into that, but you’ve got my attention. I’d really like to get you on board.”

My heart vibrates, euphoria taking over. “Thank you,” I say, shaking his hand, praying it’s not too clammy.

“No, thank you. I like being challenged, and you’ve done that today, Daphne. I appreciate it. Look forward to you joining us.”

As I leave the office, the weight on my chest feels lighter. It’s not just a pitch. It’s a step toward change, and for the first time, I feel like I’m the one making it happen.

I glance around to make sure no one’s watching before breaking into a little happy dance.

After a second, the buzz of my phone pulls me up short. I fish it out of my pocket, my good mood fading when I see the screen: three missed calls from Mom. My stomach tightens as the voicemail icon stares back at me. Shit, what’s going on?

I swipe to play it, holding the phone to my ear as I walk. Mom’s voice comes through, tight and worried.

“Daphne, it’s Mom,” she starts, her tone sharp—nothing like her usual warmth. My chest tightens. Oh god, what if something bad happened?

“I… I wasn’t going to open it, but a letter came to the house, and it had the insurance company’s name on it. I got worried, so I opened it.”

My steps falter, the weight of her words settling over me like a storm cloud.

“Sweetheart,” she continues after a pause that feels endless, “why do you need to see an OB-GYN and have an ultrasound scheduled? Is there something going on you haven’t told me about? Call me back, please. I’m worried.”

My breath catches, and I freeze mid-step. Panic surges through me, hot and unwelcome. Oh my god, I didn’t even realize when I filled in the forms with the doctor that a referral letter would end up at my parents’ house. I figured it would come to my dorm. Oh my god. No, no, no.

Shoving the phone into my pocket, I try to steady my breathing, but I can’t. She knows. My mom knows.

The hallway feels way too bright all of a sudden, and the posters on the walls blur into nothing. I start walking, my legs moving on autopilot, even though my head is spinning. My good mood from a second ago is gone, replaced by this crushing sense of dread.

What do I even say to her? How do I explain this? I wanted more time to figure it out. I wanted to come to terms with it myself first.

Tears sting my eyes as I rush downstairs. I don’t even know where to start. Right now, I just need air, and a second to think before I completely lose it.