Beckett #2
Still, I’d do it. I’d show up, say the right things, pretend I wasn’t falling apart at the seams. Because if I didn’t, they’d find someone who would. And if the league decided I was unfixable… my career was over.
I looked at my reflection again, jaw flexing, the faint mark of the captain’s armband still imprinted on my arm.
Once, that had meant something.
Now it just felt like proof of how far I’d fallen.
The water shut off in the showers. Somewhere, a locker door slammed.
I sat there, alone, staring at the dent my fist had left in the metal.
A small reminder that no matter how much I tried to control it, the storm inside me always found a way out.
The next morning, I sat in the conference room at SWM Storm HQ, trying not to glare at the motivational quote framed on the far wall. Discipline wins games. Yeah. Tell that to the ref.
The room was all glass and shine—trophies lined the shelves, sponsor logos gleamed from every corner, and the table looked like it cost more than my first apartment. The kind of place built to impress people who never broke a sweat.
Cam strolled in with his usual clipboard and coffee, looking like he’d been awake since dawn and powered entirely by caffeine and damage control. “Morning, Beckett,” he said, sliding a folder across the table.
I eyed it like it might bite. “That my official termination notice?”
“Not yet.” Cam’s smile was sharp. “I have your community youth assignment."
I grunted.
“Do I look like I’m fucking around?” He gestured at the folder. “The Ellery James Youth Foundation. You’ll be helping with their annual charity gala. Meetings, planning, public appearances—you’re the team’s face for the event.”
I snorted. “You mean free labor.”
“No.” Cam leaned back in his chair. “Redemption.”
I opened the folder and started flipping through the contents. Flyers. Schedules. Photos of smiling kids in donated Storm uniforms, their cleats too big, their grins too bright. A gala flyer read Building Futures Through Sports in neat blue lettering.
And then there was a headshot.
Ellery James.
Of course it was her.
My mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
"Look," he continued. "I know you have this weird rivalry with Kyle Talbot, but Ellery is amazing."
I didn’t respond. I was too busy taking in the photo—Ellery, all bright-eyed and polished, blazer perfectly pressed, smile camera-ready but real.
The kind of woman who made good look effortless.
Who made people believe in things—teams, kids, causes.
The kind of woman who smiled at storms and somehow made them stop raining.
And she was dating him. Kyle. My teammate. My not-rival who treated me like one anyway, all calm words and steady hands while I burned too hot for both of us.
“She probably runs on optimism and bullet points,” I muttered.
Cam didn’t even look up. “She runs a foundation that helps kids play the sport you just embarrassed. So maybe, for once, try not to blow this.”
I leaned back in my chair, flicking the folder closed. “You ever think maybe they’re wasting their time?”
Cam sighed. “How do you figure?”
“Because no amount of smiling for the cameras is gonna make people forget I lost my head on the field. Again.”
That earned me a long stare. Then, flatly, “You done feeling sorry for yourself?”
I scowled. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he cut in, tone bone-dry. “And while you’re busy sulking, the rest of us are trying to make sure you still have a career. So you’re gonna show up, smile, shake hands, help the lady plan her gala, and pretend you’re capable of basic humanity.”
“Pretend?” I shot back.
He smirked. “Let’s not push our luck.”
I slouched lower, rubbing the back of my neck. “When do I start?”
“Monday morning.” Cam stood, tucking the clipboard under his arm. He paused at the door. “And Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“If you screw this up, Lawson’s making it three games.”
I gave a short, humorless laugh. “Guess I’ll see you Monday.”
When he left, the silence settled heavy around me. I looked down at the folder again, her name gleaming across the top in neat black type. Ellery James Youth Foundation.
Kyle’s girl. The media darling. The one person in this whole town who could probably make sainthood look like an item on her to-do list.
And now, apparently, my new boss.
I dragged a hand down my face, exhaling hard. This had to be some kind of divine punishment.
“Community outreach,” I muttered, flipping the folder shut. “Yeah. Perfect.”
Because of course the league thought pairing their most volatile player with Kyle’s golden-hearted girlfriend was a good idea.
Maybe this wasn’t redemption. Maybe it was karma with a sense of humor.
The Michigan sunset bled molten orange across the lake, painting the water in streaks of fire as I drove through Stevensville’s quiet streets. The kind of view people pulled over to photograph. I barely noticed it.
My phone buzzed again on the passenger seat—another reporter, probably.
Or my agent, wondering if I’d like to issue another “statement.” I ignored it.
Then it buzzed again. And again. A text preview flashed across the screen: a meme.
Someone had freeze-framed the exact moment I’d lost it last night—the veins in my neck standing out, eyes wild, teeth bared mid-shout. The caption read Chaos Strikes Again.
I grabbed the phone and tossed it onto the seat.
The screen lit once more before going dark, like it wanted to remind me it was still there, still whispering the same accusation the whole damn city was thinking.
You did it again.
I turned the music up, something loud and angry, bass thrumming hard enough to shake the mirrors. The guitars drowned out the noise in my head, but not for long.
Every time I blinked, I could still see that red card flashing in the ref’s hand.
At a stoplight, I caught my reflection in the windshield—tired eyes, rough stubble, tension coiled tight in my jaw like it was carved there. My hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles still raw.
“Babysitting kids and cocktail fundraisers,” I muttered. “Yeah, that’ll fix everything.”
The light changed, and I pressed the gas, coasting past rows of lakeside houses. Families out on porches. Couples walking dogs. People whose worlds didn’t implode over a bad call or a temper that never learned to quit.
But the image that wouldn’t leave my head wasn’t the game or the fallout—it was her photo.
Ellery James.
Sharp eyes. Confident smile. That polished, effortless kind of goodness people like me didn’t belong anywhere near.
I could still hear Cam’s voice echoing in the back of my mind: She runs a foundation that helps kids play the sport you just embarrassed.
“She looks like trouble,” I said to no one, a half-smirk tugging at my mouth. The kind of trouble that probably smiled while telling you to sit still and behave.
The kind that made me want to do the opposite.
My apartment greeted me in silence. Minimalist, modern, and empty—just like it always was. A place to sleep between flights, not to live in.
I kicked off my boots and dropped my gear bag on the floor, the dull thud echoing in the stillness. The TV flickered to life automatically, tuned to the sports network because that’s what it always was.
“And that’s the third time this season SWM Storm’s fiery forward loses his cool—”
I grabbed the remote and killed the volume before they could finish dissecting my humiliation.
The silence afterward was worse.
The folder Cam had given me sat on the kitchen counter, Ellery’s foundation logo staring back in calm, storm-blue ink: a soccer ball surrounded by stars. A neat, hopeful little universe where no one ever got suspended for caring too much.
I flipped it open again without meaning to. There was a flyer for the gala tucked inside—Building Futures Through Sports.
Across the bottom, in looping handwriting, was a quote:
“Sports teach us to fight for each other, not against each other.” — Ellery James
I scoffed, but the words lingered anyway, like a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing.
Fight for each other.
Yeah. Easy to say when you weren’t the one losing everything you’d fought for.
I dropped the flyer on the counter and opened the fridge. The light flickered across the empty shelves before settling on the one thing that never judged me—a cold beer. I twisted off the cap, leaned against the counter, and took a long drink.
The fizz burned just enough to feel human again.
My eyes drifted back to the folder, to that logo, to the neat handwriting and the promise I didn’t believe in.
“Guess we’ll see how long she lasts,” I muttered, voice low in the empty kitchen. “Before she gives up on me too.”
The city outside was quiet, the lake gone dark. Somewhere out there, Ellery James was probably planning her perfect little gala, blissfully unaware that the league’s favorite disaster was about to show up and ruin her week.
And for reasons I didn’t want to admit, the thought didn’t make me feel as good as it should’ve.