Ellery
The office was already buzzing by the time I got in—phones ringing, the printer spitting out last-minute table assignments, the smell of fresh coffee battling with the faint scent of permanent marker from the seating chart I’d updated three times since sunrise.
Naomi was hunched over the guest list, highlighter in one hand, croissant in the other. “We’re officially at capacity,” she announced, sounding both thrilled and terrified.
“Good,” I said, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear while scrolling through the silent auction spreadsheet. “Now we just have to make sure everyone who RSVPed actually shows up.”
The voice on the other end of the line was bright and professional—Cam Hunter, SWM Storm’s PR director. I’d spoken to him a few times before when the team had donated equipment for our youth league. He was always charming, always efficient, and always trying to make his team look like saints.
“Ellery,” he said cheerfully. “The Storm is sending over one of our players to help with your event. Great photo ops for everyone.”
I froze mid-scroll. “That’s… generous, but we’re pretty covered—”
“It’s already arranged,” Cam cut in smoothly. “He’ll report this afternoon.”
I blinked, staring at the color-coded schedule open on my laptop. “This afternoon?”
“Yep! Should be a great fit. You’ll see.”
“Who exactly are we talking about?”
But the line had already clicked dead.
Naomi looked up. “Everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “Apparently, the Storm is sending one of their players to ‘help out’ with the gala.”
Naomi’s eyebrows rose. “Like… one of the actual players? As in… your boyfriend?"
“That’s what he said. I feel like if it was Kyle, he would have said something."
"Who? Kyle or Cam?"
I decided not to say anything in response. I opened my email, and sure enough, the press release was sitting at the top of my inbox, bold and impossible to miss: SWM Storm’s Beckett Mason joins the Ellery James Foundation for community outreach.
“Oh,” I breathed, clicking it open.
Naomi leaned over my shoulder, reading along. “Oh,” she echoed, tone shifting from curious to horrified.
That Beckett Mason. The league’s most fined forward. The guy whose name was practically a synonym for “disciplinary hearing.”
I’d seen the headlines. The temper. The press conferences. The red cards. The scowl that could make a ref second-guess his whistle.
I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Of all the players in Michigan, they’re sending him?”
Naomi grinned, unhelpfully. “At least he’s good-looking?”
I shot her a look. “So’s a wildfire.”
She laughed. “Come on, maybe he’s just misunderstood.”
“Or maybe he’s a PR nightmare they’re trying to hand off to me like a live grenade.” I sighed, closing the laptop and grabbing my coffee. “Do we have an extra liability form somewhere? Because I feel like we’re going to need one.”
Naomi smirked. “Want me to clear a spot in your schedule for his arrival?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “Right between pray he doesn’t scare the sponsors and make sure the fire extinguisher works.”
I tried to shake it off, but the email glared at me from my screen, that headline shining like a bad omen.
Beckett Mason.
The league’s most fined forward. The Storm’s infamous hothead.
And apparently—my newest volunteer.
Perfect.
The morning sunlight slanted through the conference room windows, warming the table scattered with folders, sponsorship packets, and too many half-empty coffee cups.
The office hummed with its usual pre-gala rhythm—phones ringing, printers whirring, the faint sound of laughter drifting from the kids’ after-school room next door. It was chaos, but it was our chaos.
I straightened the stack of name tags for the sponsor luncheon, then checked the agenda one more time. Every meeting, every email, every donation follow-up—it was all meticulously lined up. If everything stayed on track, the gala would go off without a hitch.
Which meant I couldn’t afford any surprises. Especially not this one.
Cam’s chipper voice still echoed in my head from our earlier call: “He’ll report this afternoon.”
I’d hung up smiling through gritted teeth.
Now, as I rearranged the chairs around the conference table, the memory of that email headline flashed like a warning siren.
That Beckett Mason.
The league’s walking temper tantrum. The one who’d racked up more fines than some players made in bonuses.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to drop. It’s fine, I told myself. I can handle one ego for a week.
Besides, this foundation had weathered tougher storms—literally and figuratively. I wasn’t going to let one hotheaded soccer player derail months of planning.
Still, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Our biggest sponsors were already skittish, watching every headline like hawks. One PR misstep and I’d spend the rest of the quarter doing damage control instead of expansion planning.
Naomi was already in the conference room when I walked back in, laptop open, coffee in hand, and that look—the one that said she’d seen the email too.
She didn’t even glance up as she said, “So, our new volunteer-slash-potential disaster arrives soon.”
I let out a long breath and set a stack of sponsor folders on the table. “Don’t remind me.”
Naomi smirked, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m just saying, if the Storm wanted to send someone for community outreach, maybe they could’ve picked one who doesn’t trend on Twitter every other week for fighting refs.”
I arched a brow. “You read the press release too, huh?”
“Of course I did.” She took a sip of coffee. “It’s been making the rounds since sunrise. Half the sponsors probably know before we do.”
“Perfect,” I muttered, pulling my planner closer and flipping to the afternoon schedule. “Exactly what we need—Beckett Mason’s redemption arc unfolding in our lobby.”
Naomi leaned back, tapping her pen against her mug. “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”
I shot her a look. “You don’t actually believe that.”
“Not really,” she admitted, grinning. “But I’m trying this thing where I manifest optimism instead of caffeine dependence.”
“Let me know how that works out for you.” I tightened my ponytail and checked my watch. The kids’ laughter from the next room drifted through the glass—pure, unbothered joy. It always made the chaos feel a little lighter.
I straightened the sponsor folders, forcing my focus back where it belonged. “It’s fine,” I said more to myself than to her. “I can handle one ego for a week.”
Naomi grinned. “You say that like you don’t already handle a dozen.”
“None of them have fan merch,” I shot back.
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’ll be fine, Ell. You always are.”
She left me with that, heading off to wrangle the catering call, and I sank into the nearest chair with my phone. If anyone could make this sound less ominous, it was Kyle.
Storm’s sending a player to help today.
The dots appeared almost instantly.
Cool. Beckett’s a handful, but he’s solid when he wants to be.
My thumbs hovered before I typed:
Define “when he wants to be.”
No reply.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then sighed. He was probably still at training. Which meant I wouldn’t hear back until he was too exhausted to type more than an emoji. Typical.
Sliding my phone aside, I looked out the window toward the field behind the building.
The kids were still running drills, their laughter carrying through the glass.
That sound—unfiltered joy—always steadied me.
Reminded me why the long hours, the constant fundraising, the endless balancing act were worth it.
This foundation was supposed to be about building futures, not managing someone else’s mess.
Still, as I gathered my notes for the next sponsor meeting, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Beckett Mason wasn’t just another volunteer. He was a headline waiting to happen—and the last thing I needed was a storm before the gala.
“Okay,” I murmured, glancing toward the door as if expecting him to walk through it already. “Let’s see what kind of damage control this week brings.”
The clock hit 1:00 p.m. on the dot—the time Cam had promised.
I’d even cleared the conference room, set out a neat stack of volunteer waivers, and arranged a few branded coffee mugs on the table, because apparently I still believed in the power of first impressions.
By 1:15, the coffee had gone cold.
By 1:30, my patience had gone with it.
Naomi poked her head in once, saw the look on my face, and backed out wordlessly. Probably for the best.
I paced the length of the room, heels clicking against the tile, every minute stretching like an hour.
The laughter from the kids’ program next door bled through the wall—a sharp contrast to the tension knotting in my chest. I could organize a full-scale gala with two interns and a spreadsheet, but apparently, coordinating one professional athlete was asking too much.
At 1:37, the door finally swung open.
Beckett Mason strolled in like he was stepping onto a late-night talk show—baseball cap turned backward, sunglasses still on indoors, energy drink in one hand, phone in the other. His walk wasn’t hurried or apologetic; it was lazy confidence, the kind that said he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “You Ellery?”
I crossed my arms. “You know I am. You’re late.”
He cracked open the energy drink, the hiss loud in the silence. “Traffic.”
My brow arched. “You live five miles from here.”
He gave me that half-grin—the kind that belonged on highlight reels and tabloid covers. “Then it was bad traffic.”
I inhaled slowly through my nose, reminding myself that professionalism was a virtue. My smile felt tight, sharp enough to cut glass. “Right. Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Mason. Why don’t we get started?”
He dropped into the nearest chair like he owned it, sprawling out with zero regard for posture, decorum, or the concept of accountability. His sunglasses stayed on.
Fantastic.
Professional, Ellery. Be professional. You can survive one week of this.