Ellery #2
Still, as I picked up the volunteer packet and started walking him through the schedule, I couldn’t help thinking: if he handled the field like he handled punctuality, it was no wonder he spent half the season in trouble.
But I kept my smile steady, my tone polite, my composure intact. Because someone in this room had to act like an adult.
And apparently, that someone was me.
I launched into the standard walk-through, clipboard in hand like armor.
“This way,” I said, keeping my tone chipper as I led him out of the office and down the hallway. “We’ll start with the training field. The kids use it for drills after school, and on weekends we host community scrimmages.”
Beckett followed a few steps behind, sunglasses still on, energy drink still in hand. His phone buzzed twice before we even reached the door. He checked it both times.
“Sounds fun,” he muttered, clearly not listening. “Lots of photo ops, huh?”
I ignored that. “The classrooms are next—this is where we run tutoring sessions before practice. Most of the kids come straight from school, so it’s important they get their homework done before they hit the turf.”
He made a noncommittal sound—half grunt, half sigh—and glanced down at his screen again.
I tightened my grip on the clipboard. Patience, Ellery. Smile. Keep it cordial.
We stepped into the main hallway that opened to the glass windows overlooking the field. The sound of laughter and sneakers squeaking on turf floated in from outside. A few of the kids spotted us through the glass.
“Is that—?” one whispered.
“Beckett Mason!” another hissed, eyes wide.
They started pressing against the window, waving and giggling like it was Christmas morning.
To my surprise, Beckett actually stopped. For a second, his expression shifted—something warmer, something real flickered through. He lifted a hand and waved back, a grin tugging at his mouth. One of the kids bolted in, clutching a soccer ball and a permanent marker.
“Can you—can you sign it?” the boy stammered, eyes huge.
Beckett didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, kid. C’mere.”
He crouched, signed the ball with a quick flourish, and ruffled the kid’s hair before sending him back out to the field. The boy ran off beaming, showing it to everyone like he’d just won the lottery.
For a heartbeat, I saw it—the version of Beckett people used to talk about before the headlines. The one who looked alive when he was around the game.
Then he caught me watching him. The grin vanished. His sunglasses went back on.
And just like that, the wall was back up.
“They look up to you, you know,” I said as we resumed walking. “You could at least try.”
He shrugged, voice flat. “Lady, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Physically, sure.”
That got me a look—a quick flash of annoyance mixed with something else. Amusement, maybe. “Wow,” he said. “You’re not scared to talk back.”
“I work with twelve-year-olds,” I said. “You’ll have to do better than mild condescension.”
He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “Guess we’ll see.”
We walked the rest of the hallway in silence; the air charged but not unfriendly. Beneath the sharp edges, there was a hum of curiosity.
I could tell he was testing me—seeing how far he could push.
He didn’t know I was testing him, too.
Back in the office, I handed him a clipboard and my most diplomatic smile. “Here’s what we’ve got for you this week.”
He took it without looking, already sounding suspicious. “What is this?”
“Your task list.” I pointed to the first section. “Sponsor gift baskets, silent auction setup, and promotional appearances for the gala.”
He finally glanced down. His eyebrows shot up. “You’re joking. You want me to sort baskets?”
“Yes,” I said simply. “Unless you’d prefer to handle the silent auction logistics. Though that involves spreadsheets.”
He gave me a blank stare, then set the clipboard on the desk like it had personally offended him. “This is what community outreach means to you? Gift baskets?”
I crossed my arms. “Yes. Or do you need a red card for that too?”
Naomi, who’d been tidying the coffee station behind me, went very still.
Beckett’s mouth twitched, but his tone stayed dry as dust. “Cute.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. He leaned back against the desk, folding his arms across his chest, and studied me from behind those ever-present sunglasses. “You always this fun, or do I just bring out the best in people?”
I smiled tightly. “You’re special.”
“Glad you noticed.”
Naomi made a noise somewhere between a cough and a snort and immediately bent over the printer like it was the most fascinating object in the world.
The air felt thick—equal parts irritation and challenge. Beckett was clearly testing boundaries, seeing how far he could push before I snapped. He’d probably spent years getting away with that swagger, that careless tone.
Unfortunately for him, I’d spent years learning how to smile through fundraising dinners and city council meetings with men just like him.
So I met his gaze, steady and unbothered. “The baskets are in the storage room,” I said. “Each sponsor has a label. You can start there.”
He stared for a beat, then grabbed the clipboard again. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I said brightly, as if we hadn’t just traded barbs like fencers.
He headed for the door, muttering something under his breath about “photo ops and glitter.”
Naomi waited until he was gone before speaking. “You know, for a guy who scores for a living, he’s not great at reading the room.”
I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Just keep him away from the champagne raffle. I don’t need another PR headline this week.”
Naomi grinned. “You sure you don’t secretly enjoy this?”
“Not even a little,” I said, though my pulse betrayed me—part frustration, part something else I didn’t want to name.
Because beneath the tension, there was something electric about matching wits with Beckett Mason.
And I hated that I noticed.
Cam called right in the middle of the sponsor debrief. I didn’t even get the chance to hit mute before his voice boomed through the speakerphone.
“Hey, Ellery! How’s our storm cloud behaving?”
I froze, eyes widening a fraction. Across the table, Beckett’s brows rose above his sunglasses. Of course Cam’s timing would be impeccable.
I forced a polite tone. “Oh, you know,” I said dryly. “I’d say partly cloudy with a chance of explosion.”
Naomi nearly choked on her coffee.
Beckett’s head turned toward me, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth curving into something between amusement and a warning.
Cam chuckled, oblivious. “That’s progress. Keep him busy, yeah? Media’s already eating up the story. I’ll check in later.”
“Perfect,” I said through my teeth. “We’ll be just fine.”
The line clicked off, leaving behind the kind of silence that felt too big for the room.
Naomi found an excuse to escape—something about confirming catering—leaving the two of us alone with the awkward hum of the overhead lights.