Beckett
The locker room was already alive by the time I got there—music low, cleats clattering against tile, the familiar smell of sweat, turf, and way too much body spray. I kept my head down, pretending to scroll through my phone, hoping if I looked busy enough, no one would start in on me.
No such luck.
“How’d your first day at Ellery's go? She's really passionate about it.”
Kyle’s voice—of course. Always too damn chipper for mornings after double drills. I didn’t even have to look up to hear the grin in it.
“Shut up,” I muttered, tossing my bag into the locker.
That got a laugh from the corner. Kieren Walker—never missed an opportunity. “Heard she kicked you out.”
I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “Didn’t get kicked out. I left.”
“Yeah?” Kieren smirked. “That what we’re calling it now?”
I ignored him and yanked my jersey from the hook. The less said about yesterday, the better. The whole place had seen the headlines already—no point pretending otherwise.
I could still hear Ellery’s voice in my head. If you’re not interested, you can leave.
And I had.
But the look she’d given me before I walked out—the mix of anger and disappointment—had stuck longer than I wanted it to.
I slammed the locker door shut, maybe a little too hard when I heard the unmistakable scrape of boots on tile. Coach Lawson.
The room quieted like someone had hit mute.
He walked past slow, calm, the way only someone with complete control could manage. His voice was steady, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “You leave again,” he said without looking at me, “and it’ll be your contract that’s gone.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a man.
“Yes, Coach,” I said automatically, because there wasn’t a right answer, anyway.
He kept walking, and the buzz of conversation picked back up once he was gone. Quieter this time, though. More cautious.
I sat down on the bench, rubbing the back of my neck. My phone buzzed again.
Cam Hunter: Meeting. PR office. 10 sharp.
Of course.
I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “I shove a ref once, and suddenly I’m the league’s charity mascot.”
Adam snorted from a few lockers down. “Pretty sure it was more than a shove.”
“Pretty sure you should mind your own business.”
He laughed under his breath but didn’t push.
The locker room smell suddenly felt too thick, the air too heavy. I grabbed my gear and stood, shoving my phone into my pocket.
I didn’t need a lecture from Cam or Lawson to know what today would be—a reminder that I was lucky to still be wearing the jersey. That I was the team’s problem child they couldn’t quite get rid of yet.
But all I could think about as I headed for the parking lot was Ellery James—her steady voice, her clipped tone, the way she’d looked at me like she actually expected better.
Maybe that was what pissed me off most.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone had looked at me like I could be more than the storm everyone warned about.
And I had no idea what to do with that.
Cam Hunter’s office looked like it had been designed by someone allergic to clutter and joy.
The walls gleamed with awards and framed jerseys, all perfectly aligned, each one a reminder of the kind of player I used to be before every conversation about me included the word problem.
A few photos of smiling teammates with kids at hospitals or charity events stared down at me from their spots on the wall, all polished and wholesome.
I slouched in the chair opposite his desk, arms folded, eyes fixed on the floor. The last thing I needed was a lecture, but I could already tell from the way Cam’s jaw was set that one was coming.
“You were supposed to represent the team,” he said finally, voice calm but edged. “Not pick a fight with a nonprofit director.”
I didn’t bother sitting up. “She started it.”
Cam gave a low, disbelieving laugh and leaned back in his chair. “She started it by expecting you to work?”
“No.” I met his gaze, jaw tight. “By acting like I’m her intern.”
He didn’t reply—just exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned his tablet around and slid it across the desk toward me.
The headline glared up at me in bold red type:
Beckett Mason Throws Tantrum at Youth Foundation.
Complete with a blurry photo of me leaving the gym, shoulders tense, expression pissed.
I froze. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Wish I was,” Cam said, voice even. “You’re lucky Ellery didn’t give a statement. Reporter reached out to her directly.”
I glanced up, bracing for the worst. “And?”
Cam’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “She told them, ‘He’s just passionate.’”
That threw me. I blinked. “She said that?”
“She did,” Cam said. “Could’ve torched you publicly and instead handed you a lifeline. I’d take the win if I were you.”
I leaned back in the chair, staring at the photo. Ellery James—the last person I expected to defend me—had gone out of her way to soften the blow. It didn’t fit the version of her I’d painted in my head. She’d looked ready to strangle me yesterday.
Why the hell would she protect me?
Cam’s voice broke into my thoughts. “You’re going back today.”
I laughed under my breath, low and bitter. “Of course I am.”
“You’ll apologize,” he continued, unmoved. “You’ll help. You’ll smile. And you’ll mean it.”
I tilted my head. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll sit every match through June.”
That one landed.
He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, eyes steady. “Look, Beckett, you’ve got one hell of a talent. But your temper’s writing checks your reputation can’t cash anymore. This—” he gestured to the headline “—is your last shot to prove you can do more than blow up when things don’t go your way.”
My hands curled into fists in my lap. I wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t get it—but I couldn’t. Because deep down, he did. “…Fine,” I said finally, the word tasting like defeat.
“Good.” He stood, tapping his tablet off. “You’ll head over after practice. And Beckett?”
“What now?”
Cam’s tone softened, just slightly. “Don’t make her regret defending you.”
That one stung more than the threat of suspension.
I stood slowly, shoving my hands into my pockets. The air in his office felt too clean, too bright. On my way out, I caught sight of a photo on the wall—Kyle smiling, a kid clinging to his leg, everyone around him laughing.
That was the kind of image the team wanted. The kind of guy people rooted for.
And I was the headline they used to drive clicks.
But Ellery James had gone off-script—had seen me at my worst and still called it passion.
And for some reason, that felt worse than being hated.
Because I could handle being the villain.
I had no idea how to be forgiven.
Naomi saw me first. I caught her reflection in the office window—head tilted, a smirk already forming like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Oh, look,” she said, loud enough for me to hear through the glass. “The storm’s back.”
I almost turned around and left right then. Almost.
Inside, Ellery didn’t even glance up from her desk. Papers and volunteer forms were spread everywhere like organized chaos. Her voice carried, dry as sandpaper. “Fantastic. Someone hide the silverware.”
Cute. Real cute.
I knocked once—more out of habit than politeness—and pushed the door open before she could say no.
She didn’t look up. “If you’re here to quit again, at least text next time.”
“Not quitting,” I said, forcing the words out.
“Miracles happen.”
I shifted my weight, suddenly wishing I’d waited outside. The place smelled like coffee and printer ink. The kind of smell that clung to paperwork and long hours. She was still writing something, pen moving across the page like I wasn’t even there.
“Look,” I started, clearing my throat. “About yesterday—”
“You mean the part where you bailed mid-shift,” she said, cutting me off, “or the part where you ignored half the kids?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “The whole thing.”
That finally got her attention. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest, and gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. Cool. Controlled. Completely unfazed.
“Apology accepted,” she said.
I blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re not gonna make me grovel?”
“I don’t have time for groveling.” She stood, grabbed a stack of papers, and handed them to me. “I need help stapling programs.”
I stared at the stack. “You’re joking.”
She slid a stapler across the desk toward me. “Not even a little.”
For a second, I just stood there. No lecture, no smug satisfaction, no power trip—just a pile of papers and a stapler. She was completely unfazed by my attitude, and for some reason, that threw me more than if she’d chewed me out.
“You really don’t pull punches, do you?” I said finally, sitting down.
“Only when I have time,” she said without looking up.
I sighed, took the stapler, and started working. One in the corner, just like she’d said. Simple, mindless, mechanical. The kind of thing that should’ve annoyed me—and maybe it did—but it also kept me from saying something I’d regret.
The click of the stapler filled the silence between us. Naomi had slipped out a few minutes ago, leaving the two of us alone. The tension from yesterday was still there, but it felt different now—less like a live wire, more like static humming in the air.
“You really don’t like me much, do you?” I said after a minute.
She didn’t even look up. “I don’t know you well enough not to like you. But I know how to recognize someone who needs to prove something.”
That hit harder than it should’ve. I laughed under my breath, low and humorless. “And what am I trying to prove?”
“That’s not my job to figure out,” she said, finally glancing up. Her eyes were sharp, steady. “But it’s pretty obvious you’re trying.”
I didn’t have a comeback for that.
So I stapled another set of programs. Then another.
And somehow, sitting there across from her—her calm, her precision, her complete lack of interest in my reputation—was more disarming than any confrontation I’d ever had.