Beckett #2
No one talked to me like that. Not coaches, not PR, not even teammates.
But Ellery James didn’t care who I was supposed to be.
She just handed me work, and somehow, that felt worse than a punishment.
Because for the first time in a long time, I actually wanted to earn something.
The next two hours were a blur of grunt work. Moving boxes from the storage closet to the main hall, folding banners that refused to line up straight, counting silent auction items one by one. None of it hard, exactly—just tedious. The kind of thing that gave your brain too much time to think.
I grumbled the whole time. She ignored me the whole time.
Ellery worked like she’d been born in motion—hair pulled into a loose bun, pen tucked between her teeth, flipping between spreadsheets and phone calls without missing a beat. I’d seen team managers fall apart with less on their plate, but she handled chaos like it was her native language.
Every few minutes, I caught myself watching her. Not in the creepy way—more like in the what planet are you from kind of way.
She didn’t bark orders. She didn’t micromanage. She just… moved. Efficient. Calm. Purposeful. Everyone around her—volunteers, kids, even Naomi—took their cues from that rhythm without her having to raise her voice.
She runs this whole place like a damn team, I thought, stacking another box. No wonder everyone listens when she talks.
A small noise pulled me out of my head—a soft thud, followed by a kid’s sigh. I turned. A little boy stood in the doorway, holding a deflated soccer ball like it had personally betrayed him.
Before I could say anything, Ellery noticed him. Her whole face softened, tension melting away like someone had flipped a switch.
“What happened, bud?” she asked gently, setting down her clipboard.
“Ball popped,” he said, lip wobbling just a little.
She crouched down to his level, smile kind and steady. “We’ll fix it. Go grab another one from the bin, okay?”
He nodded, and when he ran off, she went right back to work—same focus, same rhythm, like that whole moment had been muscle memory.
It hit me harder than I expected. The shift in her—sharp professionalism one second, warmth the next—was seamless. Natural. The kind of balance I’d never figured out how to pull off.
“You ever take a break?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Without looking up, she said, “Not when there’s still work to do.”
“That explains a lot.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You mean why I’m not losing my temper in front of reporters?”
I huffed out a laugh. “Touché.”
For the first time all day, the tension between us cracked just enough to let in a hint of something else—amusement, maybe. Respect, if I was being generous.
She didn’t look up again, just kept typing, but I could feel her smirk from across the table.
And damn it, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to argue with her… or keep her talking.
Either way, I was starting to understand why everyone here followed her lead.
Even me.
By midafternoon, I was starting to think Ellery had a secret vendetta against downtime.
She moved around the office like a machine—fielding calls, organizing donations, checking in with volunteers—and I was barely keeping up.
Then she handed me a clipboard, like I hadn’t already done my penance in boxes and banners.
“Here,” she said, sliding it toward me. “Tomorrow’s schedule.”
I took it, mostly out of curiosity. The thing looked like it had been built by NASA. Meetings, sponsor calls, gala setup—every line color-coded, neatly tabbed, and highlighted within an inch of its life.
“You color-code meetings?” I asked, flipping through the pages.
“Of course,” she said, not missing a beat as she typed something into her laptop.
I blinked. “You’re insane.”
She smiled faintly, eyes still on the screen. “Efficient.”
I snorted. “Right. That’s one word for it.”
She didn’t even rise to the bait, which made me want to push harder. So I did.
When she turned to grab something off the printer, I shifted a stack of folders from the edge of her desk to the middle—just to see if she’d notice.
She did. Immediately.
“Put those back where they belong, please,” she said without even looking up.
I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize office supplies were sacred.”
Her eyes finally lifted to mine, calm but sharp enough to cut. “Only to people who care about results.”
For a second, we just stared at each other—something sparking in the air between us. Not quite anger. Not quite curiosity. Something heavier, charged.
I should’ve looked away first, but I didn’t. Neither did she.
It wasn’t until the sound of typing from the next room broke the tension that I finally exhaled and leaned back against the desk, smirking. “You know,” I said, “most people would kill to get along with me.”
She didn’t even glance up. “I’m not most people.”
That one landed harder than it should’ve. I wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t cruel or cold. Just matter-of-fact. Like she’d already figured out who I was and decided she wasn’t impressed.
It shouldn’t have bothered me. Hell, I’d built a career on not caring what anyone thought. Coaches, reporters, fans—they could all think whatever they wanted. I’d stopped trying to prove anything to anyone a long time ago.
But somehow, hearing I’m not most people from Ellery James hit different.
Because for the first time in years, I caught myself wanting to prove her wrong.
Not with words. Not with charm.
Just… by showing up.
By the time the last volunteer left and the lights dimmed in the hallway, the office was dead quiet—except for the steady tap of Ellery’s keyboard.
She was still at her desk, posture straight, hair falling loose from her bun, eyes fixed on the screen like the world might collapse if she stopped typing.
Papers surrounded her like a fortress—neat stacks, color-coded tabs, and sticky notes arranged with the kind of precision only a control freak or a genius could manage.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, half amused and—if I was being honest—half impressed.
“You ever go home?” I asked.
She didn’t look up. “Eventually.”
I smirked. “You know, for someone who hates athletes, you work like one.”
She glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before she hid it behind a small, contained smile. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Good thing I’m not trying to be funny.”
She shook her head, but I could see the corner of her mouth threatening to lift again. I stepped inside the room, the quiet settling between us like a truce neither of us had agreed to.
She kept typing, phone buzzing beside her with what looked like a dozen unanswered texts. One of them flashed across the screen—Kyle —and I didn’t know why that name twisted something in my gut.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You ever actually go home to your boyfriend, or is this what passes for date night?”
Her fingers stilled on the keyboard, but she didn’t look up. “He has training.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That why you’re still here? Waiting for him to remember you exist?”
That earned me a look—sharp, unamused, the kind that could drop a man faster than a red card. “I don’t wait on anyone,” she said evenly.
Point taken.
I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Just asking.”
“You should focus on your own schedule,” she said, voice clipped again, slipping neatly back behind her walls. “If you’re planning to come back tomorrow, be here on time.”
“I will.”
She arched a brow. “You said that before.”
I grinned. “Guess you’ll find out if I mean it.”
Something flickered in her eyes—annoyance, maybe. Or curiosity. Hard to tell with her.
“Fine,” she said finally, turning back to her laptop. “Goodnight, Beckett.”
“Night, boss.”
That earned me the tiniest pause in her typing, which I counted as a win.
I pushed off the doorframe, heading for the exit, and somewhere between the hallway and the parking lot, I realized I was smiling. Not the cocky, look-at-me smirk I wore for cameras. A real one.
She was still impossible. But maybe impossible wasn’t the worst thing I’d dealt with.
Outside, the air was cool, the faint hum of the field lights buzzing in the distance. The kids were still out there—running drills, chasing the ball, laughing like they hadn’t noticed it was long past dark.
I paused beside my truck, glancing back toward the building.
Through the office window, Ellery was still there—head down, completely focused, like the rest of the world could wait until she was done.
The reflection of the field lights danced over the glass, blurring her silhouette into something soft and untouchable.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I sat for a moment, staring at the glow of the building in my rearview mirror. There was something unfamiliar sitting in my chest—heavy, insistent.
Respect, maybe.
Or trouble.
Either way, I was already in it.