Ellery #2
“I’ll make it up to you,” he said as he stepped back. “Promise. I’ll be at the gala.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You said that last year.”
“This time I mean it.” His grin widened, boyish and sure, like that settled everything.
He jogged off across the lot, waving once before turning the corner, sunlight flashing off the windshield of his car as he disappeared from view.
I sat there for a while after he left; the bleachers cooling under the fading sun.
The kids were still running drills, laughter echoing across the field.
And I told myself it was fine—that this was just who we were now.
But even as I smiled, I couldn’t shake the thought that distance didn’t always come from miles.
Sometimes it came from silence.
But here, silence never lasted long.
Naomi gave me a sympathetic look from the base of the bleachers. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” I said, though my voice came out quieter than I intended. “Just business as usual.”
She nodded, reading more than I wanted her to. “I’ll email you about the invoice,” she said, retreating with an understanding smile.
I sat back down, letting the hum of the field fill the quiet he left behind—the thud of soccer balls, the laughter of kids, the faint scrape of wind through the banners.
Kyle always left like that—warm, smiling, promising he’d be back soon. And every time, I told myself I understood. That his dream needed room to run, and I was lucky just to be near it.
But watching him go, that same old ache tugged at me—the kind that never really went away. The kind that came from loving someone who was always halfway gone.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to look forward again, toward the kids chasing the ball under the late sun.
At least they were still here.
And so was the work.
When I stepped back inside, the cool air of the office hit me like a wall—and so did Naomi’s expression. She was leaning against the counter, arms folded, one brow arched in that I know more than you want me to kind of way.
“Don’t start,” I said, dropping the clipboard onto my desk.
Naomi tilted her head, all faux innocence. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
I gave her a look.
She smirked. “Okay, fine. I was definitely going to say something. He’s sweet, Ellery. But he’s got the emotional attention span of a puppy.”
I straightened a stack of papers that didn’t actually need straightening. “He’s just focused,” I said, more defensive than I meant to sound. “This is a huge opportunity for him.”
“Sure,” Naomi said easily. “Just make sure you still get to be part of his story, not just cheer from the sidelines.”
I forced a smile, the practiced kind I’d perfected for donors and reporters alike. “I’m fine, Naomi.”
Her eyes softened. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “You keep saying that.”
She pushed off the counter, heading toward the hallway, leaving me alone with the hum of the lights and the faint echo of laughter from outside.
I sank into my chair, staring at the open spreadsheet on my laptop without really seeing it. The cursor blinked accusingly, waiting for me to type something useful.
I’m fine.
But I wasn’t. Not really.
Not when every conversation with Kyle felt like balancing pride and loneliness. Not when the life I’d built—this foundation, these kids, this purpose—felt like the only thing tethering me to the world we used to share.
And for the first time, I wondered how long fine could hold before it cracked.
As I gathered my things, the office had mostly emptied out—just the faint sound of music from the field and the hum of the vending machine in the hallway. I was halfway to shutting down my laptop when a flicker of movement outside the window caught my eye.
Curious, I stepped closer.
Out on the practice field, Beckett Mason was surrounded by a small cluster of kids.
He stood with his hands on his hips, shouting instructions about penalty kicks, his voice carrying easily through the glass.
Even from here, I could tell he had no patience—too loud, too blunt, barking corrections like they were seasoned players instead of ten-year-olds.
And yet… the kids were laughing.
One of them took a wild shot that missed by a mile, and Beckett groaned dramatically, ruffling the boy’s hair when he doubled over giggling. Another kid copied his stance, mimicking his “game face,” and Beckett actually laughed.
I found myself smiling before I caught it.
“He’s impossible,” I murmured under my breath. “But at least he’s here.”
The thought hit wrong—too soft, too forgiving—and I immediately pushed it away, annoyed at myself for even noticing. This wasn’t the time to get sentimental. I had a gala to finish planning, sponsors to confirm, and a thousand things I couldn’t afford to feel right now.
I turned off the office lights, the field outside dimming into silhouettes and shadows. The flutter in my chest—I told myself it was just fatigue.
The room fell quiet, that strange, end-of-day silence that always seemed louder than the noise that came before it.
I sat down again, just for a minute, letting the weight of the day settle over me. My phone sat face-down beside the computer. After a moment, I picked it up and swiped through the photos—donor meetings, last year’s fundraiser, the kids with their mismatched medals.
Then one photo stopped me.
Kyle and I at last year’s gala. His arm around my waist, both of us smiling like we’d already made it.
I stared for a moment, thumb hovering, then swiped past it quickly.
“This year will be different,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure what I meant.
The gala.
My relationship.
Me.
Maybe all of it.
The shadows stretched long across the office floor as I finally stood and gathered my things again. Outside, the faint sound of Beckett’s laughter drifted through the open window—low, unguarded, real.
I turned off the last light and left it behind.