Beckett
The building was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every sound feel louder than it should.
Most of the lights were off except for the ones spilling from the gym—soft and gold, cutting through the dark hall.
Boxes were stacked against the walls, banners half-unrolled, folding tables waiting to be set up.
I was the only one there.
My sleeves were rolled up, hands covered in a thin layer of dust from moving boxes. The place smelled like cardboard and old coffee. I hadn’t planned on coming back. Hell, I didn’t even know why I had.
Earlier that afternoon, I’d managed to knock over a display while trying to help. A couple of glass frames from last year’s fundraiser shattered across the floor. No one got hurt, but the sound was loud enough to make every volunteer in the room freeze.
Ellery hadn’t yelled. She just looked at me—tight-lipped, composed, disappointed. The kind of look that stuck with you longer than any lecture could.
You’d think I’d murdered someone, the way she looked at me. Just glass, not the end of the world.
Still, I couldn’t shake it.
So now I was back, alone, stacking chairs and fixing what I could. No one told me to come. No one knew I was here. And for once, that actually felt right.
I crouched to straighten a pile of flyers that had slipped from one of the boxes. They were photos of the foundation’s kids—smiling faces in mismatched uniforms, all elbows and grass stains. One of them was holding a trophy almost bigger than his head.
The same group that had been whispering and pointing when I showed up the first day. Like I was somebody worth looking at.
They didn’t know any better.
I ran a hand through my hair and sat back on my heels, staring at the mess I’d made and the little bit I’d managed to fix. Maybe I was trying to even the score—not with her, exactly, but with myself.
Because somewhere between the PR mandates and the suspensions, I’d forgotten what it felt like to choose to show up. Everything I did lately was damage control. This was… different.
My palms were raw, my shoulders tight from lifting boxes, but the work was quiet. Honest. No cameras, no crowd waiting for me to screw up. Just the sound of the heater humming and my sneakers scuffing the gym floor.
I caught sight of one of the unbroken frames. Ellery stood next to a group of kids, smiling that same focused, steady smile—like she actually believed in what she was doing.
I didn’t get people like her. I didn’t trust them, either. People who looked like hope always had a way of letting you down.
Still, I stayed.
I stacked the last box, brushed my hands off, and looked around the empty gym before moving back to the display case.
The damaged display board sat crooked on one of the tables—“Building Futures Through Sports” printed in bold letters across the top, the edges splintered and peeling. Someone had tried to prop it up earlier, but it leaned awkwardly, a reminder of the mess I’d made.
I sighed, rolling my sleeves higher. “Guess it’s you and me, then.”
The glue gun was still plugged in, half a roll of tape hanging off the edge of the table. I wasn’t good at this kind of thing—crafts, fixing stuff, delicate work—but I couldn’t just leave it broken. Not after the way Ellery had looked at it. At me.
The disappointment in her eyes had hit harder than a referee’s whistle.
So I set to work, gluing corners, pressing the edges together, retaping the frame piece by piece. The wood splinters bit into my fingers, and the glue stuck to my skin, but I kept going. Slow. Careful.
Every few minutes, I caught myself glancing at the photos still tacked to the board.
The same kids from the flyers—smiling, missing teeth, all energy and innocence.
There were a few shots of Storm players kneeling beside them during last year’s event, faces flushed from summer heat, handing out medals.
I wasn’t in any of those photos. Figures.
One picture caught my attention—Ellery crouched beside a little girl wearing cleats two sizes too big, one sock halfway down her shin. The girl’s face was smudged with dirt, but she was beaming. Ellery had the same look—hair pulled back, sun in her eyes, pure joy written all over her.
I froze, thumb brushing the photo’s edge.
“You really give a damn, don’t you?” I muttered under my breath.
The words sounded strange coming out of me—like I didn’t recognize my own voice.
I stared at the photo a moment longer, something twisting in my chest. It wasn’t guilt exactly. More like… awareness. The kind that made you realize someone else was fighting for something bigger while you’d been too busy fighting yourself.
I shook it off, reached for another strip of tape. The board wasn’t going to fix itself.
Piece by piece, the thing started to look whole again. Not perfect, but solid.
I stepped back, wiping my hands on my jeans, glue smudged across my knuckles. It wasn’t much—just a patched-up board in an empty gym—but for the first time in a while; I felt like I’d actually done something right.
Quietly. Without anyone watching.
And maybe that was what made it matter.
The door creaked behind me, breaking the silence I’d settled into. I didn’t bother looking up—figured it was the janitor or someone grabbing something they’d forgotten.
Then a familiar voice cut through the quiet. “You planning to steal the place or just redecorate?”
I jumped, nearly dropping the glue gun. “Jesus—do you sneak up on everyone, or just the people doing free labor?”
Ellery stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable in the dim light. She wasn’t wearing her usual blazer—just jeans and a sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, like she’d finally let herself breathe after a long day.
“I forgot my laptop,” she said after a beat, eyes flicking to the half-repaired board on the table. “You’re here… voluntarily?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I muttered, setting the glue gun down before I actually burned myself.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. “It’s nine-thirty.”
I smirked. “You’re here too.”
“Touché.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp like before. It was quieter, softer somehow. Just the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the faint patter of rain hitting the windows. I could feel her watching me—curious, skeptical, maybe even a little amused.
I gestured toward the board. “I broke it earlier. Figured I should fix it before the kids come back tomorrow.”
Her brow lifted. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” I said, surprising myself with how honest it came out. “That’s kind of the point.”
For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then she stepped closer, examining my handiwork. “Not bad,” she said finally. “A little crooked, but… functional.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Story of my life.”
Her lips twitched, like she didn’t want to smile but couldn’t quite stop it. “You really did all this tonight?”
“Yeah. I, uh… owed you one.”
She looked at me then—not like the PR mess she’d been stuck babysitting, but like she was trying to figure out who I actually was underneath all the headlines. And for once, I didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with something smart or defensive.
The rain outside picked up, tapping against the glass like static.
Ellery folded her arms again, but her tone softened. “You didn’t have to come back, Beckett.”
“I know,” I said again, quieter this time. “But if I didn’t, it’d keep bugging me.”
Her head tilted slightly, curiosity glinting in her eyes. “So you do have a conscience.”
“Don’t spread it around,” I said. “It’ll ruin my reputation.”
That earned a small laugh from her—barely there, but real.
For a moment, we just stood there, the hum of the lights filling the space between us. The tension wasn’t gone—it just wasn’t heavy anymore. It felt… balanced. Like we’d stopped fighting the current long enough to see where it might take us.
She didn’t leave.
For a second, I thought she might—grab her laptop, make some comment about “teamwork” being optional, and head out. But she stayed where she was, leaning against the doorframe, eyes scanning over me like she was cataloguing all the ways I didn’t belong in her tidy little world.
Her gaze dropped to my arm. “You missed a spot,” she said finally.
I glanced down. A smear of blue paint streaked across my wrist, another on my sleeve where it had already torn. “If you’re going to critique,” I said, holding out the brush, “grab a brush.”
She hesitated. Just long enough for me to think she’d roll her eyes and walk off.
Then she stepped forward, took the brush from my hand, and crouched beside me. “Fine,” she said, voice clipped but not unkind. “But if you glue this to the table, I’m not helping you explain it to Cam.”
“Deal.”
We worked in silence at first. Not the tense, ready-to-snap kind we’d been wrapped in all week—just… quiet. The kind that let you hear the little things: the scratch of tape peeling from the roll, the faint patter of rain outside, the steady rhythm of her breath beside mine.
I tried not to watch her too obviously, but it was impossible not to notice how focused she got when she worked. Every motion precise, measured. The same intensity she probably brought to everything.
“So this gala thing,” I said finally, just to break the quiet. “It’s a big deal, huh?”
She nodded without looking up. “Biggest of the year. It’s what keeps the lights on, funds the programs, pays for gear. No pressure or anything.”
I smirked. “Sounds like you could use a drink.”
“After the gala,” she said, dipping her brush again. “When I can afford to stop caring for five minutes.”
“That a habit of yours? Not caring?”
She shot me a look, more amused than annoyed. “You’re confusing me with you.”
I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “You’ve got jokes.”
“I have experience,” she countered, smoothing a strip of tape over the corner I’d mangled earlier. “Especially with people who think charm excuses chaos.”
I glanced at her, arching a brow. “You calling me charming?”
“Don’t push it.”