Beckett #2
We both laughed then—small, surprised, like neither of us expected to actually find it funny. The kind of laugh that made something loosen in my chest I didn’t know had been wound tight.
We went back to work. Piece by piece, the board started to look whole again. The edges lined up; the cracks hidden under fresh tape.
She stepped back first, brushing her hands off. “There,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Almost good as new.”
“Almost?” I asked, standing beside her.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Our shoulders brushed, just barely, and for a second, neither of us moved. The rain outside softened, and the hum of the lights filled the space where words didn’t fit.
I looked down at the board, at the photos of the kids and the bright, impossible lettering across the top—Building Futures Through Sports.
“You really think this stuff works?” I asked quietly.
She glanced up at me, her expression unreadable but softer than before. “I have to.”
Something about the way she said it stuck in my chest.
She stepped away then, cleaning the brush, pretending not to notice I was still watching her.
For once, I didn’t have anything smart to say. I just picked up the roll of tape and started sealing the edges again, side by side in the glow of the gym lights—two people who’d spent all week at war, finally finding a truce in the wreckage.
She was quiet for a while, adjusting one of the corners I’d already fixed. The air between us had softened, stretched thin with the kind of calm that only happened when we both ran out of energy to fight.
Then she exhaled, shoulders dropping a little.
“We’re so far behind,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“Half the auction items haven’t arrived, the sponsor packets still need printing, and I haven’t even finalized the seating chart.
” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “If this gala tanks, I’ll be disappointing everyone — the donors, the kids, the board. All of them.”
I glanced over at her. The light from the overhead fixture caught the curve of her cheek, the faint exhaustion under her eyes. She looked like she’d been carrying this whole place on her back for weeks.
“You won’t,” I said.
She looked up, half-smiling. “That’s optimistic coming from you.”
“It’s not optimism,” I said, tearing another strip of tape. “It’s facts. You don’t quit. It’s annoying.”
That got a real laugh out of her — small and tired, but genuine. It slipped into the room like a spark, quiet but warm.
I caught myself smiling too, though I turned away before she noticed.
We reached for the same roll of tape at the same time, hands brushing. Just a light touch — her fingers cool against mine, soft where mine were rough and calloused.
Neither of us moved right away.
For a second, everything stilled. The hum of the lights, the patter of rain outside, the faint echo of some distant heater — all of it faded into the background.
Then I cleared my throat and took a step back, trying to act like the air hadn’t just shifted. “You should get home,” I said. “It’s late.”
She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I could say the same to you.”
“Yeah,” I said, half-grinning, “but I don’t listen.”
Her lips curved, matching my grin with one of her own — softer, knowing.
For a beat, we just stood there, staring at the board we’d pieced together. It wasn’t perfect — the lines were crooked, the corners still a little rough — but it looked better than before. Solid. Whole.
She stepped closer, crossing her arms. “You did good work tonight, Beckett.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I said, but there wasn’t any bite behind it.
“I’m not shocked,” she said, glancing at me. “Just… pleasantly surprised.”
I didn’t know what to do with that, so I shrugged, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
Her eyes met mine — steady, unguarded — and for a moment, the whole room felt smaller.
The truth was, I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. There was something about this—about her—that felt different from the noise of the field, the interviews, the endless grind of proving myself.
But I wasn’t about to say that out loud.
We stepped back at the same time, side by side, staring at the board we’d just finished repairing. The thing wasn’t perfect—half the edges were uneven, one corner refused to sit flush, and the tape looked like it had lost a fight—but it was standing again. Solid enough to survive another gala.
Ellery tilted her head, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. “Not bad for a red card.”
I smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
She shot me a quick look over her shoulder. “What, you helping?”
“Me apologizing,” I said.
That earned a quiet laugh, soft enough I almost missed it. She shook her head, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Duly noted.”
For a second, I didn’t move. Just watched her.
The way she scanned the board, eyes tracing the lines of tape and photos, like she couldn’t turn off the part of her brain that catalogued every detail. The way her hands lingered on the corners, steady and sure, like she couldn’t leave anything halfway done.
And then there was that moment—barely a heartbeat—where she looked up at the pictures. Kids in mismatched jerseys. Mud-streaked faces. The same kind of joy I used to feel before the game turned into a job.
She exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as she reached for the light switch.
You work yourself to the bone for this. For them. For nothing in return. You’re insane.
That was what I wanted to say. But what I really meant was something I didn’t have words for. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
She turned off the lights, leaving the gym in a soft amber glow from the emergency bulbs. I followed her out, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the sound of our footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Outside, the rain had calmed to a light drizzle, tapping softly against the asphalt. The air was cool, heavy with that wet, clean scent that comes after a storm.
She locked the door behind us, balancing her laptop under one arm while fumbling with her keys. Without thinking, I reached out, took them from her hand, and unlocked her car before she could protest.
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, handing the keys back.
Her fingers brushed mine as she took them, quick but enough to make something flicker under my ribs again.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The parking lot was quiet except for the rain and the faint hum of streetlights.
She finally broke the silence, her voice softer than usual. “Good night, Beckett.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You too, Ellery.”
She opened the car door, slid in, and started the engine. The headlights washed over me as she pulled out; the beams catching the water on the pavement like glass.
I stood there, hands still buried in my pockets, watching her taillights fade into the dark.
The sensible thing would’ve been to head to my own car, go home, and forget the whole night happened. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend she didn’t matter.
But I didn’t move.
Instead, I found myself standing there in the February snow, jaw tight, replaying the way she’d smiled when we finished, the way her laugh had sounded when she teased me, the way she’d said my name like it wasn’t a headline.
I wasn’t mad at her.
I was mad at myself—for caring, even a little.
For feeling something I didn’t have a playbook for.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or the beginning of another mess I couldn’t walk away from.