Ellery
I stood near the center of it all with my clipboard in one hand and a headset crooked on one ear, trying to look composed even as my stomach fluttered.
Cam Hunter, the team’s PR director, was in full command mode near the photographers.
He clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive.
“All right, people, these photos go everywhere — headlines, socials, sponsor decks. I want energy. I want teamwork. I don’t want anyone looking like they just lost a game. ”
Across the room, Naomi was squinting at the backdrop, aligning it by millimeters. “Smile,” she told one of the volunteers, “but not like you’re being audited.”
That made me laugh — a quick, nervous sound that probably fooled no one. “Can we make that the foundation’s new slogan?”
Naomi grinned. “Sure, if you print it on the gala invitations.”
I pretended to jot it down on my clipboard, mostly to keep my hands moving.
This shoot was more important than I wanted to admit.
These photos would headline the Building Futures Through Sports campaign — the face of the gala, our website, every donor email.
If we nailed it, we’d have the momentum we needed to lock in those last few sponsors.
If we didn’t… well, I didn’t want to think about that.
Cam’s voice cut through the buzz again. “James, how’s your side looking?”
“Almost ready,” I called back, straightening one of the banners that had slumped a little. “Just waiting on the players.”
He nodded, phone already in hand as he typed something at lightning speed. “Good. Kyle should be here soon. And Beckett’s on his way too.”
Beckett. Of course. My pulse kicked up for reasons I pretended not to notice. The last time I’d seen him, he’d helped fix a broken display board in my office, and I still wasn’t sure if that made us allies or just slightly less volatile enemies.
I checked my phone again anyway, like I needed confirmation.
Running a bit late, on my way.
I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Of course he was late — he always was — but he was coming. That was what mattered.
Naomi must’ve seen the look on my face because she smirked. “He texted?”
“On his way,” I said, trying for casual but hearing the relief in my own voice.
“Good,” she teased. “You were starting to look like you were about to ref a finals match.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “You try running a shoot with a room full of athletes and Cam breathing down your neck about lighting angles.”
Cam, without looking up, said, “I heard that, James.”
“You were meant to,” I shot back, earning another grin from Naomi.
For a second, I let myself breathe. The energy in the room hummed — focused, chaotic, but purposeful. The kind of energy I thrived on.
I adjusted the headset, scanned the set one last time, and straightened my blazer. The banners gleamed under the lights, the camera crew was ready, and the boxes actually looked halfway decent.
The only thing left was for everyone to show up.
“All right,” I murmured to myself, more prayer than pep talk. “Let’s make this count.”
The door swung open, breaking through the hum of voices and camera clicks.
Beckett Mason walked in like he owned the place—or maybe like he didn’t care who did. His black-and-gold Storm training kit clung to him, damp from whatever drill he’d just left, and his expression was unreadable—somewhere between bored and dangerous.
The air shifted without warning. Conversations faltered. Even the photographers paused for a second, lenses instinctively tracking him.
He scanned the room, then looked straight at me. “You’re the boss today, right?”
I lifted my clipboard like a shield. “Technically, always.”
That earned the smallest hint of a smirk. “Guess I’ll try not to screw it up.”
“Appreciated,” I said, matching his tone because I refused to let him have the last word.
He just stood there for a moment—arms crossed, assessing the setup, completely at ease despite every pair of eyes on him. The kind of confidence that didn’t need to be loud to fill a room.
And it worked.
There was something magnetic about him—sharp edges wrapped in calm, like a storm pretending to behave. Most people wilted under the PR spotlight; Beckett made it look like the cameras were his idea.
My gaze caught on the way the lights hit his hair, still wet from training, or maybe from the drizzle outside. His jaw flexed once, expression cool but not detached.
Why does he look better behaving badly than anyone else looks doing things right?
The thought came before I could stop it, and I mentally shoved it aside. Professional. Stay professional.
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice steady. “Go get changed. You have about five minutes before Cam starts breathing fire.”
He tilted his head, still smirking. “You sound like Coach.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I shot back, flipping through my notes to avoid his gaze.
He chuckled—low, genuine—and sauntered toward the changing area, moving with that same lazy grace athletes have when they know exactly how powerful they are.
Naomi sidled up next to me, her voice barely above a whisper. “You okay, boss? You’re doing that thing.”
I blinked. “What thing?”
“The thing where you look like you’re assessing posture but you’re actually staring at his shoulders.”
I nearly dropped my clipboard. “I was not—”
“Sure,” she said, biting back a grin. “Totally professional. Very Coach Lawson of you.”
I glared at her, but the corner of my mouth twitched. “Remind me to reassign you to merchandise sorting.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, smirking as she walked off.
I shook my head, pretending to refocus on the checklist, but my pulse was still a beat too fast. The cameras were ready, the lighting perfect, the banners lined up just right—everything under control.
Except maybe me.
A minute later, Beckett reappeared—hair pushed back, jersey crisp, grin sharper than before. The room seemed to realign around him, like even the air was waiting for what he’d do next.
Cam called out, “All right, Mason, front and center! Ellery, you’re next to him.”
Beckett turned, eyes finding mine again. That smirk widened, half challenge, half amusement.
“Looks like we’re teammates today,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t believe you play well with others.”
But as I stepped up beside him, clipboard tucked against my chest, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe—just maybe—I already was.
Kyle swept in like the cameras had been waiting just for him.
The room shifted instantly—energy snapping sharp, photographers straightening, volunteers whispering as if a celebrity had just arrived.
In a way, one had. He wore the Storm’s training kit too, but where Beckett’s looked rumpled and lived-in, Kyle’s was pristine.
His hair was perfect, his smile brighter than the studio lights.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek before I could even respond. “Had to finish an interview.”
I smiled, pushing aside the flicker of tension that came with his timing. “You made it—that’s what counts.”
He squeezed my hand, his palm warm and steady. “Anything for you.”
The photographers lapped it up, shutters clicking in rapid bursts as if this were part of the campaign—the golden couple, all teamwork and charity.
Across the room, I caught a flash of movement—Beckett, standing near the banner setup, arms folded, expression unreadable. He wasn’t looking at us, not exactly, but his jaw was tight, the muscle there shifting once. It wasn’t anything so simple. Just something unspoken, restrained.
Cam clapped his hands, his PR voice cutting through the noise. “All right, people! Let’s get this rolling before we lose the light. We’ll start with some teammate shots—Mason and Reynolds front and center!”
The air changed in an instant. Even the interns seemed to feel it.
Beckett turned slowly, his smirk slipping into something closer to steel. Kyle grinned, easy and unbothered, like he’d been born for this.
Two opposites—the Storm’s golden boy and its storm cloud.
They took their places side by side, the difference between them almost cinematic. Kyle stood straight, shoulders square, every move precise, polished. Beckett was looser, coiled like a spring that might snap at any second.
“All right, boys,” the photographer said, lifting his camera. “Look like you actually like each other.”
A low chuckle rippled through the crew, but no one missed the edge beneath it.
I stood just off-camera, clipboard pressed against my chest, pretending to check the shot list. Watching them like this—the contrast, the rivalry humming under the surface—made something twist low in my stomach.
Kyle’s arm draped easily around Beckett’s shoulder for the photo. Beckett didn’t flinch, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the forced curve of his mouth.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Now one more—bigger smiles.”
Kyle flashed his trademark grin. Beckett didn’t.
Cam’s voice cut in, smooth but firm. “Mason, let’s try that again. Sponsors love enthusiasm.”
Beckett gave the faintest nod, that smile still not reaching his eyes.
The camera flashed again.
From a distance, it probably looked like the perfect shot—two teammates, side by side, supporting a good cause. But standing there, clipboard in hand, I could feel the static between them like a brewing storm.
And I couldn’t help thinking that no matter how good the photo looked, someone was bound to crack first.
“Shoulder to shoulder, guys,” the photographer called, waving one hand as he adjusted the angle of his lens. “Maybe a little friendlier?”
Beckett shifted half an inch closer but didn’t even try to fake it. “This is as friendly as it gets.”
A few people laughed nervously. Kyle gave one of his easy, media-ready chuckles. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said smoothly. “He loves the camera.”
Beckett turned his head just slightly, enough that the lights caught the sharp line of his jaw. “At least it loves me back.”