Ellery #2
The flash went off—bright and blinding—freezing the moment in perfect, professional irony. On the monitor, the image appeared: two teammates shoulder to shoulder, one grinning, one smirking, tension stitched into the space between them.
The half-smile on Beckett’s face wasn’t friendly at all. It was a warning.
I stood beside Cam, watching through the monitor, clipboard hugged against my chest to keep from fidgeting.
My stomach twisted tighter with every click of the shutter.
Whatever was happening between them—it wasn’t just competitive energy.
There was a crack in the air, sharp and old, like history no one wanted to name.
Cam leaned toward me, muttering under his breath, “If they survive this without killing each other, it might actually look authentic.”
I managed a strained laugh, keeping my eyes on the monitor. “That’s… something.”
“Something,” he echoed, tone dry.
I didn’t respond. My focus stayed locked on Beckett. He wasn’t even pretending to care about the camera anymore. His gaze stayed angled just slightly toward Kyle—steady, unreadable, but intense enough that even through the glass, it felt personal.
Kyle just kept smiling, professional that he was.
It was polished and easy, the kind of expression he could hold for an entire press day without blinking.
But I knew him too well. I caught the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed between shots.
He felt it too—the tension thrumming underneath the flash and applause.
“Perfect,” the photographer said brightly. “Now let’s get one where you’re both laughing, maybe hands on shoulders—something that shows teamwork.”
Beckett’s smirk deepened just enough to make it clear what he thought of that idea. Kyle’s jaw flexed before he forced another grin.
The flash went off again, white light bouncing off their jerseys, the Storm logo gleaming between them.
The resulting image looked perfect—two players, teammates united for a cause. But standing there, I could see what the camera couldn’t: the storm building behind their smiles.
I tried to swallow the tightness in my chest, forcing my expression into something neutral, professional. It wasn’t my place to step in. They were grown men. Professionals.
Still, as the next series of flashes went off, Beckett’s focus never once shifted to the lens.
It stayed on Kyle—sharp, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
The next setup was supposed to be the heartwarmer — the one that screamed community, teamwork, hope. Cam’s words, not mine.
We moved to the center of the photo space, where a handful of the foundation’s kids waited, clutching soccer balls almost as big as their torsos. The backdrop gleamed with the Storm and Foundation logos, everything bright and carefully balanced.
Beckett crouched beside a small boy with freckles and grass-stained knees, his usual edge softening just slightly as the kid grinned up at him.
“You’re the guy who got that red card!” the boy blurted, voice full of innocent awe.
A ripple of laughter went through the crew. Beckett didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin widened. “Yeah,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “but I still scored first.”
The boy laughed, delighted, and Beckett bumped fists with him.
I tried not to smile. Really, I did. But there was something about the way he said it — the quiet mischief in his tone, the ease that melted every bit of tension he usually carried — that made it impossible not to.
Meanwhile, Kyle was exactly what every PR director dreamed of. Perfect posture, camera-ready smile, just the right mix of warmth and confidence. He crouched beside a pair of girls, one on each side, chatting like he’d known them for years.
“Which one of you’s going pro first?” he asked.
Both girls giggled, holding up their soccer balls like trophies.
The photographer’s camera clicked in rapid bursts. The energy was good. Manufactured, but good.
Then my gaze drifted back to Beckett.
He was laughing — a real, unguarded laugh — as the same little boy tried to balance the ball on his head. When it inevitably rolled off, Beckett caught it before it hit the floor and ruffled the kid’s hair. “You’ve got potential,” he said. “Just work on your aim.”
The boy nodded seriously, and Beckett grinned again.
And there it was — the thing I hadn’t expected.
No polish, no pretense, no practiced lines. Just a guy connecting with a kid who looked up to him for reasons bigger than stats or sponsorships.
Kyle’s charm worked like a spotlight — bright, impressive, and perfectly aimed. Beckett’s was messier, rougher around the edges, but somehow it drew people in anyway.
The kids noticed. The volunteers noticed.
I noticed.
I stood just off to the side, pretending to check my clipboard but really watching him.
He didn’t even realize when he was good. That was the difference.
Where Kyle performed kindness, Beckett just… was it, even if he didn’t mean to be.
“All right, that’s perfect,” the photographer called, snapping one last shot as Beckett hoisted the ball onto the boy’s shoulder. “Hold it right there—yes! That’s the one.”
The flash went off, freezing the moment — Beckett mid-laugh, the boy grinning ear to ear, Kyle picture-perfect beside them.
Cam clapped once. “Beautiful. That’s the headline shot.”
I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
When Beckett looked up, catching my eye across the set, I managed a small smile — one I didn’t mean to give but couldn’t stop.
He didn’t smile back exactly. Just raised an eyebrow, that half-cocked grin hinting he’d noticed too.
And for a heartbeat, it felt like the storm between them wasn’t the only one in the room.
“Okay, let’s get the banner centered. Beckett, can you shift that stand a few inches to the left?” Cam called, taking a moment to direct another shot. “Careful—it’s top-heavy.”
Beckett grunted something in response and reached for the metal frame, dragging it a few inches. The photographers adjusted their lenses; the kids fidgeted with their soccer balls, and for one fleeting second, everything was fine.
Then the stand wobbled.
It happened fast—the banner swayed; the base caught on the edge of a donation box, and the whole thing started to tip toward the kids.
I gasped, already moving forward.
But Beckett was faster.
He lunged, catching the metal frame mid-fall, one arm braced against the ground as he steadied the banner with his shoulder. The kids froze, wide-eyed. A couple of the volunteers gasped.
By the time I reached him, the danger had passed.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.
He looked up, hair mussed, a smear of dust on his sleeve. “Fine,” he said gruffly, straightening the stand like it had never fallen.
The camera flash went off right then.
Through the monitor, I saw it—the shot the photographer had accidentally captured. Beckett crouched low, still steadying the banner, one arm half-extended as if shielding the kids. I was leaning toward him, concern written across my face. It didn’t look posed. It didn’t look polished.
It looked… real.
Cam leaned over the monitor, eyes widening. “That’s the money shot,” he mouthed, grinning.
I stepped back quickly, heat blooming across my cheeks. “Everyone okay?” I said, too briskly, trying to shake off the sudden pulse in my chest.
The kids nodded, still a little stunned, and Beckett brushed off his hands like nothing had happened. “Guess I’m good for something after all,” he muttered.
“Besides chaos?” I said, forcing a smile.
He shot me a look—half smirk, half challenge. “Hey, I just saved your banner. You’re welcome.”
“I’ll make sure your medal’s engraved,” I said, crossing my arms to hide how flustered I suddenly felt.
The photographer called for everyone to reset; the energy buzzing with new excitement now that they’d caught something unplanned and perfect.
I could still feel the warmth in my face as I stepped aside, pretending to straighten the edge of a sign that didn’t need it. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Beckett watching me, his expression unreadable.
Then, as he turned back to help one of the kids reposition, that infuriatingly subtle smirk tugged at his mouth—like he knew exactly what he was doing.
And the worst part? He probably did.
The crew scattered to reset the lighting, chatter echoing off the studio walls. Someone adjusted the softboxes; another wrangled a power cord. The shoot had hit that lull between setups—the part where everyone pretended to relax but kept glancing at the clock.
Kyle had been pulled aside for a quick interview with a local sports reporter, all easy charm and practiced answers. I caught snippets of his voice across the room—steady, professional, perfectly quotable.
I lingered near the snack table, flipping through my clipboard again even though I didn’t really need to. My focus slipped when Beckett walked over, grabbed a water bottle, and dropped into the chair beside me like he belonged there.
“He’s the PR favorite, huh?” he said, nodding toward Kyle mid-interview.
I didn’t look up right away. “Kyle’s good with people.”
Beckett twisted the cap off the bottle, took a long drink, then said, “Good at people. There’s a difference.”
That made me glance at him. He wasn’t smiling—just watching Kyle from across the room, jaw tight, voice low enough that it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.
“You two don’t like each other,” I said finally.