Beckett
The air was cold enough to bite, the kind that burned when you breathed too deep. Perfect morning for drills.
The sky hung low and gray over the SWM Storm training field, floodlights cutting through the mist. Grass slick underfoot, ball crisp and fast—just the way I liked it. The world narrowed to the sound of cleats, shouted calls, and the thud of the ball hitting the net.
For once, I felt balanced.
Adrenaline hummed through my blood, sharp and clean. Sweat slicked my neck, the ache in my legs a good kind of pain. No cameras. No PR handlers. Just the game.
Of course, it didn’t last.
“Hey, Mason!”
I glanced up to see Adam Hart jogging toward me, grin already plastered across his face. Hart was all flash—white cleats, neon tape on his wrists, and a headband that made him look like he’d walked out of a sportswear ad. Charismatic as hell, and too damn perceptive for his own good.
“How’s community service?” he called out. “Save any puppies this week?”
“Bite me,” I shot back, not missing a beat as I fired another shot past the keeper.
“Seriously though,” he said, jogging closer with that lazy swagger of his. “You in charity jail forever, or they letting you off for good behavior?”
Before I could answer, Derek chimed in from the far side of the field—didn’t even look up from his drill. “He’s got gala duty,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “Should see him smile for the cameras. It’s adorable.”
A ripple of laughter moved down the line. Teammates chuckled, someone whistled, and I felt the back of my neck heat.
I straightened, rolled my shoulders, and called back, “You know what’s adorable? Watching both of you miss open nets.”
“Touché, Saint Beckett,” Adam said, grinning wide.
That got another round of laughs. The nickname stuck instantly—light, mocking, but with enough edge to make my teeth grind.
Saint Beckett.
Perfect.
I smirked anyway, masking the irritation bubbling underneath. “Keep talking, Hart. Maybe one day you’ll actually back it up.”
He just winked, sauntering back toward midfield. “Careful, Mason. People might start thinking charity work’s mellowed you out.”
Kyle didn’t add anything else, but when our eyes met across the field, there was something sharp there. Rivalry. History. The kind that didn’t fade with time or distance.
We’d played together for years—different positions, different temperaments. Kyle was the golden boy: precise, disciplined, the league’s PR dream. I was the one who hit too hard, talked too much, and gave the press a reason to keep writing.
Two sides of the same coin, and we both knew it.
The whistle blew for the next rotation. I jogged to my spot, shaking the tension from my shoulders. Hart’s laughter still carried faintly from behind me, but I tuned it out.
Focus. Ball. Goal.
The rest was just noise.
I took the pass, cut left, and struck clean. The ball sliced through the mist and hammered the back of the net with a satisfying thud.
“Nice one, Saint,” Adam called, clapping slowly.
I didn’t look at him this time. Just grabbed the next ball from the rack, set it down, and hit again—harder, sharper, each shot landing with the precision of a grudge.
They could joke about community service, about charity gigs and photo ops, about me pretending to smile for the cameras. They didn’t get it.
On the field, I didn’t have to.
Here, I didn’t need saving—or forgiveness.
Here, I just needed the ball, the goal, and a reason to keep proving I wasn’t done yet.
Scrimmage days always brought the best out of everyone—or the worst, depending on how you looked at it.
The air was sharp with cold, the sky still the same heavy gray it had been since sunrise. Cleats scraped across damp turf, the sound of shouted passes echoing across the Storm’s training field.
Kyle lined up a shot near the edge of the box. Smooth, clean, textbook form—of course he nailed it. The ball curved past the keeper and slammed into the net.
Teammates cheered. A couple clapped him on the back. Coach Lawson, arms crossed near midfield, gave one of his rare approving nods.
“Good read, Reynolds,” he called.
Kyle jogged back to position, the picture of composure.
Then it was my turn.
I took the pass, sprinted down the line, cut inside—and sent the ball flying. It smacked hard against the post and bounced out.
A whistle from midfield. Adam Hart grinning, of course. “Guess charity work’s making you soft, Mason.”
Laughter followed—good-natured on the surface, but I could feel the sting underneath.
I rolled my shoulders, turned toward him. “Keep talking, Hart. Maybe I’ll teach you how to finish a play.”
That got another round of laughter, this time directed at him, and Adam threw up his hands in mock surrender.
“All right, boys,” Coach Lawson called, voice flat but firm. “Wrap it up. Hydrate and hit the locker room. Same time tomorrow.”
The whistle blew. Everyone started peeling off the field, still laughing, tossing jokes back and forth. The kind of banter that came easy when you were winning—or when you weren’t the one the league had labeled a liability.
I stayed behind.
The others’ voices faded as they jogged toward the tunnel. I stood at midfield, hands on my hips, breathing hard. The chill in the air bit at my skin, but my blood ran hot.
I dragged another ball from the rack, set it down, and hit it—hard. The shot rocketed into the crossbar and ricocheted high, slamming into the fence behind the goal with a metallic clang.
The sound echoed across the empty field.
For a second, I just stood there, chest heaving, jaw tight enough to ache.
They thought I was a joke.
A PR puppet.
The league’s problem child doing charity work to look like a good guy.
I kicked another ball, this one skimming wide.
You didn’t fix your reputation by pretending to care. You fixed it by reminding people why they were afraid of you in the first place. By proving you don’t need their forgiveness.
I reached for another ball, ready to drive it harder, farther—anything to shake the frustration out of my veins. But then, mid-motion, something flickered through my head.
Ellery. Her hair pulled back, a smudge of dust on her cheek, hands moving fast as she rebuilt that display board. The quiet focus in her eyes. The way she didn’t look at me like a headline, or a mess to manage—just… a person trying to do something right.
It threw me.
The next shot came off my boot wrong, slicing low and skidding uselessly into the grass.
I stood there, staring at it, annoyed at myself for letting the thought slip in at all.
Ellery James had nothing to do with this field. Nothing to do with who I was when the whistle blew.
I didn’t need her in my head.
But somehow, she was there anyway—steady, calm, impossible to ignore.
And for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t anger that kept me from walking off the field. It was something I didn’t have a name for yet.
The gym smelled like turf and new paint when I walked in—same place as yesterday’s shoot, just louder, messier. The PR team was already setting up again, dragging lights and banners across the floor while someone argued about color temperature like it mattered.
I was still half-drenched from practice, sweat cooling on my skin, towel slung around my neck. I hadn’t even bothered to change. Coach had dismissed us late, and Cam had sent one of his charming don’t be late this time, Mason texts.
So yeah, I came straight from the field.
The chaos hit me the second I stepped inside. Tech crew adjusting cables, volunteers stacking boxes, someone yelling about missing extension cords. It looked less like an event setup and more like a hurricane made of good intentions.
And in the middle of it all was Ellery.
She stood near the bleachers, juggling a clipboard, her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, and two volunteers firing questions at her like rapid fire.
“Do you want the sponsor board here or near the backdrop?” one asked.
“The caterer needs someone to sign the invoice,” said the other.
“Just—uh, give me one second,” she said, voice steady but tight, eyes flicking between them.
She wasn’t panicking. Not really. But there was that split second where she looked—human. The kind of tired that didn’t show up on camera.
I stopped mid-step, towel still hanging from my shoulders.
For a moment, I just watched.
She moved through the chaos with that same kind of energy she always had—focused, relentless, but softer around the edges now that the cameras weren’t rolling.
Her blazer was gone, replaced by a simple T-shirt and jeans, hair pulled back into a loose knot that kept slipping as she leaned over to sign something.
No audience. No speeches. Just her, trying to keep everything from falling apart.
That flicker hit again—the one I didn’t like. The one that made something twist under my ribs. Recognition, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.
She was out here doing all this—for kids who’d never know her name, for sponsors who’d forget her face after the gala, for a team that probably saw this as another PR stunt.
And she still gave a damn.
I didn’t understand that kind of drive.
Didn’t trust it, either.
But I couldn’t look away from it.
She finally hung up the phone, rubbed her forehead, and turned toward the sponsor board, still juggling questions from both volunteers. Her voice was calm again, decisive. “Backdrop first, then the sponsor board. And I’ll sign the invoice in five.”
They nodded, scurrying off, and she exhaled, clutching the clipboard like it was the only thing holding her together.
I took a step forward before I could stop myself, then paused.
I wasn’t here to help. That wasn’t what people expected from me.
Still, the words came out before I could swallow them. “You running a foundation or a circus?”
She looked up, startled, then rolled her eyes when she saw me. “Funny. I didn’t realize sarcasm counted as volunteering.”
“Guess I’m a natural,” I said, walking closer.
Her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile, but she didn’t give me the satisfaction. “You’re late.”
I shrugged. “Coach ran drills long.”