Ellery
The smell of garlic and basil filled my apartment, warm and a little too hopeful. The pasta had just finished steaming when my phone buzzed against the counter.
Kyle’s name lit the screen.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and answered, already guessing what was coming. “Hey.”
“Hey, babe.” His voice had that easy charm, the one that always softened bad news before it hit. “Don’t hate me. The scout dinner got moved up. National team reps are in town—I have to go.”
I closed my eyes, my hand resting on the back of a chair. The candles flickered against the windowpane, their soft light catching the empty plate across from mine.
“Of course you do,” I said quietly.
He hesitated—just long enough to make me think he might offer something more, some reason to stay. But instead, “You’re amazing. Rain check?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile he couldn’t see. “Sure. Again.”
“Promise. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I lied.
When the call ended, the silence came rushing back in. The candles crackled faintly, the pasta cooling in its bowl. I stood there for a moment, the phone still in my hand, staring at the table I’d set—two plates, two glasses, a bottle of wine I’d splurged on because he’d said we should celebrate.
Celebrate what, I wasn’t even sure anymore.
The national scouts. His latest goal. Another almost. Another moment where I’d be proud from afar, watching him live the kind of dream that didn’t seem to have space for me anymore.
I sank into the nearest chair, the wood cool against my palms. The food smelled good, comforting in the way home-cooked meals are supposed to be, but my stomach twisted too tightly to eat.
This was what ambition looked like, I reminded myself. This was the cost. Late nights, canceled plans, the endless hustle of chasing something bigger than yourself. I should’ve been used to it by now—we both lived our lives by schedules and deadlines, always racing time.
But lately, it didn’t feel like we were racing together.
I traced the rim of the unused wine glass, my reflection bending and warping in its curve. There was a time when we’d built things side by side—laughed over late-night takeout, stayed up too long talking about dreams that felt shared. Now it was just… me, holding space for him.
I pushed away from the table, blew out one candle, then the other. The soft hiss of smoke felt too final.
The pasta went into the fridge, the wine back on the counter. I told myself I’d reheat it tomorrow, but I knew I wouldn’t.
As I wiped down the counter, my eyes drifted to the clock—6:42 p.m. He’d probably just arrived, smiling that perfect smile, shaking hands, already charming whoever mattered most.
And I was here, in a quiet apartment that suddenly felt too big.
I’d told myself this was fine. That love was about supporting someone’s dreams, even when it meant standing in the background.
But as the night settled in, heavy and still, I couldn’t shake the thought that somewhere along the way, ambition had stopped being something we shared—and become something that kept us apart.
I pulled the takeout container from the fridge — cold sesame noodles, half an egg roll, the kind of meal you only ate because it was there. The pasta from earlier sat untouched in the fridge beside it, a quiet reminder of what the night was supposed to be.
I ate standing at the counter, chopsticks in one hand, phone in the other, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim kitchen. Emails piled up — sponsors confirming seating charts, volunteers asking about shift times, invoices flagged for approval. The usual.
Then one new message popped up at the top of my inbox.
From: Cam Hunter
Subject: Storm Coordination Meeting—Reminder
Tomorrow, 10 AM. Media setup, player scheduling, and gala updates. Bring your notes.
Of course. Cam was nothing if not punctual — and relentless.
I typed out a quick Got it, see you then, and hit send before I could think too hard about it. The words blurred a little on the screen. My head felt heavy, like I’d been holding my breath all day and forgot to let it go.
I tossed the empty container into the trash, leaning my elbows on the counter. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the faint noise of traffic outside my apartment window.
I told myself I understood. That I couldn’t fault someone for chasing their dream.
Kyle was doing exactly what he’d always said he would — working hard, making a name for himself, playing the long game. I admired that. I really did.
But admiration didn’t keep the bed warm.
I rubbed the back of my neck, staring down at my phone again, at all the reminders and color-coded events filling tomorrow’s calendar. Between the foundation and the gala, there wasn’t much room left for anything else. Maybe that was for the best.
You can’t fault someone for chasing their dream, I thought again. You just wish you didn’t have to keep stepping aside so he could run faster.
The truth stung because it wasn’t about blame — it was about being tired. Tired of rearranging my life around someone else’s momentum. Tired of making space for a version of love that always seemed to be waiting for “later.”
I closed the email app, turned my phone facedown, and exhaled. The clock on the stove read 9:18. Early, but the night already felt endless.
I thought about the meeting tomorrow — about Cam, about Beckett, about the mess of work that never seemed to end — and forced myself to believe it was enough.
The foundation mattered. The kids mattered. The gala mattered.
I mattered.
Even if it didn’t always feel like it.
I rinsed my chopsticks, set them in the sink, and turned off the kitchen light. The apartment fell into a soft half-darkness, city glow spilling through the blinds.
Somewhere out there, Kyle was shaking hands with scouts and smiling for cameras. And I was here — holding everything else together.
Because that was what I did.
The morning light filtering through the foundation windows was the dull kind — gray and thin, like it hadn’t had its coffee yet either. My desk was already buried in paperwork, sponsor forms, and a cold cup of coffee I’d reheated twice.
When I pushed the door open, I nearly dropped my folder. Beckett Mason was already there.
He sat backward on one of the folding chairs, elbows braced on the backrest, scrolling through his phone like he owned the place. His hair was damp, his shirt half untucked, and he looked entirely too awake for someone who supposedly hated being here.
He looked up, took one glance at me, and smirked. “You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you too,” I muttered, setting my files down with a thud.
“Late night?” he asked, not looking particularly concerned.
“Early disappointment,” I said before I could stop myself.
He tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. “Ah. The Kyle effect.”
My head snapped up, glare ready. “Excuse me?”
He held up both hands, mock surrender, that infuriating half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, your words, not mine.”
I exhaled slowly through my nose, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You really know how to endear yourself to people, don’t you?”
“Endearing’s not my thing,” he said. “Honest, though? You could use more sleep and less… whatever that was.”
I ignored him and reached for my mug, pretending the coffee didn’t taste like burnt regret. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of being perpetually unbothered.”
“Unbothered?” he said, leaning forward on the chair, arms folded along the backrest. “That’s a nice word for emotionally unavailable.”
“Glad you’re self-aware,” I shot back, flipping through a stack of donation receipts.
He laughed softly — not mocking this time, more like he was surprised I’d fired back. “Touché.”
For a second, the office felt less heavy. The usual noise of printers and coffee machines hummed in the background, filling the silence between us.
I could feel his eyes on me, though — that assessing look he had, like he was trying to figure out which part of me was real and which part was just the professional mask.
I didn’t give him the chance. “If you’re here to actually work, there’s a list of tasks on the board. Otherwise, there’s a door.”
He stretched lazily, pocketing his phone. “You’re cranky before nine, huh?”
“Only when I have company.”
He grinned, standing. “See, I knew there was a sense of humor under all that structure.”
“Structure keeps this place running,” I said, scanning the morning’s schedule. “Try it sometime.”
He shrugged, grabbed the clipboard off the counter, and wandered toward the gym. “Nah. Chaos suits me.”
I watched him go, that same mix of irritation and reluctant amusement stirring in my chest.
Chaos suits you. Yeah. It did.
But the part I didn’t say — the part I didn’t even want to think — was that maybe I was starting to understand why.
By ten, I’d already had two cups of coffee and a headache that no amount of caffeine could touch. The small conference room smelled faintly of printer ink and exhaustion — stacks of sponsorship packets and half-eaten muffins scattered across the table.
Cam was at the head of the table, running through slides on his tablet like the world might end if we missed a bullet point.
Naomi sat beside me, typing notes at light speed.
Beckett slouched in the chair across from me, spinning a pen between his fingers, his Storm jacket unzipped and his focus only halfway in the room.
I kept checking my phone under the table — a quick glance every few minutes, hoping for a message that hadn’t come. Nothing. Just the same blank screen and the time inching forward.
Cam was talking about sponsor tiers, press releases, logistics. My brain registered maybe half of it.
Then he said, “Next item — we need to confirm which player’s speaking at the gala dinner.” His eyes flicked to Beckett. “You’re still on the list — unless management decides to swap you for Kyle.”
Beckett looked up, a slow, crooked grin forming. “Swap me for the golden boy, huh?”