Ellery #2
The words landed sharper than I expected. Something tight pulled in my chest. Before I could stop myself, I muttered, “At least one of you will show up.”
The silence that followed was instant — the kind that sucks all the air out of a room.
Beckett’s smirk faltered, his pen stilling mid-spin. Cam glanced up from his tablet, eyebrows raised. Naomi froze mid-type.
I blinked, realizing what I’d said. Too late.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, straightening in my chair. “That came out wrong.”
Beckett leaned back, studying me with that infuriating mix of curiosity and amusement. “Did it?”
Cam, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. He cleared his throat, swiping to the next slide. “All right, moving on. Sponsor seating chart — we’ll need confirmations by Thursday.”
Naomi dove right back into her notes like her life depended on it.
I focused on the spreadsheet in front of me, though the numbers blurred. Heat crept up my neck. I wasn’t usually careless — I didn’t do careless. But Kyle’s name had been hanging in my head all morning, and Beckett’s constant half-grin had somehow turned irritation into honesty.
When the meeting ended, chairs scraped against tile and everyone gathered their things. Beckett lingered at the doorway, waiting until Cam and Naomi stepped out.
He tilted his head, voice low but not unkind. “For what it’s worth, I always show up.”
I looked at him, unsure what to make of it — the tone, the intent, the flicker of something that wasn’t mockery for once.
“Noted,” I said, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”
He grinned faintly, that unreadable expression back in place, and left before I could say anything else.
The meeting wrapped, everyone scattering with their laptops and coffee cups, but Beckett didn’t leave. He lingered by the door, leaning against the frame like he had nowhere better to be.
I was still gathering my papers, pretending to look busy. The air between us was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made me hyperaware of every breath.
“You good?” he asked finally.
“Fine,” I said, a little too quick, too sharp.
He cocked his head, the faintest trace of amusement curving his mouth. “You said that like it’s a dare.”
I exhaled, rubbing my temple. “Kyle’s just… busy. Again. I’m proud of him, I am. It’s just—”
I stopped myself, words catching on a sigh. Why was I even saying this to him?
Beckett’s voice softened, just barely. “It’s just what?”
I stared at the papers in my hands, not really seeing them. “I’m tired of being the thing that waits.”
The room went still. I expected the smirk, the sarcastic comment — something cutting to deflect the weight of it. But instead, he just nodded, slow and thoughtful.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That sucks.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “That’s it? No smart comment?”
He met my eyes, serious now. “Not everything needs one.”
That threw me more than any insult could have.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was… grounding. Like we’d both stopped pretending for a second.
I slumped into the chair across from him, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. He didn’t move, just sat there watching me — not in a way that felt invasive, but like he was trying to understand something for once instead of fight it.
We both looked wrecked, honestly. Me from lack of sleep and too many responsibilities. Him from constant practice, the weight of his own messes hanging over him like a storm cloud.
He broke the quiet first. “You know what I hate? People who think showing up is optional.”
I let out a half-laugh, shaking my head. “That’s rich coming from you.”
He grinned, low and unoffended. “Yeah, well, I’m a quick study.”
That pulled a reluctant smile out of me. “Apparently.”
We sat there like that for a while — not talking, not needing to. The conference room was empty except for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the smell of burnt coffee lingering from the morning.
It wasn’t romantic. Not even close. But it was… safe.
The kind of quiet where I didn’t feel like I had to be the composed one, or the professional one, or the one holding everything together.
I could just be tired. And he didn’t try to fix it.
Beckett leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “You know,” he said after a beat, “for someone who claims she’s fine, you say a lot for a person who’s fine.”
I arched a brow at him. “You’re one to talk. You yell at referees for breathing wrong.”
He grinned, that sharp, boyish kind of grin that almost made me forget he could be infuriating. “Yeah, but at least I’m honest about it.”
“Honesty,” I murmured, glancing down at the papers I’d stopped pretending to read. “Novel concept.”
He tilted his head toward me. “Try it sometime. Might help.”
I met his gaze, steady this time. “Maybe I just did.”
Something flickered in his eyes — surprise, maybe. Or respect.
Either way, neither of us said anything else after that.
And then Naomi’s voice broke the moment like a light flicking on. “We got the new sponsorship banners!”
I startled a little, realizing how long I’d been sitting there. Beckett stood immediately, stretching his arms before following her to the hallway. His sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, tattoos catching the pale light, and for a second, I just… watched him go.
He helped Naomi carry the boxes back in — two at a time like they weighed nothing. When he passed my desk again, he set a familiar paper cup beside my hand without a word. Steam curled up in the air.
I blinked. “You remembered.”
He shrugged, already walking back toward the banners. “You yell for it every morning. Hard not to.”
I stared down at the coffee. My coffee — oat milk, one pump caramel, extra hot. No one ever got it right unless I told them.
I caught myself smiling before I could stop it. “Thanks.”
He didn’t look back, just lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “Don’t mention it.”
As I sipped, something inside me shifted — subtle, unsettling. Kyle forgot small things like this all the time. My coffee order. The kind of pen I liked. The way I triple-checked details before an event. He was never unkind about it, just… oblivious. Busy.
Beckett, though — he noticed without trying. And that realization felt dangerously like a crack in my carefully built walls.
I set the cup down, focusing hard on the sponsorship forms in front of me, as if paperwork could silence the thought. It didn’t.
By the time the office emptied that night, the sky outside had turned lavender-gray, the kind of color that made the world feel suspended. I gathered my things, checked the door locks, and finally sat in my car, phone in my hand.
My fingers hovered for a second before I typed:
Hope dinner went well.
I stared at the screen, the three dots that never appeared. The message stayed delivered, unread.
I swallowed the small sting of it. Told myself it was fine. He’d answer later. He always did — eventually.
I scrolled through my notifications, desperate for a distraction, when another alert popped up — the foundation’s group chat.
Still standing. Like you said.
Attached was a photo of the repaired display board he’d stayed late one night to fix — the “Building Futures Through Sports” one. The edges were still a little uneven, the tape a little crooked, but it stood proud in the gym lights.
I stared at it, warmth creeping into my chest. He didn’t have to send that. Didn’t even have to remember what I’d said.
Without thinking, I typed back a single emoji — — and hit send.
Then I sat there, phone in hand, the faintest smile tugging at my mouth.
The ache in my chest eased — not gone, just… softer.
Maybe it was just exhaustion. Or gratitude. Or maybe it was something I wasn’t ready to name.
Either way, for the first time all day, I didn’t feel completely alone.