Beckett
The field was still damp with morning dew, the air cold enough to sting my lungs. I didn’t care. I’d been running drills for nearly an hour before the rest of the team even showed up. No music. No banter. Just the sound of my cleats tearing into the grass and my heartbeat pounding like a war drum.
Every sprint, every kick — sharper, faster, harder. I wanted it to burn. Needed it to.
By the time the sun started pushing through the clouds, I was drenched in sweat. My shirt clung to my back, my lungs ached, and I still couldn’t stop.
Coach Lawson’s voice cut across the pitch — dry, calm, that half-asleep tone that somehow made everything hit harder. “You trying to prove something or kill yourself, Mason?”
I didn’t slow down. “Little of both.”
He gave a quiet snort, not amused but not surprised either. “Then make sure you’re still breathing when the proving part’s done.”
Typical Lawson. No yelling, no lectures. Just that steady disapproval that sank deeper than anything else.
I pushed off again, cutting across the field, legs heavy but mind worse. I told myself it was about the missed goal yesterday, about the way Adam wouldn’t shut up during drills, about the national scouts who were supposed to show up next week. Easy targets. The usual noise.
But it wasn’t that. Not really.
It was her.
The way Ellery had looked yesterday — tired but still standing. Trying to hold everything together while the rest of us acted like the world revolved around a ball. She didn’t even say much, but that look stuck. The one that said she’d learned how to carry more than she should have to.
I didn’t think about things like that. Couldn’t afford to. You either fixed them or forgot them.
I kept running. Harder. Faster. Until the edges of my vision blurred and my lungs burned like I’d swallowed fire.
Lawson called something after me, but I didn’t catch it. Didn’t care.
I needed the ache. It was cleaner than the thoughts clawing at me.
By the time I stopped, the sky was bright, my breath ragged. My hands trembled as I leaned forward, resting them on my knees. Sweat dripped down onto the grass, tiny dark circles that disappeared as fast as they came.
You don’t think about her, Mason. You don’t want to think about her.
But I did.
The way she’d smiled despite being exhausted. The quiet way she worked, no show, no ego — just grit.
And maybe that was the problem.
People like me burned hot, then burned out. People like her? They kept going, no matter how much it hurt.
I wiped my face with the hem of my shirt and forced myself upright again.
Forget it. Forget her.
I set the ball down, lined up another shot, and struck it clean — the sound of the impact echoing across the empty pitch.
For a second, I thought maybe I’d outrun it.
But I hadn’t.
“Hey, man, you gonna keep brooding or are we actually hitting the club like normal human beings?”
Without warning, Adam’s voice cut through the morning haze like a damn siren.
Where the fuck did he come from?
I groaned, wiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm. He was leaning on the fence, grinning like he’d been waiting all morning to annoy me.
“I don’t brood,” I muttered, grabbing my water bottle. The words came out rough, too defensive.
Adam’s grin widened. “You absolutely brood. It’s your brand. Angry striker, tragic past, mysterious jawline.”
I shot him a look. “Go away.”
He just laughed, the kind of easy, cocky sound that made people like him so damn magnetic. “Can’t. Derek’s making us go out tonight. He’s buying. Even you can’t brood through free drinks.”
I took a long drink of water just to buy myself a few seconds. “Pass.”
“Come on,” Adam said, hopping the fence with his usual flair — like rules were just polite suggestions. “You’ve been burning holes in the turf since sunrise. What’s your deal, man?”
“Nothing,” I said. Too fast. Too sharp.
He smirked. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”
I didn’t respond. The truth was, Adam had a knack for seeing through people — probably why everyone either liked him instantly or wanted to strangle him. Usually both.
He tilted his head. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain nonprofit director, would it?”
I stiffened. “What?”
“Ellery James,” he said, like it was a casual observation. “You’ve been less of an ass since you started there. I figured either community service worked, or she did.”
I glared at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Sure. But you just stopped glaring at me long enough to defend her, so… point proven.”
“Adam,” I said warningly.
“Relax, man.” He slung an arm over my shoulder, ignoring how I tensed. “I’m just saying, maybe she’s good for you. Someone’s gotta balance out your rage-to-smile ratio.”
I knocked his arm off. “You done?”
He chuckled. “Not even close. But fine, I’ll save the rest for tonight. You’re coming, by the way.”
“I said I’m not.”
He grinned like he’d already won. “Cool, so I’ll tell Derek you’ll be there around nine.”
I scowled, watching him jog off toward the locker rooms, his laughter echoing across the field.
“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.
He wasn’t wrong, though. I was brooding. And that pissed me off even more.
I looked out over the pitch again, the faint morning fog rising off the grass, the sun finally breaking through.
Brooding wasn’t the right word, though.
Thinking. That was what it was.
Thinking about a woman who never stopped moving, who worked until her hands shook, who smiled like it hurt but did it, anyway.
Yeah. Thinking.
Which, somehow, was worse.
The bass hit before I even stepped inside — heavy, low, and pulsing through the floor like a heartbeat. The club had that sleek, industrial vibe Grand Rapids was obsessed with: exposed brick, black steel, dim lights, and people who looked like they belonged in some designer ad.
Adam led the way, of course, grinning like he owned the place. I followed behind him, already questioning my life choices.
Derek spotted us first — lounging in a leather booth like a king holding court.
His blond hair caught the light, and the smirk on his face was pure danger: charming, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
Beside him sat Logan, half his drink untouched, eyes scanning the room like he was cataloguing threats instead of clubgoers.
As soon as we reached the booth, Derek stood and spread his arms like he was introducing a celebrity. “Beckett Mason, ladies and gentlemen — proof miracles happen.”
Adam clapped him on the back, laughing. “He’s only here because I told him there’d be violence if he didn’t.”
I dropped into the booth, leaning back with a sigh. “You’re both exhausting.”
“Love you too, sunshine,” Derek said, sliding a drink toward me. “Whiskey. Neat. Like the angry little traditionalist you are.”
I gave him a look, but took the glass anyway. “You rehearsed that line, didn’t you?”
“Every morning in the mirror,” he said without missing a beat.
Logan shook his head, faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You two should take this routine on tour.”
Adam grinned, tossing an olive from his martini at him. “We’re more of a local act.”
The banter hit easy, familiar grooves — jokes that didn’t need setup, insults that came with affection baked in. For the first time all week, the tension in my chest loosened a little.
Derek leaned back, arm slung over the booth. “So, Mason. Heard you’ve been doing community service with the foundation princess. That true?”
I groaned. “You make it sound like I’m on parole.”
Adam lifted his glass. “Technically, you kinda are.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, but there was no bite to it.
Logan glanced up, studying me the way he always did — quiet, sharp, seeing more than I wanted him to. “You don’t hate it, though. Do you?”
I hesitated a beat too long. “It’s fine.”
Derek’s grin widened. “Translation: he likes it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Adam kicked my boot under the table. “You didn’t not say it.”
“Remind me why I hang out with you idiots again?”
“Because deep down,” Derek said, raising his glass, “you love us.”
“Sure,” I said dryly. “Right next to my love for post-match interviews and losing streaks.”
They laughed — that real kind of laugh that rolled through the table, echoing off glasses and music and memories.
For a few minutes, the world outside didn’t exist. Not the press. Not the team politics. Not the noise in my own head.
Just this.
The rhythm of brotherhood built from years of shared bruises and late-night wins.
Logan said something about the new rookie’s haircut, Adam nearly spit out his drink laughing, and Derek waved down another round, insisting we toast “to surviving our own bad decisions.”
I didn’t argue.
The whiskey burned, the laughter drowned out everything else, and for the first time in a long time, I actually let myself breathe.
Yeah. This — the noise, the teasing, the loyalty — this was oxygen.
And God, I’d missed it.
Adam leaned back in the booth, swirling his drink like he was about to drop something I’d regret hearing. “I almost texted Kieren to join, but ever since he fell in love, he’s been shacked up with Daphne like some reformed monk.”
Derek barked a laugh, tipping his glass toward him. “Good for him. Daphne’s terrifying. In a hot, stab-you-if-you-lie kind of way.”
Logan didn’t even look up from his beer. “I’m still waiting for the stabbing part.”
Adam grinned. “You would. Anyway, love ruins good nights out. Kieren’s proof.”
I snorted. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”
Adam’s eyes flicked toward me, grin turning sharper. “Oh, right. You and romance — oil and water. Or maybe nitroglycerin.”
“Don’t start,” I said, cutting him a look.
“Just saying,” he went on, undeterred as always, “you’ve looked tense lately. Like maybe you’re thinking about someone you shouldn’t.”
I didn’t answer.
Adam lived for reactions, and the best way to lose with him was to give him one. I focused on my drink, tapping my thumb against the glass, pretending I didn’t feel the heat creeping up my neck.