Ellery #2
“If we can’t replace that sponsor, I’ll have to cut half the scholarship awards this year.” Naomi and I were bent over the sponsorship spreadsheet when I said it out loud, the thought I’d been circling all morning.
Naomi’s pen stilled. “We could scale back the event, maybe. Make it smaller, more local.”
“No.” My answer came too fast, too sharp. “We promised those kids.”
My voice cracked on promised. It was the first time I’d heard it do that in weeks.
Silence followed. The kind that sticks in your throat.
Then a deeper voice cut through it. “Who pulled out?”
We both turned.
Beckett stood in the doorway, one hand hooked in his pocket, hair damp from the drizzle outside. His expression was unreadable — not judgment, not pity, just focus. The kind that saw more than I wanted him to.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, straightening a stack of papers I didn’t need to. “We’ll handle it.”
He didn’t move. “Doesn’t sound fine.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“Didn’t say it was.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Just asked who.”
Something in his calm tone made it impossible to lie. I hesitated, then muttered the company’s name. The syllables tasted bitter.
Beckett’s mouth tilted slightly. “Big company. Deep pockets. Bet they hate bad press.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Beckett, no.”
He raised both hands, feigning innocence. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loud enough.”
That earned the faintest smirk, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Then he looked past me, scanning the boxes, the lists, the exhaustion I hadn’t been able to hide. When his eyes met mine again, his voice was quieter.
“Tell me what you need.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Not because of how he said them — simple, steady — but because no one had asked me that in a long time.
For a second, I couldn’t speak. The right answer was obvious: Nothing. We’re fine. The script I always used. But my throat ached with everything I didn’t say.
“I just…” I exhaled, shaking my head. “We lost funding for scholarships. And if I cut the awards, I have to look those kids in the eye and tell them hard work doesn’t always matter. I can’t do that, Beckett.”
He studied me for a long moment, eyes sharp, jaw tense. Then he nodded once, like he’d made up his mind about something.
“Tell me what you need."
I blinked, certain I’d misheard him. “What?”
Beckett didn’t move, still leaning in the doorway like he had all the time in the world. “You’re short money. Tell me what you need.”
I stared at him. “You can’t just—”
“Not talking about money,” he cut in. “Connections. Endorsements. Favors. Half this league owes me something.”
That caught me completely off guard. My brain scrambled to keep up, to fit this version of him with the one I’d gotten used to — the sharp-tongued player who deflected everything with attitude. “You’d do that?” I asked carefully. “For me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “For the foundation.” A beat, then a dry look. “Don’t make it weird.”
I almost laughed, but the sound caught halfway in my throat. He was serious. There was no teasing edge in his voice this time — just quiet conviction under all the roughness.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The air between us felt charged, strange.
I’d spent the last few weeks learning how to handle him — how to redirect, to smooth over, to keep him from blowing things up.
I hadn’t expected this version of Beckett: calm, capable, offering to help without asking for anything in return.
“I’ll… make a list,” I managed finally, trying to match his even tone.
He nodded once, decisive. “Good. And maybe eat something before you pass out.”
That earned him a small, incredulous laugh. “You’re bossy.”
“You’re worse.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
He pushed off the doorway, heading for the back of the room where the donation boxes were stacked, muttering something about finding the missing shipment forms. But I just stood there, watching him move — methodical, focused, all that restless energy turned toward something other than proving himself.
It took me a moment to realize my heart was still beating too fast.
The last hour had been a blur of panic and plans I couldn’t make work, the familiar pressure of carrying something too big for one person. And now, just like that, he’d cut through it with a single offer. Tell me what you need.
It was so simple. So foreign.
For months, I’d been surrounded by people who praised what I did but never saw how much it cost. Donors loved the mission, sponsors loved the headlines, Kyle loved the idea of what I was building — but Beckett…
he looked past the surface. Saw the cracks.
And instead of asking me to hide them, he just quietly stepped closer.
I turned back to my desk, grabbed a notepad, and started jotting names. Alumni, old sponsors, potential contacts — people who might help fill the gap if we moved fast enough.
But even as I wrote, I found myself smiling again — not the brittle, press-ready kind, but something softer.
Maybe it was because, for the first time all day, the weight didn’t feel so crushing.
Maybe it was because someone like Beckett Mason — the player everyone called impossible — had just reminded me that I didn’t have to keep holding the world up on my own.
Whatever it was, I decided not to question it.
Not yet.
After Beckett left, the room felt strangely louder—like the air hadn’t decided whether to settle or hum. I was still standing where he’d been a minute ago when Naomi came around the corner, coffee cup in hand and a grin that spelled trouble.
“He’s smitten,” she said, her voice sing-song.
I blinked, still halfway between disbelief and exhaustion. “He’s helpful.”
Naomi arched a brow. “Right. Helpful. With arms like that and the attitude of a man in deep denial.”
“Naomi.” My warning came out weaker than I wanted it to.
She only laughed, unbothered, leaning against a table littered with donation flyers and half-taped boxes. “I’m just saying—you should let someone help you for once. Even if it’s a brooding soccer player with a martyr complex.”
I rolled my eyes, but my lips betrayed me with the smallest curve of a smile. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Admit it, though. He’s different with you.”
“He’s… trying,” I said finally, not sure if I was talking about him or myself.
Naomi tilted her head, studying me the way she always did when she saw too much. I busied myself with rearranging papers, pretending I didn’t feel my pulse thrumming too fast.
Because she was wrong.
He wasn’t smitten. He was just being decent.
That was all this was—decency. A good deed to balance whatever chaos followed him around like a shadow.
But as I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear and tried to get back to work, I realized I didn’t quite believe myself.
Hours later, the building had gone still.
The volunteers were gone. The laughter, the chatter, even Naomi’s teasing—all of it had faded into the quiet hum of the lights.
I sat alone in the main office, the glow of my laptop screen washing the room in pale blue. My eyes burned from staring too long at spreadsheets, at emails, at numbers that didn’t add up no matter how many times I reworked them.
Every message in my inbox was another polite no.
We regret to inform you…
Unfortunately, our giving budget has closed for the quarter…
We wish you the best of luck in future partnerships.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d read those same sentences tonight. I rubbed my temples, staring at the blinking cursor in the draft of my next desperate ask.
And then—ding.
A new message.
From: Beckett Mason
Subject: “Leads”
I hesitated before opening it, bracing for some sarcastic remark about foundation bureaucracy or another meme he got from Adam. Instead, the email was short. Clean. Direct.
Found a few people who might be worth talking to.
— Ironhouse Apparel: mid-tier training brand. Looking to expand outreach.
— CoreFuel: sponsors youth leagues in the Midwest.
— Wren Insurance: smaller, local. Family-owned.
Don’t thank me until they say yes.
— B.
I just stared at the screen, rereading it twice, then three times.
Somehow, he’d gone out of his way after practice—or between whatever his life looked like off the field—and found actual, tangible leads. Not random guesses, but names that made sense. Companies with missions that aligned.
My chest tightened, something warm pushing against the exhaustion that had settled there all day.
He didn’t have to do that.
He wasn’t doing it for attention or credit. He hadn’t even signed his full name. Just B.
I could practically hear his voice. Don’t make it weird.
I smiled. Slow, unguarded. The kind of smile that felt like a breath after hours of drowning quietly.
He was chaos. He was impossible. But maybe, just maybe, he was exactly what I needed right now.
I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyes drift over the dimly lit office. The banner for the gala hung crooked on one wall, glitter catching the faint glow from the laptop. The foundation’s logo shimmered faintly above the door—Building Futures Through Sports.
I traced the edge of my coffee cup with my finger, Beckett’s email still open in front of me.
“Tell me what you need,” I whispered to myself.
It was such a simple phrase.
No expectations. No negotiations. No hidden strings.
No one had said those words to me in years—not like that. Not as a promise.
I closed the laptop; the screen going dark. The reflection of the foundation’s logo lingered for a moment before fading.
For the first time all week, the weight in my chest loosened.
And somewhere in the quiet, I found the smallest spark of hope that I wasn’t alone in this fight anymore.