Ellery
For once, the office was quiet — the good kind of quiet. The after-hours hum of the copy machine, the low chatter from the volunteers finishing up, the smell of coffee that had gone lukewarm but still felt like comfort.
I sat at my desk, the last bit of sunlight spilling across the new sponsorship agreements — the ones Beckett had somehow pulled together out of thin air. Every document was perfect. Clean signatures. Confirmed deposits. No loopholes. No maybes. It should’ve been impossible, and yet… there it was.
I took another sip of coffee, pretending my pulse hadn’t just eased for the first time all week.
Naomi strolled in, leaning against the doorway with her usual grin. “You look like someone who just got rescued by the human equivalent of a storm warning.”
I groaned. “Don’t call him that.”
She smirked. “Then what should I call him? Knight in slightly dented armor?”
I shook my head, fighting a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Hey, I’m not the one he keeps coming back for,” she teased, raising an eyebrow.
I rolled my eyes and looked back down at the contracts, mostly to hide my face. The truth was, I didn’t know what to do with him. Beckett Mason was a contradiction I couldn’t quite file away — all sharp edges and unexpected gestures, like he didn’t know how to be kind without pretending it wasn’t.
“He drives me crazy,” I muttered, signing the last page.
Naomi tilted her head. “But?”
“But nothing.”
She snorted, unconvinced, and left me to my thoughts.
I stared at the stack of papers, tracing the embossed logo with my fingertip.
He drives me crazy. But he keeps showing up.
That was the problem. He didn’t owe me anything.
The sponsorships, the late-night repairs, the small things no one asked him to do — they weren’t obligations.
They were choices. And every time he chose to help, it chipped away at the neat little boundaries I’d built between us.
I glanced at my phone. No new messages from Kyle.
He was still away with the team, probably celebrating their win or preparing for another match.
A part of me wanted to tell him about the new sponsors, the miracle Beckett had pulled off — but the words wouldn’t come.
Kyle would congratulate me, sure, but it wouldn’t feel the same.
He’d mean well, but he’d miss the weight of it — the relief, the gratitude, the quiet awe.
Beckett hadn’t just filled a financial gap. He’d reminded me what it felt like to be seen.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, my mind unwilling to stop circling the same thought, He keeps showing up.
Even when it wasn’t convenient. Even when I didn’t ask. Especially when I didn’t ask.
Outside, the streetlights flickered on one by one, their glow softening through the window. The day was almost over, but for the first time in weeks, the knot in my chest felt looser. The gala might actually happen. The kids would get their scholarships.
And Beckett Mason — the storm I hadn’t seen coming — had somehow helped steady everything.
I exhaled, a small laugh escaping before I could catch it. “You’re ridiculous,” I told myself.
But the smile stayed anyway.
Later that day, Beckett showed up for the follow-up meeting with the same backwards cap, same half-bored expression, and the same kind of energy that filled a room without trying.
“Tell me this one’s shorter than last time,” he said, dropping into the chair across from me like it owed him something.
I arched a brow. “Depends on your attitude.”
He leaned back, grinning. “So… long.”
I bit back a sigh — and, if I was honest, a laugh. The worst part about Beckett was that he wasn’t trying to be funny; he just was. That smug, low-effort humor that got under your skin and made you want to both smack and smile at him in the same breath.
I started running through the logistics anyway — volunteer schedules, last-minute auction items, the sponsor seating chart that made me want to pull my hair out. He looked like he wasn’t paying attention, slouched in his chair, tapping a pen against his knee like a restless kid.
But every time I glanced up to check if he’d tuned out, he’d surprise me.
A nod.
A quiet, thoughtful question.
A follow-up I hadn’t expected.
It was disarming, how much he listened when it mattered.
Naomi poked her head in halfway through the meeting, balancing a tray of snacks. “Fuel for the overachievers,” she said, setting them down.
Before I could reach for anything, Beckett snagged a granola bar, tearing it open like he’d been starving all morning.
I gave him a look. “You’re supposed to be setting an example.”
He raised an eyebrow, completely unapologetic. “I am. Team bonding.”
I exhaled a short laugh despite myself. “You’re insufferable.”
He smirked, mouth full of granola. “You’re smiling.”
That got me. I tried to hide it behind my coffee cup, but it was too late — he’d seen. He always did.
The thing about Beckett was that he’d gone from being the storm that wrecked my day to the one that kept it interesting. His sarcasm didn’t sting anymore; it steadied me. It was banter, not battle. A rhythm.
Somewhere along the way, our friction had turned into something closer to balance — push and pull, challenge and charm. He still frustrated me, but now it came with warmth instead of warning.
I glanced at him while he scanned the clipboard I’d handed over.
His focus had that same intensity I’d seen on the field — sharp, calculating, alive.
And for a moment, I wondered if anyone else had ever seen him like this.
Not just the player, not the temper, but the man who cared enough to learn every detail even when he pretended not to.
“Stop staring,” he said without looking up.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got that ‘trying not to be impressed’ face again.”
“I do not,” I said — too quickly.
He chuckled. “Sure.”
I shook my head, hiding another smile as I pretended to focus on my notes.
The truth was, I didn’t know what to do with this new version of us. The banter had softened; the distance had shrunk, and I was starting to forget why I’d wanted to keep him at arm’s length in the first place.
By the time the meeting ended, the coffee had gone cold, the granola wrappers were crumpled on the table, and my cheeks hurt from smiling more than I’d admit.
After the meeting, I walked with Beckett out toward the practice field, where a few of the Storm’s players were running drills with the foundation kids.
The late afternoon sun painted everything in soft gold, the sound of laughter carrying across the turf.
It was one of those moments I wished I could bottle—something about the energy, the joy, the reminder that this was why I did what I did.
Beckett fell into step beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, cap turned backward like always. “You ever actually kick a ball,” he asked, “or just organize the people who do?”
I gave him a look. “Funny. I played travel and varsity through high school.”
He stopped mid-step. “No way.”
“Yes way,” I said, trying not to laugh. “I quit after I tore a ligament my senior year. Started coaching youth leagues in college instead.”
Beckett blinked, genuinely surprised. “That explains the clipboard obsession.”
I smirked. “I’ll have you know, this clipboard keeps your chaos contained.”
He grinned. “Bet you forgot everything.”
I crossed my arms. “Bet you’re wrong.”
“Prove it,” he said, eyes glinting like he’d just issued a challenge.
I stared at him for a beat, then sighed, setting the clipboard on the bleachers. “Fine. But if I pull something, you’re paying my medical bills.”
The kids nearby perked up immediately. One of them, a boy with a jersey two sizes too big, yelled, “Miss Ellery’s gonna play!”
That got everyone’s attention. Even a few of the Storm players paused their drills, curious. Beckett looked way too pleased with himself.
“Okay,” I said, rolling my shoulders. “One shot. That’s it.”
He gestured dramatically toward the goal. “After you, Coach.”
I kicked off my flats and stepped up to the ball one of the kids rolled over. I could feel Beckett’s eyes on me, that smug expression practically daring me to miss.
“Pressure’s on,” he said.
“Shut up, Mason,” I muttered, lining up the shot.
It had been years since I’d done this, but muscle memory was a funny thing. I took a breath, ran up, and struck the ball clean. It soared past the small goalie’s hands, hitting the corner of the net with a satisfying thunk.
The kids erupted in cheers.
Beckett just stood there, blinking. “Okay,” he said finally, “that was… not bad.”
I shot him a grin. “Not bad?”
He held up his hands, laughing. “Fine. You win. Guess I shouldn’t underestimate the clipboard queen.”
“Guess not.”
We both laughed, and for a moment, the tension that usually hung between us melted into something easy, something light. The kids crowded around me, demanding tips, asking if I could teach them that kick.
Beckett hung back, watching. There was something different in his expression—not the usual teasing or arrogance, but something softer. Admiration, maybe. Respect.
When the chaos finally died down, I grabbed my clipboard again, pretending my heart wasn’t racing for entirely the wrong reason.
“Happy now?” I asked.
He smirked. “Extremely.”
“Okay, you’ve got a shot,” Beckett said, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth. “But can you actually play?”
The kids erupted in cheers before I could answer, already sensing the challenge.
I sighed dramatically, kicked off my other heel, and stepped onto the grass. The turf was warm under my feet, soft enough that I rolled my ankles once just to feel it. “You’re seriously doing this in a skirt?” he asked, one brow raised.
“Don’t underestimate a woman in a pencil skirt,” I shot back.
He laughed and tossed me a ball. “First to three goals wins. Loser buys post-practice coffee.”
I caught it easily. “You’re on.”