Ellery #2
That got the kids really going—chanting my name like this was the World Cup. One of them even shouted, “Miss Ellery’s gonna smoke you, Mr. Beckett!” which earned a round of giggles.
Beckett glanced at them, mock-offended. “Wow. No loyalty. Brutal.”
“Better get used to losing,” I teased, setting the ball at midfield.
The game started with a blur of motion. He was faster than I expected, long strides eating up the turf. I darted around him, feinting right, then left, laughing when he overcommitted.
It was ridiculous, really. Two adults running around like overgrown kids while a group of actual kids acted as the world’s loudest commentators.
Beckett was all showmanship—fancy footwork, a spin move that was pure ego. I was scrappy, using every trick from my old varsity days. When I managed to intercept the ball, the surprise on his face was worth every second of exertion.
“Not bad,” he called, breathless but grinning. “You sure you’re not secretly in training for this?”
“Some of us don’t need training,” I said sweetly—and then took the shot.
It curved perfectly, skimming past his ankle before hitting the back of the net with a solid thwack.
The kids screamed. Beckett just froze, blinking in disbelief.
“What the—You’ve been lying to me.”
“Not my fault you assumed I was just a clipboard,” I said, hands on my hips.
That got him. His head fell back, and he let out this loud, real laugh—the kind that came from somewhere deep, the kind that didn’t sound like the brooding, too-cool version of him the world usually got.
The sound hit me harder than I expected. For a second, I just… watched him. The way his grin softened his whole face, how the afternoon light caught in his hair, how he looked happy. Not restless or reckless—just here.
The kids were still cheering, demanding a rematch, chanting our names like we were some kind of celebrity showdown. I bent down to grab the ball, still smiling. “You ready for round two?”
He squinted at me, trying to look serious but failing miserably. “Oh, you’re in for it now, Coach.”
“Bring it, Storm boy.”
He laughed again—low, easy—and something about that sound lodged itself in my chest, stubborn and warm.
We played until the sun started to dip, the kids’ laughter echoing across the field, the air filled with that rare kind of joy that snuck up on you when you forgot to guard your heart.
And as ridiculous as it was, standing there barefoot in a skirt, cheeks flushed and lungs burning, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this light.
We ended 3–2. Technically, Beckett won—but it was close enough that he looked more bruised than proud.
He ran a hand through his hair, catching his breath, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “I went easy on you,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “You fell twice.”
“The grass was slippery,” he shot back, still panting.
“Excuses, excuses.”
That earned me a mock glare, but I couldn’t hold back the laugh bubbling up. I was flushed, winded, and grinning like an idiot. My legs ached and my skirt was grass-stained, but I didn’t care. It felt good.
Beckett was still watching me when I looked up—long enough that my smile faltered just a little. His eyes weren’t teasing now; they were steady, almost… searching.
And for the first time, I realized he wasn’t looking at me like the director of a foundation, or the woman who nagged him into meetings and paperwork. He was looking at me. Just me.
It did something strange to my chest. Like the ground had shifted under my feet.
Why does he look at me like that? Like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to. Like I was more than the title on my email signature.
The air between us felt heavier than it should have. I looked away first, pretending to adjust my hair, pretending the heat in my cheeks was from the sun.
“You owe me coffee anyway,” I said, forcing my voice back into its usual lightness.
He smirked, that easy confidence snapping back into place. “Pretty sure that’s not how bets work.”
“It is when I’m in charge.”
He laughed, and I couldn’t stop the grin that slipped out in response. The kids were still running drills nearby, shouting and laughing, but it felt like the noise had faded to the edges of everything else.
Beckett brushed the back of his hand across his forehead, eyes still flicking toward me like he hadn’t quite shaken whatever moment had passed between us.
“You’re something else, you know that?” he said.
“I get that a lot,” I replied, turning to grab my clipboard. It was safer, somehow—something to hold, something to hide behind.
We walked back toward the bleachers, side by side but quiet this time. The easy teasing had settled into something softer, unspoken but charged.
When we reached the edge of the field, he paused, shifting his weight like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
Instead, he just nodded toward the goalpost. “Next time, I’m not holding back.”
“Next time, I’ll wear cleats,” I said, matching his tone.
He chuckled and started to walk off, and I stood there for a moment longer, watching him go.
It was ridiculous, really—how someone could be infuriating and kind, reckless and careful, all at once.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a game, just another afternoon.
But as I looked down at the grass stains on my skirt and the faint smile still clinging to my lips, I wasn’t sure I believed it.
The sun was dropping low, washing the field in gold. The kids waved as they left, their laughter fading into the hum of crickets starting up somewhere beyond the bleachers. Beckett and I walked side by side toward the parking lot, our shadows stretching long across the grass.
“You should play more often,” he said, kicking at a stray ball as we passed it.
“You should complain less often.”
He grinned, unbothered. “No promises.”
Our laughter echoed softly, mingling with the rhythmic sound of cleats on turf. The tension that had once filled every pause between us was gone, replaced by something quieter—steady, almost easy.
For the first time since I’d met him, Beckett Mason didn’t feel like a storm waiting to break. He just felt present.
That evening, I still had grass in my hair and mud on my heels when I collapsed onto my couch. The living room smelled faintly like turf and coffee and exhaustion. I kicked my heels off and pulled out my phone, scrolling through the foundation’s social media page.
Someone had already posted a photo from earlier—me mid-kick, scoring that goal, hair flying. In the background, Beckett was laughing, grinning like an idiot. It made me laugh too, quietly, even as something tugged at me from somewhere deeper.
He keeps showing up, I thought. Even when he says he won’t. Even when he complains the whole time. He still shows up.
He wasn’t easy. He wasn’t careful. But when Beckett said he’d do something, he did it. And that had started to matter more than I wanted to admit.
My phone buzzed again—Kyle.
Sorry I’ve been MIA. Big week. Miss you.
I stared at the message for a moment before typing back,
Miss you too.
The words looked fine on the screen—simple, familiar—but they felt heavier now. Lighter to type, somehow, but heavier in my chest.
Because the truth was, I did miss him. I just wasn’t sure it was in the same way anymore.
I tossed my phone onto the couch and turned toward the window. My reflection stared back—hair loose, cheeks still flushed from the sun, a faint smile I hadn’t realized I was wearing.
“You’re not supposed to look forward to seeing someone who’s not yours,” I whispered to the empty room.
But I did.
And that scared me a little.
Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like laughter on an empty field, like sunlight clinging to the day, like maybe, just maybe, something new beginning when I hadn’t been looking for it.
I brushed a strand of hair from my face, still smiling.
Tomorrow, there’d be work and sponsors and chaos again. But tonight, just for a moment, I let myself think about the way he’d laughed when I scored, unguarded and real.
And even though I knew I shouldn’t—I let myself hope I’d hear that sound again.