Beckett
The sun was brutal that afternoon — high, blinding, the kind that made the turf shimmer and burn through your shoes. We were running light drills, nothing serious, just moving through the motions while a few of the foundation volunteers packed up the cones and gear from the youth session.
I jogged across the field, half-distracted, wiping sweat off my forehead with the edge of my sleeve — and that was when I saw her.
Ellery.
She was standing near the sideline, clipboard tucked against her chest, laughing at something Kyle said.
And just like that, the world narrowed.
They looked… easy together. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that didn’t need words. Kyle was in full charm mode, of course — all green eyes, perfect posture, the kind of relaxed confidence that made people lean toward him without realizing they were doing it.
He said something else, and she laughed again — soft and genuine, the sound cutting through the noise of the field like it was meant to find me.
I told myself I was imagining things. Reading into it. They’d been together for years; this was normal. They fit. They had history.
I was the outsider here — the angry one, the one who didn’t know how to exist without sharp edges.
Stay in your lane, Mason.
But my jaw was already tight, and I hated how natural they looked. The way she reached out to adjust something on his sleeve, and he leaned in without thinking. The way she smiled up at him like it didn’t take effort.
I didn’t even realize I’d stopped moving until one of the guys called out my name.
“Yo, Mason! You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing my focus back, jogging toward the goal. “Fine.”
Except I wasn’t. Not really.
The whole thing twisted in my gut in a way I didn’t want to unpack. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was more complicated than that. It was the reminder that she wasn’t mine to look at that way, wasn’t mine to think about when she wasn’t around.
I’d spent the last few weeks telling myself what we had wasn’t anything. That the late nights fixing decorations, the quiet jokes, the way she smiled when she caught me helping the kids — none of it meant a damn thing.
She was just someone who needed help. I was just the guy who happened to be there.
But standing there, watching her laugh at someone else’s joke — watching her light up for someone who had every right to her time and her touch — I realized how deep the hook had already gone.
And it pissed me off.
Because I didn’t want this. I didn’t want her to matter like that. I didn’t want to be the guy standing on the sidelines, pretending not to care while every instinct screamed otherwise.
I turned back toward the field, pushing harder into the next drill, trying to sweat it out, burn it off. But no matter how fast I moved, my eyes still drifted back to her — to the way the sun caught in her hair, to the way Kyle leaned a little too close when he spoke.
And I hated that I couldn’t decide which part bothered me more: that she didn’t see me watching… or that she did.
Adam and Derek fell into step beside me just as I realized I’d stopped pretending to stretch.
Adam followed my line of sight, his grin immediate. “You’re glaring at our Reynold’s girlfriend, Mason. That’s a bold strategy.”
“I’m not glaring,” I muttered.
Derek snorted. “You’re absolutely glaring.”
“I’m not—”
Adam cut in, laughing. “—glaring, sure. You’re just burning a hole through her face for fun.”
I grabbed my water bottle and lobbed it at him. He dodged easily, still grinning like a jackass. “Shut up.”
“No judgment,” he said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “Everyone loves a challenge.”
“Not this one.”
He didn’t buy it. Neither did Derek, judging by the sideways look he gave me.
“Relax,” Derek said, voice low, the way older players always sound when they’re giving advice you didn’t ask for. “Just don’t make it weird.”
Too late.
Their laughter followed me as I stalked off toward the equipment racks, but I barely heard it. My pulse was too loud in my ears.
It wasn’t about competition anymore.
When this started — whatever this was — I could’ve lied to myself and said it was pride. Kyle had everything handed to him: the sponsorships, the praise, the leadership role, her. It would’ve been easy to call it jealousy.
But it wasn’t. Not really.
This wasn’t about winning. It wasn’t about proving I was better or faster or more deserving.
It was personal.
I hated how much space she took up in my head — how a single laugh or glance could derail my focus faster than a bad play ever could. I hated that my teammates noticed. That they were right.
Adam’s voice echoed in my skull even after I walked away, Everyone loves a challenge.
Yeah. Maybe. But this didn’t feel like a challenge I could win.
I yanked open the gear bin and started organizing the cones and balls just to give my hands something to do. The plastic clattered, sharp and hollow. The kind of noise that covered the things I didn’t want to think about.
Across the field, Ellery brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. Kyle said something that made her laugh again — the easy kind of laugh people gave when they felt safe.
And I realized that was what bothered me most.
Not the fact that she was with someone else. Not the teasing or the rules I’d be breaking if I ever crossed a line.
It was that she looked at him the way no one had ever looked at me.
Like he wasn’t a mess she had to fix. Like she already trusted him not to let her down.
I dragged my hand down my face, muttering a curse under my breath.
The guys could tease all they wanted, call it tension or competition or whatever made sense to them.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I wasn’t angry because Kyle was her boyfriend.
I was angry because part of me wished he wasn’t.
Kyle’s laugh cut through the field — that confident, easy sound that always came before a headline or a win. I’d heard it a hundred times before, from press conferences to locker rooms, but for some reason, it grated more today.
Ellery laughed too — softer, quieter. The kind of laugh that wasn’t for cameras or crowds. She touched his arm lightly, just a small brush of her fingers. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing I should’ve noticed.
But I did.
And then, like some cruel joke, she glanced up — straight at me.
For a split second, our eyes met. Hers widened just a little, like she hadn’t expected to find me watching. I should’ve looked away first. Should’ve had the decency to act like I didn’t care.
But she was the one who looked away.
And it hit harder than I wanted it to.
She’s allowed to touch him, I told myself. She’s supposed to touch him. That’s what you do when you love someone.
So why did it feel like a kick to the ribs every damn time she did?
Kyle checked his watch, oblivious to everything except his next step toward greatness. “Gotta hit the gym before the scouts show up,” he said. Then, with that easy grin, “You’ll handle the rest, right?”
Ellery smiled — polite, automatic. “Yeah, of course.”
The words shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did, but they did. Every time she said of course, it sounded like resignation. Like she’d learned not to expect more.
My jaw locked. I tried to focus on the drills, on anything but the way she stood there, clipboard hugged to her chest like a shield.
Kyle jogged off, waving to a few of the guys, already laughing about something else before he even cleared the gate.
Ellery bent down to start gathering cones and nets by herself. No one offered to help — not that she’d ask. She’d do what she always did: hold the whole damn world together while everyone else moved on.
“Of course he leaves,” I muttered under my breath.
I should’ve stayed where I was. Should’ve minded my own business.
But watching her kneel in the grass, sleeves rolled up, hair slipping from its clip — something in me just moved before my brain could stop it.
I tossed my towel aside and started walking toward her.
Each step felt heavier than it should’ve. Because I knew what it looked like — the angry midfielder heading straight for his teammate’s girl. But I didn’t care. Not right then.
All I could think about was how damn wrong it felt to see her doing everything alone again.
By the time I reached her, she’d already stacked a few cones and was reaching for another net. I crouched down beside her, wordless, grabbing the opposite end to fold it up.
She looked up, startled. “Oh—Beckett. You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I meant. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”
Her eyes softened, the faintest flicker of surprise there before she masked it with a polite smile.
But I saw it.
And that was enough to make the ache in my chest twist tighter.
Because helping her didn’t fix anything.
It just reminded me how deep I was already in.
“You shouldn’t be moving this crap,” I said, dropping my towel on the sideline and crouching next to her. “It’s not your job.”
Ellery didn’t even look up. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. That’s like fifty pounds of equipment.”
“Fifty’s not heavy.”
“You’re five foot nothing. Don’t start.”
She rolled her eyes but handed over half the load, anyway. I grabbed the stacked cones from her before she could argue, because if there was one thing I knew about her by now, it was that she’d rather break her back than admit she needed help.
“You know,” she said, adjusting the strap of her clipboard bag, “you don’t have to swoop in every time Kyle can’t make it.”
“Didn’t do it for him,” I said automatically.
She froze for half a heartbeat, then looked up at me — not surprised exactly, but… something else.
“I know,” she said softly.
Those two words did something weird to my chest.
We went back to stacking the rest of the gear in silence, the air heavy with heat and the faint buzz of crows from the trees lining the field.
Sweat dripped down the back of my neck, and the smell of cut grass mixed with sunscreen and dust — the kind of summer scent that used to mean freedom. Now it just meant her.