Beckett #2
“Mason. Reynolds. My office. Now.” Coach Lawson’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.
Every muscle in my body went rigid. The rest of the room scattered fast — everyone suddenly remembering they had something urgent to do elsewhere.
Kyle stood first, expression perfectly neutral, the same one he used after taking a foul — calm, detached, like he was already over it. He didn’t look at me, not once. Just grabbed his water bottle, ran a hand through his hair, and walked toward Lawson’s office.
I followed, still breathing hard. My pulse hadn’t slowed since I’d stepped into that doorway.
Lawson’s office smelled like coffee and turf — small space, big silence. He sat behind the desk, black hoodie, dark circles under his eyes, the same unimpressed expression he’d been perfecting since the day I joined this team.
“Sit,” he said.
Kyle did. I didn’t.
Lawson sighed. “Fine. Stand. Whatever makes you feel like a rebel.” He looked between us. “Now, which one of you geniuses wants to tell me why I just walked in on the world’s dumbest pissing contest?”
Kyle lifted a hand like it was nothing. “It was a misunderstanding.”
That almost made me laugh — the kind of bitter sound that never makes it out.
Lawson turned to me. “Mason?”
“Nothing to add.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, no punches thrown, no property damaged, just a good old-fashioned staring contest?”
I didn’t answer.
Kyle shrugged. “Pretty much.”
Lawson rubbed his temples like we were giving him an actual migraine. “You two realize we’ve got sponsors watching practices, right? You think they want to see this?”
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, he looked at Kyle. “Reynolds, you’re dismissed.”
Kyle blinked, surprised but too polite to argue. “Yes, Coach.” He left quietly, not a trace of guilt on his face.
I stared after him until the door shut.
Lawson leaned back, eyes narrowing. “You wanna tell me what that was?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Bullshit.”
I didn’t answer.
He folded his arms. “You’ve been off all week. Whatever’s going on with you — fix it. Because if you bring this into the next match, I’m benching you.”
I nodded automatically, but the words barely landed. My head was still spinning, pulse still pounding with something that wasn’t anger anymore — not exactly.
Lawson muttered something about babysitting grown men, but I was already moving.
When I stepped out of the office, the hallway lights hit too bright. Every sound — the squeak of shoes, the thud of a ball hitting the wall — felt too sharp.
Kyle was gone, probably already back on the field, flashing that easy grin for whoever was watching.
He didn’t even get it. He didn’t see her — the way Ellery kept everything together while he was off chasing the next big thing. He didn’t see her running herself into the ground to make something real. And worst of all, he didn’t care that he didn’t.
Lawson called my name again, but I didn’t stop.
I just kept walking.
For a while, no one said anything.
Then Adam exhaled slowly. “Well,” he muttered, “that went great.”
Derek whistled low. “You’ve got a death wish, man.”
I grabbed my bag off the bench, ignoring them.
Adam tried again, softer this time. “You know that wasn’t smart, right?”
“Never claimed to be smart,” I said, slinging the strap over my shoulder.
He gave a half-smile. “No, but you’ve got timing — I’ll give you that.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because the truth was, I didn’t regret a single word.
I should’ve. It was reckless. It was stupid. I’d just put a target on my back — against the team captain, no less.
But all I could see was Ellery standing in that gym last week, shoulders tight, eyes tired but still determined. I could hear her voice when she said she was tired of being the thing that waits.
Someone needed to say it.
Someone needed to remind him she wasn’t just a fixture in his highlight reel.
And if it had to be me — if that made me the villain in this locker room — then so be it.
Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t care what anyone thought.
I only cared that someone finally said the truth out loud.
The field was empty, just the whisper of wind dragging across the turf. The sky had that bruised purple tint it got right before night fell — the kind that looked like it might split open if you breathed too hard.
I sat on the bench, elbows on my knees, gripping my water bottle like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. The metal creaked under my hand, the plastic cap digging into my palm.
You don’t get to care.
You don’t get to want someone who already belongs to somebody else.
She’s taken. She loves him. She chose him.
So why the hell do you want to knock his teeth in for making her sound small?
I let out a breath that hurt going down, tossed the bottle across the grass, and watched it roll until it stopped at midfield. The sound of it clattering against the ground was too sharp, too final.
Because she’s not small.
She’s not some quiet background piece that fits neatly into someone else’s story. She’s fire — steady, stubborn, the kind that burns without asking for permission.
And he doesn’t deserve to be standing in the glow.
I leaned back against the bench, staring up at the darkening sky, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every time I thought about her — the way she pushed herself past exhaustion, the way she still found time to care — it twisted something in me I didn’t know how to untangle.
Kyle would never see it. He’d never look past what was easy, what looked good on a camera. But I had. I’d seen her when she thought no one was watching — the cracks, the fight, the impossible strength underneath it all.
And that was the problem.
Because once you saw someone like that, you didn’t forget it. You just carried it like a bruise that never faded.