Beckett #2
It was a local news piece covering a community meeting about youth sports funding.
Ellery was front and center, surrounded by kids, smiling like she didn’t have the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Her hair was up, a few strands falling loose, eyes lit in that way that made you forget to breathe for a second.
She looked… happy.
Not because of me. Not because of Kyle. Just because she was doing what she loved—building something that mattered.
I stared at the photo until my screen dimmed. Then I turned the brightness back up, just to look again.
The whole point of keeping my distance was to stop caring. To prove I could get my head back in the game. But seeing her there—alive, radiant, unstoppable—did the opposite.
It reminded me why I’d fallen for her in the first place.
I dropped the phone onto the couch and leaned back, closing my eyes.
You’re an idiot, I told myself. You said distance. You meant it.
But the truth was already there, heavy and unshakable: the plan had failed before it even started. Because no amount of distance could make me stop wanting her.
The weekend scrimmage wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a drop-off. A favor. I told myself I’d swing by, hand over the extra jerseys, and get out before anyone noticed.
Except she was there.
The second I stepped out of the truck, I saw her across the field—hair pulled back, clipboard in hand, sunlight cutting across her shoulders. She was talking to a group of kids, smiling in that way that made the whole damn place feel warmer.
And then she saw me.
“Hey, stranger,” she called, waving like we hadn’t gone weeks pretending to be fine.
For a second, I just stood there, caught between running and walking straight to her. I chose the middle—kept my pace steady, casual, like it didn’t mess with my head just hearing her voice.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I said when I got close enough.
She grinned, that soft, knowing curve of her mouth. “You say that like you didn’t bring half the equipment.”
“Force of habit.”
“Right,” she said, arching a brow. “Totally not because you miss this chaos.”
I snorted, shaking my head, but I couldn’t help smiling. The kids were already running circles around us, shouting about teams and who got to be goalie. Without even thinking about it, we fell back into rhythm—handing out jerseys, corralling kids, joking between the noise.
It was too easy. Too normal.
Every time she laughed, something in my chest loosened. Every time her shoulder brushed mine, something else pulled tighter.
We moved like we always had—like two halves of a pattern we didn’t have to think about. She handled the sign-ups; I managed the field setup. She teased me about being bossy; I told her she had a clipboard addiction.
Hours slipped by before I even noticed the sun starting to drop. The crowd began thinning, parents calling their kids, volunteers packing up gear. I was folding the last few jerseys when she walked over, her hair escaping its tie, cheeks flushed.
“Thanks for coming,” she said softly.
“No problem,” I managed, focusing on the fabric in my hands like it mattered.
But she didn’t walk away.
When I finally looked up, she was watching me—expression open, a little sad, a little brave. “I missed having you around,” she said.
The words hit harder than I expected. Simple, honest, unguarded.
And I couldn’t say a damn thing back.
Because everything that came to mind sounded wrong—too much, too heavy, too close to the truth. I missed you too. You never really left my head. I’m trying to stay away, but I don’t want to anymore.
So instead, I just nodded, throat tight, pretending to focus on packing up cones.
She gave me a small, understanding smile before turning to wave goodbye to the kids. I watched her for one more moment, sunlight catching in her hair, before I looked away.
I told myself I’d come for the jerseys. But as I walked back to the truck, I knew better.
I hadn’t come for the gear. I’d come because staying away had finally stopped feeling possible.
Back in the truck, I sat for a long time before turning the key. My hands were still on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. The sound of the field lingered behind me—kids laughing, Ellery’s voice calling out instructions, that quiet laugh she made when she was tired but happy.
I should’ve felt good about helping, about seeing things running smoothly. That was the point, right? Get in, drop off the jerseys, make myself useful, and get out. Keep it simple. Keep it clean.
But nothing about it felt clean anymore.
I leaned back against the seat, exhaling hard, watching her in the rearview mirror. She was still there, crouching down to talk to one of the kids, tucking her hair behind her ear. The same motion she’d done a hundred times before, but now it hit like something I shouldn’t want to touch.
This isn’t tension anymore.
The thought came like a truth I’d been avoiding for too long.
It’s gravity.
No matter how far I tried to move, she pulled me back. Every look, every word, every unspoken thing between us—it wasn’t static anymore. It was momentum. A slow, steady fall I couldn’t stop.
I gripped the wheel tighter, jaw locked, trying to convince myself it was still under control. That I could walk away. That what happened didn’t mean anything. But deep down, I already knew better.
Because she’d looked at me today like I still mattered. Like she wanted me there. And the part of me that had been fighting this—fighting her—finally gave up pretending.
I started the engine, forcing my gaze away from the mirror, from her.
Next time she asked for help, I wouldn’t pretend to hesitate.
I was already gone.