Beckett
I was still dripping sweat when Cam Hunter appeared in the doorway, arms crossed like he’d been standing there long enough to get impatient. Morning drills had barely ended, and the locker room still smelled like turf and exhaustion.
“Office. Ten minutes,” he said.
I slung the towel around my neck. “What did I break this time?”
Cam didn’t even blink. “Nothing—miraculously. Just come.”
That tone—flat, formal—wasn’t good. Cam only got like that when there were reporters involved or someone up the chain wanted to make an example out of me. I’d take anger over polite professionalism any day. At least yelling was honest.
“Great,” I muttered. “Love surprises.”
He didn’t answer, just disappeared back down the hall.
By the time I got to his office, the hallway lights still felt too bright for how early it was. My shirt clung to my back, half from the workout and half from unease. The guys had noticed too—Adam called after me something about needing bail money. I flipped him off without turning around.
Cam’s office was exactly like him—organized to the point of obsession. Everything lined up, color-coded folders, pens arranged by size. I stood in the doorway, dripping sweat on his immaculate carpet.
“Sit,” he said.
“Sounds ominous,” I replied, but I sat anyway.
He closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair. “Relax. This isn’t disciplinary.”
“That’s what people say right before they suspend you.”
He didn’t smile. “The foundation gala’s this week.”
I blinked. “And?”
Cam laced his fingers together, elbows resting on his desk. “It’s about optics. You and Reynolds are both attending, which means we’re putting two very different headlines in the same room. I want the one about you to be boring.”
I huffed a laugh. “Boring. My favorite adjective.”
“I’m serious, Mason. You’ve actually been tolerable lately—doing the foundation work, showing up for the community sessions, even smiling for a few cameras without looking like you were in pain. Don’t blow it now.”
I leaned back in the chair, tossing my towel onto my knee. “You’re acting like I’m gonna start a fight in a tux.”
Cam didn’t blink. “Would I be wrong to worry?”
“Probably not,” I muttered.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Look. The foundation is important. Ellery James has put everything into this gala—months of work, dozens of sponsors, half the city watching. She doesn’t need a PR fire on her hands.”
Her name hit like it always did—quiet, sharp, unsettling. “She’ll be fine,” I said. “She always is.”
“She will,” Cam agreed. “Just don’t make her job harder. She’s good for this team. For you, frankly.”
That part caught me off guard. “For me?”
Cam’s mouth twitched. “You’ve been less of a pain in the ass since she showed up. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
I didn’t have a comeback for that, so I just stood, stretching until my shoulder popped. “Guess I’ll try not to ruin the night, then.”
“Try harder than usual,” he said dryly. “And Mason—wear the damn tie this time.”
“Not making any promises.”
I’d been telling myself all week that the gala was just another event, another obligation to smile through.
But the truth?
The second Cam said her name, I was already counting the hours.
He leaned back in his chair, flipping through the file like he was savoring the moment. “You’ve logged seventy-two community-service hours,” he said finally, looking up with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “After the gala, you’re officially cleared.”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “So I’m off the leash.”
“Let’s call it ‘back in good standing,’” he corrected. “The league loves redemption stories. Makes for good press.”
I snorted. “Yeah, nothing says redemption like making small talk with rich people who think donating a check is a personality trait.”
Cam ignored me and slid a packet across the desk. “Here are your gala expectations: show up on time, smile when prompted, pose for photos with the sponsors, and, for once in your life, avoid explosions—literal or verbal.”
“Define ‘verbal.’”
“Anything that could end with a press release,” he said dryly.
I grabbed the pen and scrawled my name across the final form. “Yes, sir,” I muttered, because I knew that’s what he wanted to hear.
Cam studied me for a beat longer than usual. Then, to my surprise, his tone softened. “You’ve actually helped them, you know.”
I looked up. “Helped who?”
“The foundation,” he said. “The board called me yesterday. Said you were… dependable.”
I almost laughed, but the word caught in my throat. Dependable. Nobody had called me that before—not a coach, not a teammate, not even my own family.
“Guess I’m getting soft,” I said instead, trying to keep it light.
Cam shook his head. “Or human. Don’t ruin it now.”
That one landed. I gave him a half-smile, but something in my chest tightened. “No promises.”
He smirked, going back to his notes, clearly satisfied that I’d play nice at least until Saturday. But my mind had already drifted miles from his office—to the sound of Ellery’s voice, the way she smiled when she forgot to be composed, the way she made chaos feel almost manageable.
Cam kept talking about schedules and media coverage, but it all faded into background noise.
The whole community-service deal had started as punishment—another box to tick after that fight with the referee, another PR clean-up job to make the team look good. But somewhere between sorting donation bins and chasing a bunch of kids across the practice field, I’d stopped counting the hours.
It wasn’t about checking a box anymore. It was about her—Ellery James, with her impossible standards and her soft voice that turned sharp when she cared too much.
Now I was out of time.
Cam was saying something about coordinating with the press table when I stood up, stretching until my back cracked. “I’ll see you at the gala,” I said.
He looked up, surprised. “Try not to look like you’re attending your own funeral.”
“No guarantees,” I said, forcing a grin.
Cam slid a folder across the desk—crisp, thick, full of all the things I didn’t want to think about.
“Event itinerary and donor list,” he said.
“I know you managed to pull some yourself so you should know them. In case you don't, memorize them. Smile at the right people, thank the right checks. Then you’re done.”
I flipped it open halfheartedly—names, photos, company logos. The usual suspects: investors, sponsors, the city’s elite. The kind of people who wore generosity like a designer label.
“Done,” I said, closing it. “Got it.”
Cam leaned back, watching me like he was waiting for something. “You’ve done good work, Mason.”
That caught me off guard.
He didn’t say it with his usual PR gloss—no performative tone, no caveats. Just plain and simple.
“I mean that,” he added.
I nodded once, because I didn’t know what else to do with that kind of honesty. “Appreciate it,” I said, already halfway out the door before he could turn it into something sentimental.
In the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright and too honest. I shoved my hands into my pockets and let the thought settle, heavy and inevitable.
By this time next week, I’d be “back in good standing.” Free.
So why did it already feel like loss?
The locker room was half-empty by the time I got back. I shoved the folder into the top shelf of my locker and sat down hard, elbows on my knees.
Adam and Derek were still arguing a few rows over—something about which playlist got gym privileges. Their voices bounced off the concrete, familiar, normal.
But all of it felt far away.
I stared at the edge of the folder sticking out from the locker, the foundation’s logo catching the light.
I should be happy. No more PR babysitting. No more early mornings at the foundation. No more late-night event calls. No more her.
It was supposed to feel like winning.
Instead, it landed like grief.
Because the truth was, I’d gotten used to the chaos—the way Ellery would snap her fingers when she was thinking, the constant buzzing energy of her office, the way she’d hand me a clipboard like she was daring me to care.
And I had. Against all logic, I’d started to care.
The foundation was supposed to be a temporary fix. A box to tick. Serve your hours, smile for the cameras, get cleared.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the league or Cam or saving face. It became about her laugh echoing through the office. Her late-night emails with way too many exclamation marks. Her relentless belief that people could be better if someone just showed up.
Now, I was done. Free.
And it felt hollow.
Adam said something about losing aux privileges; Derek threw a towel at him. Normally, I’d have jumped in just to stir the pot. But I couldn’t bring myself to move.
I leaned back against the locker, staring at the ceiling.
You can’t miss something you never had.
But I did. God, I did.
I grabbed my duffel and stood, forcing my body into motion because if I stayed still, I’d start thinking too much.
Cam’s words replayed in my head: You’ve done good work.
Yeah. Maybe I had.
But it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like the quiet before something I wasn’t ready to name.
I stayed after practice long after everyone else had cleared out. The sun was dropping low, turning the turf gold, the air thick with the smell of sweat and cut grass.
There was a kind of silence that only hit once the drills ended—no shouting, no whistles, no thud of cleats against the ground. Just me, the ball, and the echo that came every time it slammed into the net.
Thud.
Again.
Thud.
Every strike carried the same frustration I couldn’t shake.
The ball ricocheted off the post and rolled to a stop near midfield. I jogged after it, chest still heaving, sweat burning down my neck. The question looped through my head with every step, no answer in sight.
When this all started, the foundation had been punishment—community service dressed up as redemption. A photo op to scrub away my temper, my bad press, my reputation for breaking first and thinking later.
Then Ellery happened.
Somewhere between her endless to-do lists and the fire in her voice when she talked about helping kids who had nothing, she got under my skin. She didn’t flinch when I barked, didn’t bend when I pushed back. She just looked at me like she expected me to be better—and worse, made me want to be.
And now it was ending. After the gala, my record would be clear, my hours complete. She’d go back to building miracles, and I’d go back to pretending soccer was enough.
I planted another kick, harder this time. The ball screamed into the net and bounced out again.
I bent over, hands on my knees, breath ragged. The light was fading fast, the sky bleeding pink and orange over the bleachers. I looked toward the stands—empty rows, quiet and still—and imagined her sitting there anyway, clipboard in hand, that little half-smile tugging at her mouth.
I could almost hear her voice, “You’re aiming too low, Mason. Adjust your stance.”
The memory hit too clean. I let out a low laugh, the kind that hurt more than it helped.
You’re losing it.
I picked up the ball again and stood in the center circle, turning slowly, the world around me swallowed in twilight.
This field had always been my anchor. When everything else fell apart, I could come here and shut it out—noise, people, feelings. But tonight, the silence wasn’t peace. It was absence.
I thought about walking away. Just grabbing my gear, hitting the showers, locking this all back in the part of my brain labeled “mistakes.”
Instead, I kicked one last shot. It flew straight and true, slicing through the dimming light, smacking the net dead center.
The sound echoed back, sharp and final.
I stood there a long time after, staring at the goal like it might give me an answer.
It didn’t.
The stands stayed empty.
The air stayed still.
And all I could think was that maybe, for the first time in my life, winning wasn’t the point anymore.
I gathered my gear slowly, dragging it out like that would make the silence less heavy. Cleats, towel, water bottle—everything went into the bag with the dull rhythm of muscle memory. My legs ached, my shoulders burned, but none of it hurt as much as the quiet.
The sun had dropped completely now. Only the stadium lights kept the field alive, throwing long shadows across the grass. I sat on the bench for a second, elbows on my knees, just… listening. Nothing but the hum of the lights and the sound of my own breathing.
Out of habit, I pulled my phone from my bag. No new messages. Not from Cam, not from the team group chat, not from her.
I stared at the blank screen, thumb hovering.
You shouldn’t. You’re done. She doesn’t need you checking in like some broken record. You don't have the right to. Fuck, you shouldn't want to. She's not yours. You don't even—
But my fingers were already moving, anyway.
Don’t forget to eat something. You always forget when you’re stressed.
I read the words twice. Too familiar, too soft, too much. Then I sighed and deleted them before I could make it worse.
The glow of the phone screen faded, leaving me staring at my own reflection for a second—eyes tired, expression flat.
You’re not her anything. Stop pretending you are.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket, stood, and slung the bag over my shoulder. The first stadium light clicked off behind me, then another. The field dimmed in sections, one rectangle of brightness at a time, until I was walking through the last pool of light at midfield.
Each step sounded louder than the one before, like the field was emptying itself of me too.
By the time I reached the gate, the lights went dark completely. Just the faint glow of the parking lot lamps ahead, the hum of the night settling in.
I paused once, hand on the fence, looking back at the shadowed goalposts.
Penance served. Sentence extended.
That was what this was—supposedly my clean slate. Seventy-two hours worked, public image repaired, redemption achieved.
But redemption didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like waiting for a message that wasn’t coming.
And walking away from the one person who’d ever looked at me and seen more than the damage.