Beckett
The field was too quiet for a weekday. You could feel it—tension hanging in the air like humidity before a storm. Guys were half-going through drills, half-watching the gate, pretending they weren’t waiting for whatever was about to blow up.
I’d been running through the motions harder than usual, cleats snapping against the grass, lungs burning. Guilt, anger, missing her—none of it had anywhere else to go, so I left it here, pounding it into drills until my body hurt more than my head.
Coach Lawson’s whistle shrieked again, but even he could tell nobody was focused.
The second Kyle Reynolds stepped through the gate, the sound of drills and shouting died like someone had cut the power. Every ball stopped rolling. Every player froze mid-motion. Even the wind seemed to stall.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my wrist, squinting across the field. He wasn’t dressed for practice—black jeans, boots, jacket still half unzipped—but his expression said he didn’t come here to talk.
He walked straight across the grass, ignoring Lawson’s warning shout.
Perfect.
Just what I needed.
“You couldn’t stay away, could you?” he called, loud enough for the whole team to hear.
My pulse spiked, but I didn’t move. “You should leave.”
He kept coming. “You think you can steal my girl and walk onto my field like nothing happened?”
Behind me, Adam muttered under his breath, “Oh, hell,” while Derek whispered something that sounded like don’t do it, man. Nobody stepped in. They just watched.
I could feel every pair of eyes on us—my teammates, my coach, the media staff pretending to check their phones.
I took a slow breath, jaw tight. “She wasn’t yours to steal, Reynolds. You left her standing alone—over and over.”
That got a few raised eyebrows. Even Lawson’s whistle faltered halfway to his lips.
Kyle laughed, but it wasn’t real—just a sharp, ugly sound that cut through the tension. “You think you’re some kind of hero? Please. You’re a headline with legs.”
That stung more than it should’ve, probably because he wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d spent years trying to prove I was more than a temper or a record of penalties. Then she’d looked at me like I already was.
I stepped forward, close enough that I could see the sweat beading along his hairline. “At least I show up,” I said, voice low. “Something you never learned how to do.”
His expression cracked—just a flicker of something between guilt and rage—and that was all it took.
He lunged first, shoving me hard in the chest. My foot dug into the grass to keep balance, my hands curling into fists before instinct screamed don’t. Lawson was already shouting, sprinting across the field.
“Reynolds! Mason! Enough!”
I didn’t swing back. Didn’t have to. The damage was already done.
Kyle’s chest heaved, anger rolling off him like heat. “You think she’s gonna thank you for this? For ruining her reputation?”
“She’s stronger than you give her credit for,” I said quietly. “And she doesn’t need your permission to move on.”
Adam finally broke the silence with a low whistle. “Well. That’s going to make Good Morning, MLS.”
I ran a hand over my face, every nerve still buzzing. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Add it to the list.”
Lawson glared at me from the sideline, but even he didn’t bother with a lecture this time.
Kyle lunged for me again. There was no space left between us—just heat, breath, and fury. Every muscle in my body coiled tight, my pulse hammering in my ears. You could practically taste the tension; it was thick enough to choke on.
He was breathing hard, chest heaving, eyes wild. “You cost me sponsors,” he spat, voice breaking under the weight of anger.
I laughed once, short and sharp. “You cost yourself. You were too busy chasing glory to notice the person holding you together.”
That hit. I saw it—the flicker of recognition, the crack behind the fury. But he buried it fast, jaw tightening before he shoved me hard in the chest.
My feet slid through the grass. I shoved back before I could think, adrenaline surging through me like fire. The field erupted instantly—shouting, cleats scraping, the sound of bodies closing in.
Adam and Derek were suddenly between us, hands up like human barriers.
“Hey, hey! Chill out!” Adam barked, pushing Kyle back a step.
Derek grabbed my arm, muttering under his breath, “Don’t. He’s not worth it.”
Coach Lawson’s whistle blared across the pitch. “Enough!”
But Kyle wasn’t listening. His face was red, his voice cracking. “You’re nothing without chaos!” he shouted over the noise. “You think she’ll last five minutes with someone like you?”
Something snapped inside me then—not anger, just clarity.
My eyes met his. “Then why’s she still standing,” I said evenly, “while you’re here throwing tantrums?”
The words hung between us like a challenge neither of us could take back.
For a second, I thought he was going to swing. His fist twitched at his side, knuckles white, breath coming fast. The entire team froze—waiting for the hit, for the sound of contact.
Then Coach’s whistle cut through everything. Sharp. Final. “Both of you,” he barked. “Off my field. Now.”
Nobody moved. Not even Kyle. His chest rose and fell, fury shaking his shoulders. Finally, he stepped back, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like a curse.
He turned, storming toward the gate without another word. Cameras would have a field day with this—two teammates, center stage, the scandal still fresh.
I stayed where I was, breathing hard, sweat and anger still crawling under my skin.
Coach stalked over, jaw tight, eyes like steel. “You want to ruin what’s left of your season?” he snapped. “Keep this up.”
I nodded once, biting back a retort.
When he walked off to deal with Kyle, Adam clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Well,” he said grimly, “that’ll make tomorrow’s headlines easier to find.”
I gave a humorless laugh. “They were already writing them.”
As the field slowly came back to life—drills resuming, murmurs rising again—I stayed rooted to the same spot, the grass torn up beneath my cleats.
All I could think about was Ellery—how she’d look when she saw this, what she’d think of me now.
Because for all the noise and all the fury, the truth was simple. I hadn’t swung. Not because I couldn’t. Because she wouldn’t have wanted me to.
The locker room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed in your ears, heavy with everything unsaid. No one cracked a joke this time, no music played from the corner speaker. Just the smell of sweat, disinfectant, and the faint sting of adrenaline burning off.
I sat on the bench, elbows on my knees, head down. My knuckles were still white, veins still pulsing from holding back what every instinct wanted to finish. The silence pressed closer until even my own breathing felt too loud.
Then the door slammed open.
Cam stormed in, clipboard in hand, jaw tight enough to cut glass. “Congratulations,” he said, voice sharp and cutting. “You just gave the media the clip they were waiting for.”
I didn’t look up. Didn’t have to. I could already picture it—grainy video on every sports channel by sundown, two Storm players going at it on the field. Perfect headline to feed the mess already spilling across the internet.
He kept going. “Management’s furious. You’re both benched for the next match.”
“Fine,” I said, wiping a hand across the back of my neck. Sweat still clung to my skin, cooling fast.
Cam blinked, incredulous. “Fine? You’re losing game time, pay, maybe endorsements. You realize what that means?”
I looked up then, meeting his stare. “I said I don’t care.”
“You should,” he shot back, stepping closer. “Because this—this self-destructive crap—it’s exactly what everyone expects from you. You’ve worked too hard to prove you’re not that guy, and now you’re handing them proof on a silver platter.”
His words hit, but not the way he meant. Because yeah, maybe I was wrecking something. But at least I knew why this time.
“The truth’s out, Cam,” I said, voice low but steady. “Let them spin it however they want. At least it’s real now.”
He just stared at me for a long moment, like he couldn’t decide whether to argue or just give up. Finally, he exhaled, rubbing his temple. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, heading for the door. “I’ll try to keep this contained, but you better pray she can weather it too.”
The door shut behind him, echoing off the tile.
I leaned back against the locker, letting my head thud against the metal. My heartbeat finally started to slow, but it didn’t bring peace—just exhaustion.
Water dripped from the showers somewhere down the line, steady and hollow. The rest of the team had cleared out fast, giving me space they didn’t know what to do with.
I pulled my hands down my face and laughed once, rough and humorless.
She didn’t ask for this.
That was the part that burned. Ellery had fought her whole life to build something clean, solid, good. And I’d just dragged her through the mud with me, even if I hadn’t meant to.
Still, when I closed my eyes, the only thing I could see was her—standing under the gala lights, chin lifted, eyes bright and sure.
They could call it scandal, chaos, whatever they wanted. But I knew the truth.
She wasn’t my mistake.
She was the only thing I’d ever done right.
The room emptied out one voice at a time until there was nothing left but the low hum of the vents and the sound of water dripping somewhere near the showers. The air felt heavy—thick with sweat, soap, and the ghost of a fight I shouldn’t have let happen.
I sat there on the bench, head down, elbows on my knees, just breathing. Slow. Deliberate. Trying to make sense of what was left to do when everything had already gone to hell.
It’s done.
That thought circled through my head like a mantra. No pretending. No hiding. No more PR scripts, no more “we’re just colleagues.” Everyone had seen it now—the cracks, the truth, the thing I’d been pretending didn’t exist. The mess was mine.
I dragged a towel across the back of my neck, the fabric rough against my skin. My knuckles still ached from clenching too hard. My chest felt hollow.
The locker room lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too steady. I reached for my phone on the bench beside me and thumbed the screen to life. Nothing. No messages from Ellery. Not even a missed call.
Probably better that way.
If she was smart, she was keeping her distance. Cleaning up what I’d dirtied. Fixing what she could still save. That was who she was—steady, composed, impossible not to care about.
I leaned back, letting my head hit the metal behind me with a soft clang. The sound echoed through the empty space, sharp and small.
You wanted to protect her.
That part stung the most. Because it was true. Every choice I’d made, every time I’d stepped between her and someone else, I told myself it was about keeping her safe. From gossip, from fallout, from me.
But that was a lie.
Instead, you lit the match.
I could see it all playing out—the photos, the headlines, the team scrambling to do damage control. Her name next to mine, her reputation burning just as fast as mine ever had.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaling hard. The sound filled the room, too loud in the quiet.
So now you take the burn.
That felt right. It was the only thing left to do. Let the league fine me, let the sponsors pull deals, let the team bench me for the rest of the damn season. I’d take it all if it meant she could breathe without my shadow crowding her.
The fluorescent lights flickered once, humming low like the building itself was tired of me.
I closed my eyes, head still tipped back against the locker. All I could see was her standing on that stage—chin high, words steady, pretending her world wasn’t splintering underneath her heels.
I’d thought I was the one who’d ruined her peace. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe all I’d done was show her what it looked like to stop pretending.
Still, the silence pressed down harder. The kind of silence that felt earned.
And in it, I sat—letting the burn do what it was meant to do.
By the time I stepped outside, the noise was already waiting for me.
The sound of it hit first—the sharp pop of camera shutters, the low hum of reporters calling my name, the high edge of microphones scraping against one another. It sounded like static, like the world had turned into white noise with my name buried somewhere in the middle of it.
I pulled my hoodie up, kept my head down, and shouldered my bag. The concrete under my feet felt too solid, the air too cold. For a second, I almost laughed. It was ridiculous—how fast it all moved, how a game, a look, a moment could turn into a headline before you even caught your breath.
“Beckett! Is it true you—?”
“Did you and Reynolds—?”
“Was Ellery James—?”
I didn’t answer any of them. I didn’t even slow down.
My cleats hit the pavement with a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. One step, then another. Every shout behind me got fainter, swallowed by the hum of engines and the blur of flashbulbs.
If they’re going to call me the villain, I thought, I’ll at least be one who tells the truth.
I’d spent my whole career trying to be the version of myself everyone else could stomach—the reformed player, the redemption story, the guy who learned his lesson. But the truth? The truth was I never cared what the league thought, or what sponsors thought, or what the papers printed.
The only thing I cared about was her.
And if that made me the bad guy, fine. I could live with that. What I couldn’t live with was pretending I didn’t care.
The gates loomed ahead, the crowd thick near the exit. Someone shouted my name again, closer this time, but I didn’t look up. Didn’t give them the satisfaction of a soundbite or a photo they could twist into another lie.
I just kept walking. Past the flashes, past the noise, past the chaos that had already decided what kind of man I was.
The hoodie shadowed my face. The air smelled like rain and asphalt and something close to freedom.
Whatever waited on the other side of that gate—suspension, headlines, fallout—I’d face it.
Because for once, there was nothing left to hide behind.
Just the truth, and the choice I’d already made.
I kept walking.