To my surprise, Beckett actually stopped. For a second, his expression shifted—something warmer, something real flickered through. He lifted a hand and waved back, a grin tugging at his mouth. One of the kids bolted in, clutching a soccer ball and a permanent marker.
“Can you—can you sign it?” the boy stammered, eyes huge.
Beckett didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, kid. C’mere.”
He crouched, signed the ball with a quick flourish, and ruffled the kid’s hair before sending him back out to the field. The boy ran off beaming, showing it to everyone like he’d just won the lottery.
For a heartbeat, I saw it—the version of Beckett people used to talk about before the headlines. The one who looked alive when he was around the game.
Then he caught me watching him. The grin vanished. His sunglasses went back on.
And just like that, the wall was back up.
“They look up to you, you know,” I said as we resumed walking. “You could at least try.”
He shrugged, voice flat. “Lady, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Physically, sure.”
That got me a look—a quick flash of annoyance mixed with something else. Amusement, maybe. “Wow,” he said. “You’re not scared to talk back.”
“I work with twelve-year-olds,” I said. “You’ll have to do better than mild condescension.”
He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “Guess we’ll see.”
We walked the rest of the hallway in silence; the air charged but not unfriendly. Beneath the sharp edges, there was a hum of curiosity.
I could tell he was testing me—seeing how far he could push.
He didn’t know I was testing him, too.
Back in the office, I handed him a clipboard and my most diplomatic smile. “Here’s what we’ve got for you this week.”
He took it without looking, already sounding suspicious. “What is this?”
“Your task list.” I pointed to the first section. “Sponsor gift baskets, silent auction setup, and promotional appearances for the gala.”
He finally glanced down. His eyebrows shot up. “You’re joking. You want me to sort baskets?”
“Yes,” I said simply. “Unless you’d prefer to handle the silent auction logistics. Though that involves spreadsheets.”
He gave me a blank stare, then set the clipboard on the desk like it had personally offended him. “This is what community outreach means to you? Gift baskets?”
I crossed my arms. “Yes. Or do you need a red card for that too?”
Naomi, who’d been tidying the coffee station behind me, went very still.
Beckett’s mouth twitched, but his tone stayed dry as dust. “Cute.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. He leaned back against the desk, folding his arms across his chest, and studied me from behind those ever-present sunglasses. “You always this fun, or do I just bring out the best in people?”
I smiled tightly. “You’re special.”
“Glad you noticed.”
Naomi made a noise somewhere between a cough and a snort and immediately bent over the printer like it was the most fascinating object in the world.
