Instead, I just said, “Fine. Let’s get back to work.”
“Lead the way, sunshine,” he said, smirk returning like it never left.
The tension didn’t fade—it just shifted, charged and humming, somewhere between challenge and curiosity.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous than the silence ever did.
The thud of weights echoed through the gym as I rounded the corner, clipboard in hand, ready to check on Beckett’s “progress.” The kids were finishing up drills with one of our volunteers, their laughter bouncing off the walls, but there was no sign of him anywhere near the equipment bins he was supposed to be sorting.
Then I heard his voice—low, irritated—coming from behind the treadmills.
I stopped.
Beckett stood with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear, pacing slowly between benches like the rest of the world didn’t exist. “I said I’ll handle it,” he snapped quietly. “Just—stop blowing up my phone, all right?”
He turned then, saw me watching, and didn’t even bother pretending to care. He just shoved his free hand into his pocket, jaw tight.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” I said, tone clipped.
“You already did.”
That was it. The last thread of patience I had for him snapped. “If you’re not interested, you can leave.”
He smirked like that idea genuinely appealed to him. “Gladly.”
“Perfect,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I’ll make sure Cam knows you didn’t last a full day.”
He froze. Just for a second. The phone still in his hand, his knuckles white around it. Then he dropped it onto the bench beside him with a sharp thud. “You don’t get it,” he said, voice suddenly rougher. “This isn’t about you.”
I folded my arms. “No,” I said, stepping closer, refusing to back down. “It’s about showing up for people who need someone to look up to. Try it sometime.”
His eyes met mine, and the air between us went electric—anger, pride, something unnamed simmering just beneath the surface.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Neither of us blinked.
He looked like he wanted to argue—like the words were there, caught between his teeth—but instead, he exhaled sharply and turned toward the door.
“You want a volunteer?” he muttered, grabbing his phone. “Fine. I’ll show up tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother if you’re just going to waste my time,” I shot back.
He stopped in the doorway, looked over his shoulder, and his voice came out low, almost quiet. “Like this wasn’t a waste of mine.”
Then the door slammed, the sound reverberating through the gym like a starting whistle.
Silence followed—heavy and charged.
I stood there, breath uneven, trying to will my heartbeat to slow down. I could feel every pair of eyes on me—the kids, the volunteers, everyone who’d just witnessed that train wreck of an interaction. I pasted on my best everything’s fine smile and waved them back to their drills.
Naomi peeked in a few moments later, eyes wide, a granola bar halfway to her mouth. “So… smooth first day?”
I let out a breath, rubbing my temples. “He’s impossible.”
“Yeah,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “But you’ve handled worse. Remember the city council guy who called soccer ‘a frivolous expense’? You made him cry.”
“That was different,” I muttered.
“How so?”
