I hesitated. Because it was different. This wasn’t about politics or paperwork or someone underestimating me. This was about a man who clearly carried the weight of something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say.
And as much as I wanted to write him off as another arrogant athlete with a temper, I couldn’t shake the look on his face when I’d called him out. That flicker of something almost… vulnerable.
Naomi tossed me a knowing look as she left. “Try not to murder him tomorrow. We need the good press.”
I snorted. “No promises.”
The gym was empty again, save for the faint echo of the kids’ laughter fading down the hall. I reached over and flicked off the lights, the sudden darkness swallowing the tension but not quite easing it.
I told myself it didn’t matter if Beckett Mason showed up again tomorrow.
But as the quiet settled and the reflection of the empty field shimmered faintly through the glass, I realized I was already bracing for it—like standing on the field before a storm I couldn’t outrun.
Chapter 4
Beckett
The locker room was already alive by the time I got there—music low, cleats clattering against tile, the familiar smell of sweat, turf, and way too much body spray. I kept my head down, pretending to scroll through my phone, hoping if I looked busy enough, no one would start in on me.
No such luck.
“How’d your first day at Ellery's go? She's really passionate about it.”
Kyle’s voice—of course. Always too damn chipper for mornings after double drills. I didn’t even have to look up to hear the grin in it.
“Shut up,” I muttered, tossing my bag into the locker.
That got a laugh from the corner. Kieren Walker—never missed an opportunity. “Heard she kicked you out.”
I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “Didn’t get kicked out. I left.”
“Yeah?” Kieren smirked. “That what we’re calling it now?”
I ignored him and yanked my jersey from the hook. The less said about yesterday, the better. The whole place had seen the headlines already—no point pretending otherwise.
I could still hear Ellery’s voice in my head. If you’re not interested, you can leave.
And I had.
But the look she’d given me before I walked out—the mix of anger and disappointment—had stuck longer than I wanted it to.
I slammed the locker door shut, maybe a little too hard when I heard the unmistakable scrape of boots on tile. Coach Lawson.
The room quieted like someone had hit mute.
He walked past slow, calm, the way only someone with complete control could manage. His voice was steady, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “You leave again,” he said without looking at me, “and it’ll be your contract that’s gone.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a man.
“Yes, Coach,” I said automatically, because there wasn’t a right answer, anyway.
He kept walking, and the buzz of conversation picked back up once he was gone. Quieter this time, though. More cautious.
I sat down on the bench, rubbing the back of my neck. My phone buzzed again.
Cam Hunter: Meeting. PR office. 10 sharp.
Of course.
