“You’ll apologize,” he continued, unmoved. “You’ll help. You’ll smile. And you’ll mean it.”
I tilted my head. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll sit every match through June.”
That one landed.
He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, eyes steady. “Look, Beckett, you’ve got one hell of a talent. But your temper’s writing checks your reputation can’t cash anymore. This—” he gestured to the headline “—is your last shot to prove you can do more than blow up when things don’t go your way.”
My hands curled into fists in my lap. I wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t get it—but I couldn’t. Because deep down, he did. “…Fine,” I said finally, the word tasting like defeat.
“Good.” He stood, tapping his tablet off. “You’ll head over after practice. And Beckett?”
“What now?”
Cam’s tone softened, just slightly. “Don’t make her regret defending you.”
That one stung more than the threat of suspension.
I stood slowly, shoving my hands into my pockets. The air in his office felt too clean, too bright. On my way out, I caught sight of a photo on the wall—Kyle smiling, a kid clinging to his leg, everyone around him laughing.
That was the kind of image the team wanted. The kind of guy people rooted for.
And I was the headline they used to drive clicks.
But Ellery James had gone off-script—had seen me at my worst and still called it passion.
And for some reason, that felt worse than being hated.
Because I could handle being the villain.
I had no idea how to be forgiven.
Naomi saw me first. I caught her reflection in the office window—head tilted, a smirk already forming like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Oh, look,” she said, loud enough for me to hear through the glass. “The storm’s back.”
I almost turned around and left right then. Almost.
Inside, Ellery didn’t even glance up from her desk. Papers and volunteer forms were spread everywhere like organized chaos. Her voice carried, dry as sandpaper. “Fantastic. Someone hide the silverware.”
Cute. Real cute.
I knocked once—more out of habit than politeness—and pushed the door open before she could say no.
She didn’t look up. “If you’re here to quit again, at least text next time.”
“Not quitting,” I said, forcing the words out.
“Miracles happen.”
I shifted my weight, suddenly wishing I’d waited outside. The place smelled like coffee and printer ink. The kind of smell that clung to paperwork and long hours. She was still writing something, pen moving across the page like I wasn’t even there.
“Look,” I started, clearing my throat. “About yesterday?—”
“You mean the part where you bailed mid-shift,” she said, cutting me off, “or the part where you ignored half the kids?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “The whole thing.”
