He laughed. “Please. Coach will live. Besides, I wanted to see you. It’s been crazy lately.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “For both of us.”
We stood there for a beat too long, the buzz of conversation outside filling the silence. I could see the tug in him — the part that wanted to stay and the one that had already left.
Finally, he glanced toward the door. “Anyway, I should probably head back soon. Just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re not overworking yourself.”
I smiled — small, genuine. “And you’re here to set an example?”
He chuckled, slinging the duffel bag higher on his shoulder. “Touché.”
As he left, the scent of grass and cologne lingered in the air — bright, fleeting, like a memory you couldn’t quite hold on to.
I hesitated when he turned toward the door, already halfway gone. “Wait,” I said, the word out before I could stop it.
He turned back, eyebrows lifted.
“I’d like…” I trailed off, realizing how ridiculous I probably sounded. My face warmed. “Can I show you around?”
Kyle hesitated, glancing toward his phone like he was checking for an excuse. Then he smiled that easy, practiced smile. “Uh… sure. Yeah. Of course.”
I ignored the pause between sure and yeah and motioned for him to follow me down the hall.
The foundation hummed with movement—volunteers sorting gear, the faint echo of music from the training field outside. I pointed out the new sponsor logos lining the hallway, the updated tutoring room with bright new chairs and shelves packed with books.
“We’re expanding next season,” I said, my voice picking up some of its usual energy. “Hoping to bring in girls’ teams too. The gala’s what’ll make it possible.”
“That’s awesome,” he said automatically, thumb flicking across his phone.
I tried not to deflate. “We’ve been working with the Storm’s PR team, actually."
"How’s Beckett working out?”
The question caught me off guard—not because he knew, but because of the tone. Light. Casual. Like he was asking about a new pair of cleats.
“He’s… trying,” I said carefully. “Let’s call it a work in progress.”
Kyle chuckled, the corner of his mouth curving. “That sounds about right.”
“Meaning?” I prompted.
He shrugged, adjusting the strap of his duffel. “Beckett’s not bad—he’s just… Beckett. Hotheaded, stubborn, always two seconds from saying something he’ll regret. But when his head’s straight, he’s one of the best we’ve got.”
There was no judgment in his voice—just that same detached, locker-room loyalty he used whenever he talked about teammates. Protective but distant. The kind of tone that saw the talent, not the person.
I nodded, pretending not to notice the flicker of warmth in my chest when he said one of the best. It was strange—hearing the name from someone who actually knew Beckett beyond the headlines.
Still, the way Kyle said it made me wonder if anyone really saw him at all.
“Good to know,” I said lightly, pushing open the door to the small conference space. “Anyway, this is where we run team meetings, planning sessions, you name it.”
He nodded, looking around politely but not really seeing any of it.
“There’s talk the national scouts might come to the next match,” he said suddenly, shifting the topic like muscle memory. “If I can make that shortlist?—”
I smiled, swallowing the ache that crept in. “That’s incredible, Kyle.”
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when he talked about the game. “I’ve been grinding like crazy. Coach says I’m peaking at the right time.”
