Naomi grinned. “Sure, if you print it on the gala invitations.”
I pretended to jot it down on my clipboard, mostly to keep my hands moving. This shoot was more important than I wanted to admit. These photos would headline the Building Futures Through Sports campaign — the face of the gala, our website, every donor email. If we nailed it, we’d have the momentum we needed to lock in those last few sponsors. If we didn’t… well, I didn’t want to think about that.
Cam’s voice cut through the buzz again. “James, how’s your side looking?”
“Almost ready,” I called back, straightening one of the banners that had slumped a little. “Just waiting on the players.”
He nodded, phone already in hand as he typed something at lightning speed. “Good. Kyle should be here soon. And Beckett’s on his way too.”
Beckett. Of course. My pulse kicked up for reasons I pretended not to notice. The last time I’d seen him, he’d helped fix a broken display board in my office, and I still wasn’t sure if that made us allies or just slightly less volatile enemies.
I checked my phone again anyway, like I needed confirmation.
Running a bit late, on my way.
I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Of course he was late — he always was — but he was coming. That was what mattered.
Naomi must’ve seen the look on my face because she smirked. “He texted?”
“On his way,” I said, trying for casual but hearing the relief in my own voice.
“Good,” she teased. “You were starting to look like you were about to ref a finals match.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “You try running a shoot with a room full of athletes and Cam breathing down your neck about lighting angles.”
Cam, without looking up, said, “I heard that, James.”
“You were meant to,” I shot back, earning another grin from Naomi.
For a second, I let myself breathe. The energy in the room hummed — focused, chaotic, but purposeful. The kind of energy I thrived on.
I adjusted the headset, scanned the set one last time, and straightened my blazer. The banners gleamed under the lights, the camera crew was ready, and the boxes actually looked halfway decent.
The only thing left was for everyone to show up.
“All right,” I murmured to myself, more prayer than pep talk. “Let’s make this count.”
The door swung open, breaking through the hum of voices and camera clicks.
Beckett Mason walked in like he owned the place—or maybe like he didn’t care who did. His black-and-gold Storm training kit clung to him, damp from whatever drill he’d just left, and his expression was unreadable—somewhere between bored and dangerous.
The air shifted without warning. Conversations faltered. Even the photographers paused for a second, lenses instinctively tracking him.
He scanned the room, then looked straight at me. “You’re the boss today, right?”
I lifted my clipboard like a shield. “Technically, always.”
That earned the smallest hint of a smirk. “Guess I’ll try not to screw it up.”
“Appreciated,” I said, matching his tone because I refused to let him have the last word.
He just stood there for a moment—arms crossed, assessing the setup, completely at ease despite every pair of eyes on him. The kind of confidence that didn’t need to be loud to fill a room.
And it worked.
There was something magnetic about him—sharp edges wrapped in calm, like a storm pretending to behave. Most people wilted under the PR spotlight; Beckett made it look like the cameras were his idea.
My gaze caught on the way the lights hit his hair, still wet from training, or maybe from the drizzle outside. His jaw flexed once, expression cool but not detached.
