Why does he look better behaving badly than anyone else looks doing things right?
The thought came before I could stop it, and I mentally shoved it aside. Professional. Stay professional.
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice steady. “Go get changed. You have about five minutes before Cam starts breathing fire.”
He tilted his head, still smirking. “You sound like Coach.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I shot back, flipping through my notes to avoid his gaze.
He chuckled—low, genuine—and sauntered toward the changing area, moving with that same lazy grace athletes have when they know exactly how powerful they are.
Naomi sidled up next to me, her voice barely above a whisper. “You okay, boss? You’re doing that thing.”
I blinked. “What thing?”
“The thing where you look like you’re assessing posture but you’re actually staring at his shoulders.”
I nearly dropped my clipboard. “I was not?—”
“Sure,” she said, biting back a grin. “Totally professional. Very Coach Lawson of you.”
I glared at her, but the corner of my mouth twitched. “Remind me to reassign you to merchandise sorting.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, smirking as she walked off.
I shook my head, pretending to refocus on the checklist, but my pulse was still a beat too fast. The cameras were ready, the lighting perfect, the banners lined up just right—everything under control.
Except maybe me.
A minute later, Beckett reappeared—hair pushed back, jersey crisp, grin sharper than before. The room seemed to realign around him, like even the air was waiting for what he’d do next.
Cam called out, “All right, Mason, front and center! Ellery, you’re next to him.”
Beckett turned, eyes finding mine again. That smirk widened, half challenge, half amusement.
“Looks like we’re teammates today,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t believe you play well with others.”
But as I stepped up beside him, clipboard tucked against my chest, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe—just maybe—I already was.
Kyle swept in like the cameras had been waiting just for him.
The room shifted instantly—energy snapping sharp, photographers straightening, volunteers whispering as if a celebrity had just arrived. In a way, one had. He wore the Storm’s training kit too, but where Beckett’s looked rumpled and lived-in, Kyle’s was pristine. His hair was perfect, his smile brighter than the studio lights.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek before I could even respond. “Had to finish an interview.”
I smiled, pushing aside the flicker of tension that came with his timing. “You made it—that’s what counts.”
He squeezed my hand, his palm warm and steady. “Anything for you.”
The photographers lapped it up, shutters clicking in rapid bursts as if this were part of the campaign—the golden couple, all teamwork and charity.
Across the room, I caught a flash of movement—Beckett, standing near the banner setup, arms folded, expression unreadable. He wasn’t looking at us, not exactly, but his jaw was tight, the muscle there shifting once. It wasn’t anything so simple. Just something unspoken, restrained.
Cam clapped his hands, his PR voice cutting through the noise. “All right, people! Let’s get this rolling before we lose the light. We’ll start with some teammate shots—Mason and Reynolds front and center!”
The air changed in an instant. Even the interns seemed to feel it.
