Beckett turned slowly, his smirk slipping into something closer to steel. Kyle grinned, easy and unbothered, like he’d been born for this.
Two opposites—the Storm’s golden boy and its storm cloud.
They took their places side by side, the difference between them almost cinematic. Kyle stood straight, shoulders square, every move precise, polished. Beckett was looser, coiled like a spring that might snap at any second.
“All right, boys,” the photographer said, lifting his camera. “Look like you actually like each other.”
A low chuckle rippled through the crew, but no one missed the edge beneath it.
I stood just off-camera, clipboard pressed against my chest, pretending to check the shot list. Watching them like this—the contrast, the rivalry humming under the surface—made something twist low in my stomach.
Kyle’s arm draped easily around Beckett’s shoulder for the photo. Beckett didn’t flinch, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the forced curve of his mouth.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Now one more—bigger smiles.”
Kyle flashed his trademark grin. Beckett didn’t.
Cam’s voice cut in, smooth but firm. “Mason, let’s try that again. Sponsors love enthusiasm.”
Beckett gave the faintest nod, that smile still not reaching his eyes.
The camera flashed again.
From a distance, it probably looked like the perfect shot—two teammates, side by side, supporting a good cause. But standing there, clipboard in hand, I could feel the static between them like a brewing storm.
And I couldn’t help thinking that no matter how good the photo looked, someone was bound to crack first.
“Shoulder to shoulder, guys,” the photographer called, waving one hand as he adjusted the angle of his lens. “Maybe a little friendlier?”
Beckett shifted half an inch closer but didn’t even try to fake it. “This is as friendly as it gets.”
A few people laughed nervously. Kyle gave one of his easy, media-ready chuckles. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said smoothly. “He loves the camera.”
Beckett turned his head just slightly, enough that the lights caught the sharp line of his jaw. “At least it loves me back.”
The flash went off—bright and blinding—freezing the moment in perfect, professional irony. On the monitor, the image appeared: two teammates shoulder to shoulder, one grinning, one smirking, tension stitched into the space between them.
The half-smile on Beckett’s face wasn’t friendly at all. It was a warning.
I stood beside Cam, watching through the monitor, clipboard hugged against my chest to keep from fidgeting. My stomach twisted tighter with every click of the shutter. Whatever was happening between them—it wasn’t just competitive energy. There was a crack in the air, sharp and old, like history no one wanted to name.
Cam leaned toward me, muttering under his breath, “If they survive this without killing each other, it might actually look authentic.”
I managed a strained laugh, keeping my eyes on the monitor. “That’s… something.”
“Something,” he echoed, tone dry.
I didn’t respond. My focus stayed locked on Beckett. He wasn’t even pretending to care about the camera anymore. His gaze stayed angled just slightly toward Kyle—steady, unreadable, but intense enough that even through the glass, it felt personal.
Kyle just kept smiling, professional that he was. It was polished and easy, the kind of expression he could hold for an entire press day without blinking. But I knew him too well. I caught the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed between shots. He felt it too—the tension thrumming underneath the flash and applause.
“Perfect,” the photographer said brightly. “Now let’s get one where you’re both laughing, maybe hands on shoulders—something that shows teamwork.”
Beckett’s smirk deepened just enough to make it clear what he thought of that idea. Kyle’s jaw flexed before he forced another grin.
The flash went off again, white light bouncing off their jerseys, the Storm logo gleaming between them.
The resulting image looked perfect—two players, teammates united for a cause. But standing there, I could see what the camera couldn’t: the storm building behind their smiles.
