I tried to swallow the tightness in my chest, forcing my expression into something neutral, professional. It wasn’t my place to step in. They were grown men. Professionals.
Still, as the next series of flashes went off, Beckett’s focus never once shifted to the lens.
It stayed on Kyle—sharp, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
The next setup was supposed to be the heartwarmer — the one that screamed community, teamwork, hope. Cam’s words, not mine.
We moved to the center of the photo space, where a handful of the foundation’s kids waited, clutching soccer balls almost as big as their torsos. The backdrop gleamed with the Storm and Foundation logos, everything bright and carefully balanced.
Beckett crouched beside a small boy with freckles and grass-stained knees, his usual edge softening just slightly as the kid grinned up at him.
“You’re the guy who got that red card!” the boy blurted, voice full of innocent awe.
A ripple of laughter went through the crew. Beckett didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin widened. “Yeah,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “but I still scored first.”
The boy laughed, delighted, and Beckett bumped fists with him.
I tried not to smile. Really, I did. But there was something about the way he said it — the quiet mischief in his tone, the ease that melted every bit of tension he usually carried — that made it impossible not to.
Meanwhile, Kyle was exactly what every PR director dreamed of. Perfect posture, camera-ready smile, just the right mix of warmth and confidence. He crouched beside a pair of girls, one on each side, chatting like he’d known them for years.
“Which one of you’s going pro first?” he asked.
Both girls giggled, holding up their soccer balls like trophies.
The photographer’s camera clicked in rapid bursts. The energy was good. Manufactured, but good.
Then my gaze drifted back to Beckett.
He was laughing — a real, unguarded laugh — as the same little boy tried to balance the ball on his head. When it inevitably rolled off, Beckett caught it before it hit the floor and ruffled the kid’s hair. “You’ve got potential,” he said. “Just work on your aim.”
The boy nodded seriously, and Beckett grinned again.
And there it was — the thing I hadn’t expected.
No polish, no pretense, no practiced lines. Just a guy connecting with a kid who looked up to him for reasons bigger than stats or sponsorships.
Kyle’s charm worked like a spotlight — bright, impressive, and perfectly aimed. Beckett’s was messier, rougher around the edges, but somehow it drew people in anyway.
The kids noticed. The volunteers noticed.
I noticed.
I stood just off to the side, pretending to check my clipboard but really watching him.
He didn’t even realize when he was good. That was the difference.
Where Kyle performed kindness, Beckett just… was it, even if he didn’t mean to be.
“All right, that’s perfect,” the photographer called, snapping one last shot as Beckett hoisted the ball onto the boy’s shoulder. “Hold it right there—yes! That’s the one.”
The flash went off, freezing the moment — Beckett mid-laugh, the boy grinning ear to ear, Kyle picture-perfect beside them.
Cam clapped once. “Beautiful. That’s the headline shot.”
I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
When Beckett looked up, catching my eye across the set, I managed a small smile — one I didn’t mean to give but couldn’t stop. He didn’t smile back exactly. Just raised an eyebrow, that half-cocked grin hinting he’d noticed too. And for a heartbeat, it felt like the storm between them wasn’t the only one in the room.
