“Okay, let’s get the banner centered. Beckett, can you shift that stand a few inches to the left?” Cam called, taking a moment to direct another shot. “Careful—it’s top-heavy.”
Beckett grunted something in response and reached for the metal frame, dragging it a few inches. The photographers adjusted their lenses; the kids fidgeted with their soccer balls, and for one fleeting second, everything was fine.
Then the stand wobbled.
It happened fast—the banner swayed; the base caught on the edge of a donation box, and the whole thing started to tip toward the kids.
I gasped, already moving forward.
But Beckett was faster.
He lunged, catching the metal frame mid-fall, one arm braced against the ground as he steadied the banner with his shoulder. The kids froze, wide-eyed. A couple of the volunteers gasped.
By the time I reached him, the danger had passed.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.
He looked up, hair mussed, a smear of dust on his sleeve. “Fine,” he said gruffly, straightening the stand like it had never fallen.
The camera flash went off right then.
Through the monitor, I saw it—the shot the photographer had accidentally captured. Beckett crouched low, still steadying the banner, one arm half-extended as if shielding the kids. I was leaning toward him, concern written across my face. It didn’t look posed. It didn’t look polished.
It looked… real.
Cam leaned over the monitor, eyes widening. “That’s the money shot,” he mouthed, grinning.
I stepped back quickly, heat blooming across my cheeks. “Everyone okay?” I said, too briskly, trying to shake off the sudden pulse in my chest.
The kids nodded, still a little stunned, and Beckett brushed off his hands like nothing had happened. “Guess I’m good for something after all,” he muttered.
“Besides chaos?” I said, forcing a smile.
He shot me a look—half smirk, half challenge. “Hey, I just saved your banner. You’re welcome.”
“I’ll make sure your medal’s engraved,” I said, crossing my arms to hide how flustered I suddenly felt.
The photographer called for everyone to reset; the energy buzzing with new excitement now that they’d caught something unplanned and perfect.
I could still feel the warmth in my face as I stepped aside, pretending to straighten the edge of a sign that didn’t need it. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Beckett watching me, his expression unreadable.
Then, as he turned back to help one of the kids reposition, that infuriatingly subtle smirk tugged at his mouth—like he knew exactly what he was doing.
And the worst part? He probably did.
The crew scattered to reset the lighting, chatter echoing off the studio walls. Someone adjusted the softboxes; another wrangled a power cord. The shoot had hit that lull between setups—the part where everyone pretended to relax but kept glancing at the clock.
Kyle had been pulled aside for a quick interview with a local sports reporter, all easy charm and practiced answers. I caught snippets of his voice across the room—steady, professional, perfectly quotable.
I lingered near the snack table, flipping through my clipboard again even though I didn’t really need to. My focus slipped when Beckett walked over, grabbed a water bottle, and dropped into the chair beside me like he belonged there.
“He’s the PR favorite, huh?” he said, nodding toward Kyle mid-interview.
I didn’t look up right away. “Kyle’s good with people.”
Beckett twisted the cap off the bottle, took a long drink, then said, “Good at people. There’s a difference.”
That made me glance at him. He wasn’t smiling—just watching Kyle from across the room, jaw tight, voice low enough that it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.
