While the crew packed up equipment, he crouched to help stack the leftover boxes by the wall. No one asked him to. He just did it, sleeves pushed up, expression calm but unreadable.
I hesitated, watching him for a moment before crossing over. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“Didn’t say I was staying for you.”
I crossed my arms, half-smiling. “Of course not.”
He looked up at that, the corner of his mouth tugging like he wanted to smirk but wasn’t quite in the mood. For a second, the silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was steady, comfortable even.
Then, quieter, he said, “You handled that pretty well. All the chaos.”
I tilted my head. “You mean your chaos?”
That finally earned the smirk. “That too.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t. I just watched him finish stacking the last box, his movements slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t in any rush to leave.
Then he stood, brushed off his hands, and nodded once. “See you around, James.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “See you.”
He walked out; the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet click.
And even as the noise of the cleanup filled the room again, I caught myself still looking at that door—still feeling the ghost of that spark against my skin.
I told myself it was just adrenaline, just exhaustion.
But deep down, I wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 8
Beckett
The air was cold enough to bite, the kind that burned when you breathed too deep. Perfect morning for drills.
The sky hung low and gray over the SWM Storm training field, floodlights cutting through the mist. Grass slick underfoot, ball crisp and fast—just the way I liked it. The world narrowed to the sound of cleats, shouted calls, and the thud of the ball hitting the net.
For once, I felt balanced.
Adrenaline hummed through my blood, sharp and clean. Sweat slicked my neck, the ache in my legs a good kind of pain. No cameras. No PR handlers. Just the game.
Of course, it didn’t last.
“Hey, Mason!”
I glanced up to see Adam Hart jogging toward me, grin already plastered across his face. Hart was all flash—white cleats, neon tape on his wrists, and a headband that made him look like he’d walked out of a sportswear ad. Charismatic as hell, and too damn perceptive for his own good.
“How’s community service?” he called out. “Save any puppies this week?”
“Bite me,” I shot back, not missing a beat as I fired another shot past the keeper.
“Seriously though,” he said, jogging closer with that lazy swagger of his. “You in charity jail forever, or they letting you off for good behavior?”
Before I could answer, Derek chimed in from the far side of the field—didn’t even look up from his drill. “He’s got gala duty,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “Should see him smile for the cameras. It’s adorable.”
A ripple of laughter moved down the line. Teammates chuckled, someone whistled, and I felt the back of my neck heat.
I straightened, rolled my shoulders, and called back, “You know what’s adorable? Watching both of you miss open nets.”
