We both turned.
Beckett stood in the doorway, one hand hooked in his pocket, hair damp from the drizzle outside. His expression was unreadable — not judgment, not pity, just focus. The kind that saw more than I wanted him to.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, straightening a stack of papers I didn’t need to. “We’ll handle it.”
He didn’t move. “Doesn’t sound fine.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“Didn’t say it was.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Just asked who.”
Something in his calm tone made it impossible to lie. I hesitated, then muttered the company’s name. The syllables tasted bitter.
Beckett’s mouth tilted slightly. “Big company. Deep pockets. Bet they hate bad press.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Beckett, no.”
He raised both hands, feigning innocence. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loud enough.”
That earned the faintest smirk, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Then he looked past me, scanning the boxes, the lists, the exhaustion I hadn’t been able to hide. When his eyes met mine again, his voice was quieter.
“Tell me what you need.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Not because of how he said them — simple, steady — but because no one had asked me that in a long time.
For a second, I couldn’t speak. The right answer was obvious: Nothing. We’re fine. The script I always used. But my throat ached with everything I didn’t say.
“I just…” I exhaled, shaking my head. “We lost funding for scholarships. And if I cut the awards, I have to look those kids in the eye and tell them hard work doesn’t always matter. I can’t do that, Beckett.”
He studied me for a long moment, eyes sharp, jaw tense. Then he nodded once, like he’d made up his mind about something.
“Tell me what you need."
I blinked, certain I’d misheard him. “What?”
Beckett didn’t move, still leaning in the doorway like he had all the time in the world. “You’re short money. Tell me what you need.”
I stared at him. “You can’t just?—”
“Not talking about money,” he cut in. “Connections. Endorsements. Favors. Half this league owes me something.”
That caught me completely off guard. My brain scrambled to keep up, to fit this version of him with the one I’d gotten used to — the sharp-tongued player who deflected everything with attitude. “You’d do that?” I asked carefully. “For me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “For the foundation.” A beat, then a dry look. “Don’t make it weird.”
I almost laughed, but the sound caught halfway in my throat. He was serious. There was no teasing edge in his voice this time — just quiet conviction under all the roughness.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The air between us felt charged, strange. I’d spent the last few weeks learning how to handle him — how to redirect, to smooth over, to keep him from blowing things up. I hadn’t expected this version of Beckett: calm, capable, offering to help without asking for anything in return.
“I’ll… make a list,” I managed finally, trying to match his even tone.
He nodded once, decisive. “Good. And maybe eat something before you pass out.”
That earned him a small, incredulous laugh. “You’re bossy.”
“You’re worse.”
