For the first time all week, the weight in my chest loosened.
And somewhere in the quiet, I found the smallest spark of hope that I wasn’t alone in this fight anymore.
Chapter 12
Beckett
My apartment looked like hell — empty takeout boxes on the counter, soccer gear dumped in the corner, half a coffee gone cold beside my phone.
Perfect backdrop for hypocrisy.
I told Ellery I’d help. No more half-assing it.
I sat on the edge of the couch, scrolling through contacts I hadn’t looked at in years — old sponsors, ex-teammates, brand reps, a few rivals who still owed me favors. Every name was another reminder of the part of this job I hated most: pretending to care enough to make a call.
I rubbed a hand over my face and muttered under my breath, You said you’d help. Don’t half-ass it.
The first number I dialed was an equipment supplier I used to work with. The guy answered on the third ring, all smooth confidence.
“Beckett Mason,” he said, like he couldn’t believe I still had his number. “Thought you’d retired to an island by now.”
“Yeah, well, I’m between vacations,” I said dryly. “Listen, I’ve got something you might want in on. Community thing. Youth foundation. Big coverage, solid PR value.”
There was a pause. Then a low chuckle. “You? Doing charity pitches?”
I smirked even though he couldn’t see it. “Crazy, right? But yeah. It’s legit. You’d be helping out a good program—and scoring some good press in the process.”
He laughed again, but this time it sounded thoughtful. “Send me the details.”
“Will do,” I said, hanging up before he could ask why the hell I cared.
That was one.
Next call: a nutrition brand I’d worked with last year before I told their PR director to shove their protein powder where the sun didn’t shine. I hesitated before hitting dial, then shrugged. Pride wasn’t going to fund scholarships.
The line clicked. “Beckett?” the woman said, wary but curious.
“Hey, look,” I started, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “I know last time we spoke I was… less than polite.”
“Less than polite? You told my boss his smoothie tasted like chalk.”
“Yeah,” I said, fighting a grin. “But I’m calling to make it up to you. There’s this youth foundation—nonprofit, local, good people. They just lost a major sponsor. I think your company could fill the gap, get some community goodwill out of it.”
Silence stretched on the other end. Then a sigh. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
I hated this tone — the smooth, careful rhythm of someone selling a story — but I knew how to use it. Direct, persuasive, just enough sincerity to hit the mark.
She laughed softly. “Email me the info, Mason. If this is real, we’ll talk.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, hanging up.
Two calls down.
I leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. I wasn’t built for this kind of work — the small talk, the favors, the fake smiles. But for once, it didn’t feel fake.
It wasn’t about headlines or damage control or saving my own image. It was about a promise.
