I arched a brow. “Depends on your attitude.”
He leaned back, grinning. “So… long.”
I bit back a sigh — and, if I was honest, a laugh. The worst part about Beckett was that he wasn’t trying to be funny; he just was. That smug, low-effort humor that got under your skin and made you want to both smack and smile at him in the same breath.
I started running through the logistics anyway — volunteer schedules, last-minute auction items, the sponsor seating chart that made me want to pull my hair out. He looked like he wasn’t paying attention, slouched in his chair, tapping a pen against his knee like a restless kid.
But every time I glanced up to check if he’d tuned out, he’d surprise me.
A nod.
A quiet, thoughtful question.
A follow-up I hadn’t expected.
It was disarming, how much he listened when it mattered.
Naomi poked her head in halfway through the meeting, balancing a tray of snacks. “Fuel for the overachievers,” she said, setting them down.
Before I could reach for anything, Beckett snagged a granola bar, tearing it open like he’d been starving all morning.
I gave him a look. “You’re supposed to be setting an example.”
He raised an eyebrow, completely unapologetic. “I am. Team bonding.”
I exhaled a short laugh despite myself. “You’re insufferable.”
He smirked, mouth full of granola. “You’re smiling.”
That got me. I tried to hide it behind my coffee cup, but it was too late — he’d seen. He always did.
The thing about Beckett was that he’d gone from being the storm that wrecked my day to the one that kept it interesting. His sarcasm didn’t sting anymore; it steadied me. It was banter, not battle. A rhythm.
Somewhere along the way, our friction had turned into something closer to balance — push and pull, challenge and charm. He still frustrated me, but now it came with warmth instead of warning.
I glanced at him while he scanned the clipboard I’d handed over. His focus had that same intensity I’d seen on the field — sharp, calculating, alive. And for a moment, I wondered if anyone else had ever seen him like this. Not just the player, not the temper, but the man who cared enough to learn every detail even when he pretended not to.
“Stop staring,” he said without looking up.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got that ‘trying not to be impressed’ face again.”
“I do not,” I said — too quickly.
He chuckled. “Sure.”
I shook my head, hiding another smile as I pretended to focus on my notes.
The truth was, I didn’t know what to do with this new version of us. The banter had softened; the distance had shrunk, and I was starting to forget why I’d wanted to keep him at arm’s length in the first place.
By the time the meeting ended, the coffee had gone cold, the granola wrappers were crumpled on the table, and my cheeks hurt from smiling more than I’d admit.
After the meeting, I walked with Beckett out toward the practice field, where a few of the Storm’s players were running drills with the foundation kids. The late afternoon sun painted everything in soft gold, the sound of laughter carrying across the turf. It was one of those moments I wished I could bottle—something about the energy, the joy, the reminder that this was why I did what I did.
Beckett fell into step beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, cap turned backward like always. “You ever actually kick a ball,” he asked, “or just organize the people who do?”
I gave him a look. “Funny. I played travel and varsity through high school.”
