He stopped mid-step. “No way.”
“Yes way,” I said, trying not to laugh. “I quit after I tore a ligament my senior year. Started coaching youth leagues in college instead.”
Beckett blinked, genuinely surprised. “That explains the clipboard obsession.”
I smirked. “I’ll have you know, this clipboard keeps your chaos contained.”
He grinned. “Bet you forgot everything.”
I crossed my arms. “Bet you’re wrong.”
“Prove it,” he said, eyes glinting like he’d just issued a challenge.
I stared at him for a beat, then sighed, setting the clipboard on the bleachers. “Fine. But if I pull something, you’re paying my medical bills.”
The kids nearby perked up immediately. One of them, a boy with a jersey two sizes too big, yelled, “Miss Ellery’s gonna play!”
That got everyone’s attention. Even a few of the Storm players paused their drills, curious. Beckett looked way too pleased with himself.
“Okay,” I said, rolling my shoulders. “One shot. That’s it.”
He gestured dramatically toward the goal. “After you, Coach.”
I kicked off my flats and stepped up to the ball one of the kids rolled over. I could feel Beckett’s eyes on me, that smug expression practically daring me to miss.
“Pressure’s on,” he said.
“Shut up, Mason,” I muttered, lining up the shot.
It had been years since I’d done this, but muscle memory was a funny thing. I took a breath, ran up, and struck the ball clean. It soared past the small goalie’s hands, hitting the corner of the net with a satisfying thunk.
The kids erupted in cheers.
Beckett just stood there, blinking. “Okay,” he said finally, “that was… not bad.”
I shot him a grin. “Not bad?”
He held up his hands, laughing. “Fine. You win. Guess I shouldn’t underestimate the clipboard queen.”
“Guess not.”
We both laughed, and for a moment, the tension that usually hung between us melted into something easy, something light. The kids crowded around me, demanding tips, asking if I could teach them that kick.
Beckett hung back, watching. There was something different in his expression—not the usual teasing or arrogance, but something softer. Admiration, maybe. Respect.
When the chaos finally died down, I grabbed my clipboard again, pretending my heart wasn’t racing for entirely the wrong reason.
“Happy now?” I asked.
He smirked. “Extremely.”
“Okay, you’ve got a shot,” Beckett said, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth. “But can you actually play?”
The kids erupted in cheers before I could answer, already sensing the challenge.
I sighed dramatically, kicked off my other heel, and stepped onto the grass. The turf was warm under my feet, soft enough that I rolled my ankles once just to feel it. “You’re seriously doing this in a skirt?” he asked, one brow raised.
“Don’t underestimate a woman in a pencil skirt,” I shot back.
