He laughed and tossed me a ball. “First to three goals wins. Loser buys post-practice coffee.”
I caught it easily. “You’re on.”
That got the kids really going—chanting my name like this was the World Cup. One of them even shouted, “Miss Ellery’s gonna smoke you, Mr. Beckett!” which earned a round of giggles.
Beckett glanced at them, mock-offended. “Wow. No loyalty. Brutal.”
“Better get used to losing,” I teased, setting the ball at midfield.
The game started with a blur of motion. He was faster than I expected, long strides eating up the turf. I darted around him, feinting right, then left, laughing when he overcommitted.
It was ridiculous, really. Two adults running around like overgrown kids while a group of actual kids acted as the world’s loudest commentators.
Beckett was all showmanship—fancy footwork, a spin move that was pure ego. I was scrappy, using every trick from my old varsity days. When I managed to intercept the ball, the surprise on his face was worth every second of exertion.
“Not bad,” he called, breathless but grinning. “You sure you’re not secretly in training for this?”
“Some of us don’t need training,” I said sweetly—and then took the shot.
It curved perfectly, skimming past his ankle before hitting the back of the net with a solid thwack.
The kids screamed. Beckett just froze, blinking in disbelief.
“What the—You’ve been lying to me.”
“Not my fault you assumed I was just a clipboard,” I said, hands on my hips.
That got him. His head fell back, and he let out this loud, real laugh—the kind that came from somewhere deep, the kind that didn’t sound like the brooding, too-cool version of him the world usually got.
The sound hit me harder than I expected. For a second, I just… watched him. The way his grin softened his whole face, how the afternoon light caught in his hair, how he looked happy. Not restless or reckless—just here.
The kids were still cheering, demanding a rematch, chanting our names like we were some kind of celebrity showdown. I bent down to grab the ball, still smiling. “You ready for round two?”
He squinted at me, trying to look serious but failing miserably. “Oh, you’re in for it now, Coach.”
“Bring it, Storm boy.”
He laughed again—low, easy—and something about that sound lodged itself in my chest, stubborn and warm.
We played until the sun started to dip, the kids’ laughter echoing across the field, the air filled with that rare kind of joy that snuck up on you when you forgot to guard your heart.
And as ridiculous as it was, standing there barefoot in a skirt, cheeks flushed and lungs burning, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this light.
We ended 3–2. Technically, Beckett won—but it was close enough that he looked more bruised than proud.
He ran a hand through his hair, catching his breath, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “I went easy on you,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “You fell twice.”
“The grass was slippery,” he shot back, still panting.
“Excuses, excuses.”
That earned me a mock glare, but I couldn’t hold back the laugh bubbling up. I was flushed, winded, and grinning like an idiot. My legs ached and my skirt was grass-stained, but I didn’t care. It felt good.
Beckett was still watching me when I looked up—long enough that my smile faltered just a little. His eyes weren’t teasing now; they were steady, almost… searching.
And for the first time, I realized he wasn’t looking at me like the director of a foundation, or the woman who nagged him into meetings and paperwork. He was looking at me. Just me.
